Audible

Hi there... This is my first submission in a long time (the previous being under another account, so I'm starting over again), and I hope it meets with your approval. This is, for reasons that will probably become obvious, a very personal story, though it's highly fictionalized for the purposes of storytelling and to protect both the innocent and the guilty :)

It deals with important matters such as adultery and a troubled marriage, but it's erotica, so our protagonists' problems are resolved far quicker than you'd see in real life, though I'd like to think that the emotions and reactions do reflect the kind of issues that can come up in a marriage, and in those who consider poly or open relationships. In any event, I was mostly interested in writing a hot piece of fiction with an unusual point of view, so if you like it feel free to comment, critique, or ask questions. I'm interested to see what people think.

LunarBlue, February 2025

It came on me unexpectedly, this desire. I had never given much thought in my younger years to how much I enjoyed the sounds of passion, the cries and whispers, the moans and screams that my touch elicited from my partners, nor to those they elicited from me.

Time takes its toll on many things -- the body, the mind, the heart... and those tolls are paid in such tiny increments that we scarcely realize how much is being taken from us. A life, a job, marriage, a home... they all had both costs and rewards. My failure was that I ignored the rewards to the point that only the cost mattered. The job was wage slavery, the home a waste of resources, the marriage a convenient joining of resources for mutual survival.

I didn't intend to forget about love, or to neglect the one to whom I had joined my life, but like everything else, I lost my way gradually, never straying off course so far that either of us noticed, until at last we were loving strangers living together but barely knowing each other.

There had been passion once -- love, affection, wild exploration of our bodies... and by all that was sacred I loved her still, and she loved me, but our love was hidden in a fog of years, distant and vague, very real but so difficult to perceive.

Unspoken desire still lurked in the deep parts of my mind. Things I wanted but couldn't articulate, and barely understood if at all. Every human has needs, wants, unfulfilled longings -- it's our nature. There will always be wishes we can't fulfill. And at that point in my life, if I contemplated such things at all, it was in the context that desires that can't be satisfied are best forgotten.

I went through the daily motions of eating, sleeping, working, repeating. My life was an endless zombie walk toward a cliff whose location was unknown, and which I didn't care about. One day I would shamble off and that would be the end of it.

Then came the day that I came home early, riding my bike home from work after lunch, expecting the house to be empty. I let myself in quietly, and settled onto the couch for a nap. It only took a moment to realize that I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.

Our house was old when we bought it, a faded Victorian with bad wiring, janky doors, and noisy plumbing. The first thing we had done was replace the antiquated oil furnace with a modern gas model, along with brand new high-efficiency ductwork. The ductwork kept the house toasty, but they also carried sound.

Thankfully the bathrooms were relatively insulated from the phenomenon, but as for the rest of the house -- music, TV, running water, footsteps, and even quiet conversations, were clearly audible in adjacent rooms, even on different floors. And our living room was connected to almost every other room in the house, including the master bedroom.

The first wavering cry that echoed hollowly down from above took me by surprise, and it was a moment before I could identify it as human. Then I realized it was Laura.

I hadn't heard Laura give voice to her passions in some time... I had neglected her sexually as well as emotionally, and our real but dormant love for one another hadn't felt compelling enough to change. In my mind, neither of us wanted sex, so what was the point?

Yet here it was, a throaty moan like those I used to hear when we shared our passions and bodies, coming from the bedroom overhead. Frozen, I listened, and heard another cry, deep and resonant, almost like a call of distress. And with it I heard a creak of mattress springs.

Her moans became rhythmic, timed to the sound of the bedsprings. She was vocal -- that much I remembered from our long nights and lazy days in the past, when we could freely show how much we loved and wanted each other.

Then and now, Laura's moans were careless and wanton, never caring if anyone heard, lost in the pleasure of the moment, feeling only the hands on her shoulders, lips and gentle bites on her breasts, a hard shaft thrusting inside her...

And somehow, listening to her strangled cries, half-formed words, and groans of almost desperate longing, I felt a strange mix of emotions. There was some hurt there, to be sure. Some jealousy, but mixed with something more like envy, and sadness that it wasn't me giving her such overwhelming pleasure that she couldn't hold back, couldn't help voicing her wants and the yeaning that radiated from the unknown person was even now fucking her.

And with my envy came something else. It was those memories, rising stronger and more vividly in my mind. I felt her as I heard her, and remembered how we had felt together, how much I wanted and needed her.

And how much I loved her.

To my surprise, there was neither anger nor any sense of betrayal. I had denied her this for so long, how then could I be angry that she had sought it elsewhere?

Oh god... Oh god... Oh, Kyle, I love that... I love how you fuck me...

The words were barely intelligible amid her unrestrained exultations, but I heard them, and once more it reminded me of how she had once cried out as I touched her, stroked her, pressed my face against the wetness between her thighs, gently pinched her swollen nipples, rubbed my erect cock against her swollen clit before slipping between her lips and deep inside her.

Kyle. Yes, he was a friend. One of Laura's co-workers. He was tall, he was handsome, and he was kind.

Dammit, I liked the man. The realization that he was fulfilling Laura's hungers in a way I hadn't was at once sad and exciting.

In the throes of carefree, near mindless fucking, in the arms of another man, Laura had become the woman she once had been, and kindled my own desire to be the man that I had thought lost and forgotten.

I heard him then, a soft whisper, more stimulating for the fact that it too was only barely audible.

"I'm gonna cum. Oh, god..."

Yes. Yes. I love it... Oh god...

Her voice rose in a strangled, inarticulate howl, trailing off for a moment, suspended in time and space, and in my mind where images formed of her straining upward, back arched, breasts reaching toward the ceiling, face contorted, mouth open, eyes rolled upward...

Just as I remembered her.

Then came the crashing union of two bodies, the unmistakable utterances of release and a wash of sensation as orgasm racked their bodies. She kept it up for long moments -- she was multi-orgasmic, another aspect of her body that I now realized I missed desperately -- until finally quiet descended, broken now and then by the creak of the bed, and tender whispers I couldn't decipher, and for some reason didn't want to.

I still wasn't angry. What I felt was more like shame, as if I had intruded upon something special and intimate between two people, even though one was my wife, and the woman I had once sworn to love always. The idea that this man, this good, kind, loving man, was providing the woman I loved with what I had not, did not lessen or depart, but remained ugly and painful in my mind, floating amid a strange, and to me inexplicable excitement.

I realized that my heart was pounding, and that my cock was hard as a rock.

Damn.

Upstairs I heard sounds of motion and more soft conversation. I was suddenly seized by the fear that they would be coming downstairs in a few moments, and I didn't want them to see me. It was a confrontation that none of us were ready for, and my mind still spun with unfamiliar thoughts and sensations.

I grabbed my coat and slipped on my shoes but didn't bother to tie them. I heard footsteps on the stairs as I exited the back door and pulled it softly shut. My bicycle leaned against the side of the house -- ordinarily I would have stowed it safely in the garage, but today I was thankful for my carelessness, as I rapidly donned my coat, tied my shoes and mounted up, speeding quickly away. There was a car parked in the street that I recognized as Kyle's. I hadn't noticed it before, but now it was as obvious as a rhinoceros. I hit a pothole and almost faceplanted, but regained control at the last moment, and wobbled onto a side street, leaving Kyle's car and our house behind and rolling into blessed invisibility.

It was early afternoon, clear and cold. I rode a winding street, surrounded by towering firs that concealed pleasant houses and driveways with an assortment of expensive vehicles. We were far from the most affluent to live here, but had instead bought the local eyesore and tried to restore it to former glories. Our neighbors were kind and encouraging, mostly retirees, academics, or tech workers, most with pleasant personalities who kept to themselves and didn't pry. Given the notions that filled my head, I was grateful for this last.

Had this been a traditional tale, I might have visited a bar, drinking myself into oblivion while plotting my vengeance, committing a horrific crime for which I would be made to pay by a tough-minded detective or a justice-seeking prosecutor. Fortunately for everyone, this wasn't a pulp novel or Hitchcock movie. I was, I suddenly reflected, cut from somewhat different cloth.

My version of the fictional dive bar was a pleasant coffee shop patronized by our tweed- or running-suit clad local denizens -- scarcely a crowd of murderous ruffians with violence in their eyes. The corner booth was a refuge, and the narrow aisle between me and a nearby table was a bizarre wall of privacy. I ordered a triple latte and sat, contemplating my cup and watching the artistic foam slowly rotate.

Of my shame, I've already spoken, possibly more than necessary. In a single moment, my failure had been laid bare, and of a sudden the flood had arrived, a rush of stark realization, self-recrimination, and anger at my own conduct.

What had I done? In an instant I forgave Laura for what she'd done, and in another instant realized that she had actually done nothing wrong. And even if it was wrong, it was far less egregious than the months and years of heartache and neglect that I has subjected her to. By that interpretation, I had fired a cannon and she had responded with a popgun. In the end, I realized that I had no right to be indignant or act the victim.

I would not only tell her this, but I would strive to be a better man, a better husband, and above all a better lover. I only hoped that it was not too late to rekindle the flame, and return it to its former light and warmth. And if it was too late...

Then, I sadly decided, I would let it go, and move on a wiser man, determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. My home, my job, my life, and my love would be different, and if it had to be with someone else, I would always carry the memory of my failings, but also learn from them and bring happiness instead of despair.

That decision made, I took a deep draught of my coffee, feeling its warmth suffuse me and drive off the chill of the winter day. Somehow, the decision to forgive -- or rather to acknowledge that no wrong against me had been committed -- and become a better man was the easiest one to make. What remained was...

Well, to my mind, it was strange, yet at the same time familiar.

Most people like sex, and though many are loathe to admit it, they like watching others have sex. The continuing obsession with porn and erotica were ample proof of this, as for thousands of years, since writing began, readers have devoured the descriptions of sex in all its forms, and since the still or moving image was invented, greedily devoured images of unclothed bodies, and of others fulfilling their desires, often the more outrageous the better.

Was my shame at hearing my wife and her lover justified? Reasonable? Especially when I had come to terms with the notion that she was in the right and simply finding something elsewhere that I lacked?

No, the only thing that I might have done wrong was listening without the consent of the parties involved, but on the other hand they had done what they did in my home, knowing full well that I might come home early and overhear them. There was no real attempt at secrecy, and as for my excitement, that was my own business.

Perhaps I was rationalizing my reaction. Perhaps I'd had enough self-criticism, and chose to simply exonerate myself of a lesser sin in favor of larger. And perhaps I was just acknowledging a truth that I'd kept hidden from myself for a long time.

Now that I had had the quiet and isolation needed to reach at least a rudimentary understanding about what had happened, I was overwhelmed with the need to share it, work with it, and learn from it. But doing that required that I unburden myself, and tell Laura. It was probably the most perilous decision I'd made, and part of me rejected it. Far better, it said, to simply move on, put my plans to better myself into action, letting Laura and Kyle continue their affair in blissful ignorance.

No. That wouldn't work. So many doorways were opening in the depths of my mind, so many desires were now creeping out into daylight that I couldn't keep silent.

I finished my latte and departed, mounting up on my bike and riding toward home.

***

Kyle's car was gone when I returned, which was at least one issue that I didn't have to concern myself with. There was the possibility that Laura had left with him, but when I stowed my bike (safely in the garage this time) and entered the living room, she was sitting on the couch and looked up from her book in surprise.

"Oh hi." There was a faint quaver in her voice. "Are you getting lunch?"

I shook my head. "I knocked off early." I paused and strode deliberately to the couch, seating myself beside her. I took her hand, and she registered surprise. "I need to talk to you."

Laura was beautiful when I met her, and she was beautiful still despite the stress of the passing years. Her hair was shoulder length, and what is usually called honey blond, though it's actually a light brown. Her face was rounded, with prominent cheekbones, her eyes were almost the same color as her hair and seemed larger than they were, her lips were full and spread out almost alarmingly when she flashed a smile.

And the body that I'd neglected was lush, aesthetically well-padded, with fulsome curved breasts and hips over a plump midsection that I felt a renewed rush of affection for. She was the type of woman I'd always adored, disdaining the idiot plasticity of traditional "beauties." She'd been mine, and I'd been hers. I hoped that in an hour we still would be.

She frowned, and I could feel apprehension begin to radiate from her.

"I want you to know that I'm not upset, I don't want to be mean or angry, and I don't think you did anything wrong," I began, watching as her expression melted into wide-eyed shock.

I finished quickly. "I came home about an hour and a half ago. I heard what was going on upstairs." The words shocked her into sudden silence, allowing me to finish quickly. "I understand what happened. I know it's because I've been neglectful, and haven't shown you the kind of affection you deserve. I'm the one in the wrong, not you. I hope you can forgive me and believe me when I say I love you, and will always love you."

If I had just told her that I was a shapechanging alien, here to prepare the way for the conquest of Earth, she would not have reacted much differently. A dozen emotions both strange and familiar flashed across her honey-brown eyes. Several times it looked as if she was about to speak, but she always lapsed back into confused silence. At last she looked away and when she looked back, there were tears on her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Like everyone else, I had heard those two words countless times. When they were sincere, I usually accepted them, or at least knew that they came from real feelings, and nothing made me angrier than when they were used insincerely, or simply to end a discussion. This time, they felt real and sincere, but this was one of those rarest of instances -- a true apology where one was not needed.

"No," I replied, and held her hand tighter. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I'm sorry that I've ignored you. I'm sorry that I let my own problems get in the way of being a good partner. I'm sorry that I left you..." I faltered. "That you had to look elsewhere to get what you needed. I want you to know that I love you, and from now on, I'll be better."

The tears continued to roll down her cheeks, but when she met my gaze, I saw a flame kindled there, and heard words that I had wanted, but didn't dare hope for.

"I love you, Paul."

Then she was in my arms, and I was kissing her as the dark burdens of the past months began to dissolve.

***

We stayed up until all hours that night, talking about the past, and remarking with wonder how two people who had been so in love had drifted so far apart. Laura tried to claim that it was all her fault as much as mine, and at first I disputed, claiming that I was the only guilty party. It wasn't until later that I realized we needed to find mutual forgiveness, and my acknowledgement that our estrangement was a two-way street, and I told her that I understood. We had both drifted off-course without knowing it, like ships with damaged rudders -- at sunset we sailed side-by-side, but by morning we were miles apart, and almost lost to each other.

We slept in each other's arms, warm and safe, and content in a way we had not felt in many long days. The rest of the world -- the tedium of employment, the pressure of bills, the demands of others, and the stupidity of humanity in general, were all still there, still pressing.

But now we had each other again, and somehow those things seemed far away.

We both took personal days, and continued to mend our damaged bridges. It is remarkable how quickly hurt can be mended when both parties work toward a common goal.

It wasn't until several days later that talk finally turned to Laura's affair.

"I guess... I guess he makes me happy," she told me, her voice hesitant but forthright. "Makes me feel wanted."

We sat together at the kitchen table in the light of the overhead fixture, warm and isolated in the dark house. I'd fixed dinner and now we sat nursing whiskeys, talking with an honesty that we had never before achieved, even in all the years together. I listened without judgement or jealousy, and contemplated her words.

"I understand," I replied. "Like I said, hearing you upstairs brought back so much. In a weird way I was glad someone was treating you the way you deserve to be treated."

"I don't want to leave you," she said. "Not at all. Especially now we seem to have rediscovered something special between us. But I don't want to leave him, either."

How strange it was that she presented me with something that was so contrary to how we had lived up until then, yet felt entirely normal and natural to me. I felt as if that my accidental eavesdropping had breached a hole in a my head and emptied out all the tired old attitudes and thoughts that hadn't worked for years. And that now we were filling it up again with something new.