My wife is a sexy woman! There, I've said it. I always believed it, but I've recently begun to discover just how much sexier she is than I had previously given her credit for.
We've been married for 15 years, each in our mid-to-late thirties. I've never had cause to complain about our sex life, not in all of those years. Whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it, it was available to me. No questions, no headaches, no restrictions. She was ready for anything, at any time; responsive, available, experimental, occasionally initiating things, but not over-demanding. When work colleagues or friends would occasionally moan about their own partner's limitations in that department, I would smile inwardly. Everything in my own marriage was as I thought I wanted it to be, a bed of roses, and a veritable bowl of cherries.
Six months ago, if you had asked me, I would have said that I was entirely satisfied with our sex life, and I would have bet good money that Yvonne would say the same thing. How wrong I would have been, on both counts!
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The last six months has been a revelation to both of us.
It started simply enough. Yvonne got an opportunity for a package, as part of a restructuring, from the company where she had worked for the whole of our married life. It was an opportunity too good to be missed. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to leave with an excellent package, an excellent reference, and to seek a new challenge elsewhere. We discussed it and agreed that she should take it. The offered package gave us a financial buffer for up to 12 months. Yvonne was smart, bright, and talented and her skills were in demand. It was a no-brainer decision.
Her old company couldn't have been more generous to her. Nice gifts, nice words, nice leaving parties, nice promises to stay in touch from everyone from the MD down. After the last party, a lavish dinner in a local posh-nosh restaurant at which Yvonne was the guest of honour, Yvonne awoke the next morning to the start of the rest of her life. Our plan was that she would take some time off in order to regroup and gather her thoughts before she started looking for a new job in earnest as the summer ended.
That first morning, when she woke as an independent woman of leisure for the first time in her life, she seemed a new person. Free. It marked the start of the change in both of our lives.
She rose with me that first day, determined to make the most of the day. As I got ready for my normal day at the office, Yvonne readied herself for a morning at the gym. It was a luxury for her to be heading to the gym during "working hours". She usually had to squeeze her exercise regime into her spare time in the evening, or at weekends. Her plan was to do her workout, have a swim, and then spend the afternoon making me a rare weekday treat, in the form of a nice home-cooked dinner, instead of our usual staple weekday fare of pre-prepared ready-meals purchased from the supermarket for convenience.
I kissed her goodbye and hoped that she would enjoy her day, and I made my normal commute to the office, already looking forwards to a nice dinner with my lovely wife when I returned that evening.
When I got home that evening, everything was as I expected it, or even better. Yvonne met me with a kiss as I came through the front door. She was dressed nicely, hair and make-up like a Stepford Wife. The house was tidy, the smell of my favourite dinner wafting from the kitchen. I remember thinking to myself "if this is what having a kept woman at home is all about, then bring it on!"
Yvonne's lips lingered on mine slightly longer than a normal welcome home kiss. When she eventually pulled away and took my hand to lead me through to the dining room, where the table was already laid, I followed like a loyal puppy, my metaphorical tail wagging with the pleasure of being welcomed thus. A cold gin and tonic was placed in front of me, and my perfect wife sat with me and asked about my day, half listening to my long lazy answer, before fussing into the kitchen to serve up our meal.
Dinner was delicious, washed down with a decent bottle of red which we shared, and Yvonne kept up the perfect wife impression by keeping a lively conversation going. This was new territory for us, actually sitting together for a meal on a weekday. In the past we had invariably rushed down a TV dinner in the lounge, squeezing it in between work, bedtime and whatever chores or other activities we needed to get done in the few hours of so-called leisure time that we had.
I questioned Yvonne about how her day had gone, but the questions were gently by-passed, but in such a way as to not arouse any suspicion or concern on my part.
After dinner, Yvonne cleared away, refusing to accept any help from me on the basis that I was the busy breadwinner, and shouldn't be expected to have to do domestic duties when at home. Whilst she cleared up the dishes, I retired to the living room with the remains of the Rioja, and settled in front of the TV to catch the 9:00 pm news.
Thus far, it had been a perfect evening and we had each played our part as one half of our perfect domestic scene. I felt entirely satisfied, but with a faint niggling suspicion that things had been too perfect. I think in the back of my mind, I was wondering whether things had been so perfect because Yvonne was trying to show me how great things would be if she didn't return to work as we had previously planned.
My intuition and suspicion turned out to be right, but for all the wrong reasons.
Yvonne came to join me on the sofa, and curled her legs under her as she snuggled against me, her head on my shoulder, her left hand resting innocently on my thigh. I remember being aware of her breast pressing against my arm. Our heads turned instinctively towards each other, and I kissed her and thanked her for preparing dinner and looking so lovely. She kissed me back enthusiastically, and told me that she had been looking forward all day to my coming home so that she could see me and take care of me.
We watched the rest of the news together, terrible stories about the ongoing troubles in the Middle-East, a mass shooting in a small-town America shopping mall, and happier news about a recent UK lottery winner that had given half of his winnings to charity.
We shared the last glass of wine, and it was when I asked again how her first day of freedom had gone that things started to change.
At first, it was all innocent enough. Yvonne explained that her day had gone to plan. She had done her work-out at the gym, had a swim in the pool there, and then headed home early afternoon to spend time pampering herself with a nice bath, ex-foliation, and then she had enjoyed having the time to do her hair, nails and make-up without any pressure of time, before she started preparing dinner. When everything had been readied for my return home, she had repaired to her dressing-room to get dressed in time for me to get home around 7:00pm. She said it had been really nice to have the time, and to spend that time on her own, doing as she pleased.
I was genuinely delighted that her day had gone well for her, and I had certainly benefited from the way she had spent it. However, her next comment opened the door to the next six months of discovery that would change both of our lives, although I didn't recognise its significance at the time.
"You know," she said, "there is an entirely different population of users in the gym during working hours to the people I have seen over and over again in the evenings and at weekends."
I asked her what she meant. How were they different?
"Well, I didn't see any of the faces that I usually see, everyone was completely new. And the atmosphere is much more relaxed during working hours. The people take their time more; there are fewer people there and more machines to go around, much less rushing and pressure to complete your routine."
I commented that that must be a good thing, and she agreed.
"It is, definitely. Somehow it felt much friendlier, more intimate. I liked it!"
