In the fifteen years between Laura’s first big dildo experience and her erotic massage confession, we’d undergone some fundamental changes, as people do. That time span really saw Laura come into her own, both physically and mentally. She’s that type of woman who doesn’t peak until middle-age (sort of like Jennifer Aniston). She looks better, dresses sharper, and carries herself with more confidence and poise than when we first met.

I, on the other hand, had not aged as well. I had gained weight, lost some hair, and suffered a couple of career setbacks that drained my self-confidence. My sexual powers had waned. No longer could I cum several times a day, or on command. My erections are not as firm or long-lasting. Sometimes I cum too quickly, other times I can’t cum at all.

And yet, heedless to the risks, on the night of the confession, a giddy sense of joy flowed through me, maybe an endorphin rush, as we went about feeding and putting the kids to bed.

When the little ones were safely asleep, we had incredible sex, recapturing levels of passion we hadn’t known since our dating days.

The next morning I was still walking on air. Don’t get me wrong, I was nervous, but they were the nerves of someone on the verge of a great adventure. I mean, how exciting are the lives of average middle-class couples? Sex-wise, we’d both had the same partners for over seventeen years. Career-wise, I’m an engineer specializing in computer network configuration and Laura is claims adjustor for an insurance company—not traditionally excitement-packed jobs. Now suddenly our humdrum lives pulsed with energy and danger. 

All day at work I kept texting her little love notes, questions, and suggestions. I was particularly preoccupied with what she’d wear. Proud that my wife and mother of three could arouse the lust of a good-looking young stud, I wanted her looking her best. I suggested she wear her white capri pants and a blue, strappy detail top that showed lots of cleavage. I also offered to make appointments to get her hair done and mani-pedis, but she said she’d handle that herself.

Again, on Thursday night we had incredible sex. Again, my dick performed like one twenty years younger. The impending massage acted as a natural male-enhancement drug, supercharging my libido.

All through the Friday the flirtatious, torturous texting continued. I couldn’t believe the big event was only a day away. The strain got so bad that after one text that included a pic of her modeling a pair of sexy high-heeled sandals, I sunk to the previously unthinkable low of jacking off in the men’s room at my office.

We had planned to abstain from sex on Friday night, so she could be “fresh” for her “date.” But as I was kneeling down in front of her pussy, trimming her bush with an electric razor, we got so horny we gave in and fucked like crazy.

Basking in the afterglow, her head resting on my shoulder, I said, “These past couple of days have been beyond belief. I didn’t think it was possible for people our age to have sex like this.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“Indeed. The man’s an inspiration.”

“It’s just a shame.”

“What’s that?”

“A shame,” she said, playing with my chest hair, “that it’s not real.”

I grabbed her hand. “What’s not real?”

“Gotcha.” She smiled.

“You’re joking.”

“Did you really think I was that much of a slut? Bad husband!”

“So you’re telling me there’s no Morgan?”

“Oh, there’s a Morgan all right. And he really did rub his big dick on my arm. I just never made the appointment.”

“Laura, you bitch!”

“You’re one to talk, you perv, pushing your wife to screw another man!”

I was legit disappointed. “And I thought this was going to be our big adventure.”

“Now don’t sulk. After all, it was a big adventure.” she grabbed my chin and turned my face to meet hers. “You said it yourself. We had incredible sex.”

“Yeah. Based on an incredible lie.”

So Saturday arrived, and it was just a normal Saturday. Kids. Farmer’s market. Chores around the house. Socializing with the boring townsfolk. Blah.

Around four, I slipped away and walked to our town’s main street, where the spa was located. There’s a brew pub directly across the street. I sat alone at one of its sidewalk tables and ordered a pilsner. I kept my eye on the place, hoping to catch a sign of Morgan. But no. Just women coming and going.

I should’ve known Laura would never have gone through with something like that. I had let my dick do the thinking. Never a good idea. Damn. I just sure did miss those diamond-hard erections. I ordered another beer.

After a while, I paid the bill, got up and crossed the street.

Inside, the spa was tastefully decorated, as those places tend to be. So this is where it happened, I thought.

The only person there was a stout blonde woman behind the counter who appeared to be in her mid-to-late fifties—probably the woman who’d left them alone. She said, “Hi, can I help you?”

I asked some questions, pretending to be interested in a gift card for the wife. When I mentioned Morgan’s name, she paused, and her face broke into a knowing smile.

“Ah yes, Morgan. Well he’s not technically a full-time staffer, but he does work here occasionally, on a sort of, well a freelance basis. Tell me, has your wife ever had an ‘session’ with Morgan before? Hm?” Her manner was insinuating.

“No,” I quickly lied. My cheeks burned. My prick surged toward the bottom hem of my shorts. What was she implying? “Err, that is, I don’t think so.”

She lowered her voice, leaning forward. “Well I can assure you Morgan comes highly recommended. But he does tend to keep a hectic schedule.” She wrote on the back of a business card. “Why don’t I give you his email…and you can contact him directly. That’s how a lot of his clients stay in touch.” She handed me the card. Next to morgantheorgan@gmail.com she had written her name, “Darla,” with a little heart underneath it.

As I left, she purred, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” And then she winked at me.

Outside, feeling dizzy, I crossed the street. To calm my nerves, I chugged another beer at the brew pub. At home, I grabbed another cold one from the fridge. Before the liquid courage could fade, I sat on the couch with my laptop and opened my email…