Sexless Marriage Pt. 01

The husband sat in the dim glow of their living room, the TV flickering silently, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand. At fifty-eight, he still felt the ache of desire, a slow burn that hadn't faded despite the years. His wife, fifty-seven, sat across from him, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. They hadn't touched each other in over a year--save for that one fumbling attempt last winter, a rare, mechanical act that left him yearning and her retreating. It was always the same: once a year, if that, a brief collision of bodies before she'd bolt to the bathroom, scrubbing away the evidence and returning with fresh sheets, the scent of lavender soap erasing any trace of intimacy.

He craved more--slow kisses, lingering caresses, the warmth of her skin against his in the shower, water cascading over them as they rediscovered each other. But she'd flinch at the suggestion, muttering about her dry vagina, how intercourse stung, how she was too sensitive afterward. She'd come in a quick, sharp shudder--almost reluctantly--then push his hands away, insisting she couldn't bear to be touched. He'd lie there, staring at the ceiling, wanting to hold her, to talk, but too shy to press. She'd shut down, her face closing like a book, and he couldn't bear the silence that followed.

One evening, desperate and alone with his thoughts, he booked a discreet appointment with a sex medical expert--a woman with a calm voice and a reputation for unconventional advice. Sitting in her office, surrounded by anatomy charts and soft lighting, he spilled it all: the infrequency, her discomfort, his longing. The expert listened, nodding, then leaned forward. "She might need a spark," she said. "Something to wake her up, to remind her of her own body. Have you considered... introducing someone else? Another man, perhaps, to seduce her gently, rekindle her fire? It could shift her perspective, get her to care for herself again--physically, emotionally."

He blinked, stunned, but the idea lodged in his mind like a splinter. Days later, he found himself arranging it--a friend of a friend, a fit, silver-haired man in his early fifties, charming and discreet, who agreed to the delicate task. The husband staged it carefully: he'd be "out" for the evening, leaving the house to her and this stranger, who'd arrive under the pretense of delivering a package.

The wife was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, stirring a pot of soup in her faded cardigan and slacks. She opened the door, expecting a courier, and froze. The man stood there, broad-shouldered, with warm hazel eyes and a smile that disarmed her. "Special delivery," he said, holding out a small, meaningless box, his voice low and inviting. She stammered a thanks, but he didn't leave. "Mind if I step in? It's chilly out here."

She hesitated, then nodded, curiosity flickering beneath her unease. He followed her inside, his presence filling the room--confident but not pushy. They talked, first about the weather, then the house, his compliments subtle but pointed: "You've got a good eye for space," he said, brushing her arm as he gestured at the decor. She flushed, unused to attention, her body stirring despite herself.

He moved closer, sensing her thaw, and soon his hand rested on hers, his thumb tracing circles. "You deserve to feel good," he murmured, and before she could retreat into her shell, he kissed her--soft, unhurried, a question rather than a demand. She stiffened, then melted, her lips parting as a forgotten heat bloomed low in her belly. He guided her to the couch, peeling away her cardigan, his fingers deft but patient, coaxing her out of her defenses.

Her breath hitched as he kissed down her neck, her blouse unbuttoned to reveal breasts she'd long ignored, still full and responsive under his touch. "I... it hurts sometimes," she whispered, a confession slipping free. He paused, meeting her eyes. "We'll go slow. Only what feels good." He slid her slacks down, parting her thighs with care, his mouth finding her first--gentle, warm, a rhythm that eased her dryness into slickness. She gasped, her hands clutching the cushions, a quick climax rippling through her, but this time she didn't pull away.

He shed his clothes, revealing a body toned and eager, and entered her slowly, letting her adjust, her tightness yielding to a fullness she hadn't felt in years. It didn't hurt--not like before--and she rocked against him, tentative at first, then hungry, her moans soft but unguarded. They moved together, her sensitivity a gift now, not a curse, and when she came again, harder, he followed, their release a quiet storm that left her trembling, alive.

Afterward, he didn't linger too long--just long enough to kiss her forehead and murmur, "You're beautiful when you let go." Then he was gone, leaving her dazed on the couch, her skin humming. When the husband returned, feigning ignorance, he noticed the change immediately: a flush in her cheeks, a looseness in her posture. She didn't rush to the bathroom that night when he reached for her, and though she was still shy, she let him hold her, her body softer against his.

Weeks later, after more visits from the stranger--each one stoking her fire--she began to care for herself again: a trip to the doctor for her dryness, a new nightgown, a tentative smile when the husband suggested a shower. Their own intimacy crept back, slow and fragile, but real. He never told her he'd orchestrated it, and she never asked, but the spark was there--rekindled, burning anew.