Aftermath or "i Can't Go for That"

Author's Note:

This story is about monogamy. It contains references to a non-consensual sex experience in the recent past, but with what I believe are minimal details. However, this is about the loving wife recognizing her need for extra-marital sex.

For those who feel outrage as you begin to read this, I recommend withholding judgment until you read through to the end. You won't know until the last quarter how they both really feel about it.

In the title, the phrase

"I Can't Go for That"

comes from the Hall & Oates song in 1981 by that same name.

*******************************

Prologue

It was almost pitch black in our bedroom when I opened my eyes. The little light coming around the door from the bathroom nightlight provided a subtle glow, enough for me to make out shapes and to see the blanket. There were no other sounds or light to disturb my sleep. And when I looked at the nightstand alarm clock to my right, the numbers glowed red showing it was 4:00 am.

Then I felt the bed moving as she bounced on the mattress. When I rolled over, I saw my wife had thrown off her blanket and was lying naked with her arms straight down at her sides. She had her legs clamped tightly together, her hips bucking and twisting but keeping herself in that straight position. She didn't make any sounds, just twisting her hips and torso. She was moving as if trying to fight off or dislodge something, ... or someone.

This wasn't the first time; it had happened often, although less so within the last two months. I knew from experience that if I tried shaking her awake, she would scream and wouldn't be able to sleep again, possibly for a day or two. We had discussed it with her therapist, so I knew what I needed to do to try helping her out of her nightmare this time.

My member was ready with my usual morning woodie. Grabbing the bottle of lube from my nightstand, I quickly squirted a liberal amount on my stiff shaft, ignoring any extra which spilled on the sheets. I'll change the sheets later.

I rolled over on top of my wife, taking care that she didn't knee me in the groin. Pressing my chest down onto hers, I threw my right leg over her thighs to straddle her as I pinned her to the bed. Her hands came up to my shoulders as she tried pushing me up and off her, but she wasn't strong enough to resist. Then I carefully, but persistently worked my cock between her clenched thighs, raising and lowering my hips as I kept my chest pressed down on her, not allowing her to roll away.

She wasn't complaining or making any sounds. Her eyes remained closed, and she kept her lips closed tight together. But I put my right hand over her mouth anyway, as I was coached. I slowly rubbed my stiff shaft between her thighs and against her slit. When I reached my left hand down between us, I sought out her sex and began rubbing a finger near the top, feeling for her nub.

Her clit responded and grew, as I knew it would, and soon her legs relaxed as she stopped resisting. Her thighs parted, and I slipped two fingers into her, still rubbing her clit with my hand. First shifting my right knee between her legs, then my left, I used my legs to spread hers until I could position the head of my cock at her opening and pressed it in.

Thrusting into her, my right hand never left its place holding her mouth closed. She soon wrapped her legs around me as she pulled me in. It took about five minutes, and I felt the familiar pressure building up my shaft until the explosion was near, then I bucked a few times as I shot my load into her. When I paused my thrusts, I waited, buried deep inside her, allowing the last of my jizz to leave my balls.

Cheryl lay beneath me, her hips bucking up to meet me and her legs tugging, pulling me in, until she felt me relax. Then she dropped her feet to the bed, allowing me to withdraw my softening cock as I rolled over to my side of the bed. She laid there, her knees up and spread open ... waiting ... for more.

It wouldn't have mattered how long I held back, trying to encourage her orgasm, continuing to thrust into her. After a few seconds lying there without me, she even began bucking her pelvis up again as if receiving another pounding. But I knew from experience she'd never orgasm tonight as she desperately wanted. So, I finished my part as quickly as possible, just leaving her lying there with my physical reminder having reduced her to just being a cumbucket.

A minute later, she closed her legs, and I felt the bed move as she silently rolled onto her left side facing away from me and curled into a fetal ball. I knew there would be a wet spot from my cum oozing out of her, and I'd clean that too in the morning. I soon heard the subtle sounds of her breathing as she fell into a sound and now peaceful sleep.

She'll quietly sleep like this for the next four hours, then wake to take a long shower, as if desperately trying to scrub off some imagined filth. And I'll have her coffee and breakfast waiting. She'll look a little tired when she finally comes into the kitchen, this restlessness depriving her of a good full night's sleep. But she'll be calm and thoughtful, and I hope, able to talk about it.

My wife was always bright and cheerful every morning. And our lovemaking was always slow and gentle, satisfying the two of us, when we'd both orgasm and cuttle together afterwards ... before that night.

It took the first three months of therapy and trying different things, including drugs like Ambien and even stronger ones prescribed by the psychiatrist. Then after some of her private therapy sessions, the counselor called me in and suggested I try this approach to stop her nightmares. Now, this is as close as she gets to any sexual relief. And frankly, I don't find this satisfying. I need her loving reaction to our joint pleasures to really feel complete. But I'm trying to help her recover, hoping to bring my high school sweetheart of thirty years back home to me.

Intro

Some couples see a distinct separation in their long marriages, grouping the years as "before kids", raising kids, and the empty nest years after the kids are out of the house. My life with Cheryl began when we were much younger, as kids ourselves, who knew each other from living so close together. And we've been married for thirty years. Through all of that and even though our own kids are now all out of the house, our life is now divided into just the "before" ... and the after.

Cheryl and I were soulmates, destined to be together since meeting in Sunday school so long ago. Our families lived near each other, so we went to the same elementary, middle, and high schools, sharing the same classes together. And I watched her grow into the cute young lady she became in college. She wasn't a raving beauty, or cheerleader A-lister type of girl. She cut her hair short and was sort of a Tomboy when we were younger. But in college, her five-foot four figure filled out and she had problems hiding it in her usual baggy clothes and conservative dresses.

I couldn't understand what she ever saw in me, as an average guy just five or six inches taller. I wasn't an athlete or super-genius in school, but just a guy who went on to college and eventually became a middle-manager in an industrial company.

But I proposed to my steady girlfriend, my Best Friend Forever, who then became my wife and the mother of our kids.

We were both virgins until our wedding night, as we were each other's constant companions during those teen years. We managed to suppress those teenage urges to explore sex together, without fighting over it. And when we finally gave in, consummating our joining on our wedding night, it was worth the wait.

Sex to us became that loving giving of ourselves to each other. In our monogamous marriage it was for making babies, ... and for stress relief. She could tell when I would start getting amorous, that I needed ... no, ... I WANTED her company in bed. And I learned her cycles and stresses, giving her space when she needed it or helping her relieve that itch. Our lovemaking was always soft, slow, and easy, ... never rushed. We were compatible and complementary.

We saw our sex life as perfect, loving and caring for each other. We both enjoyed seeing our spouse's face during sex. I appreciated watching her eyes grow wide and roll back when I managed to get her "over the top" in her orgasm, feeling her pulling me in with her legs wrapped around me. Or I'd wrap my arms under her knees, push her legs up beside her chest so I could watch her right foot and ankle twitch when she orgasmed. And I loved her smile and bright eyes looking up at me when she'd get me excited as I pumped into her. She WANTED me inside her, filling her until I relaxed to lie beside her and hold her close. I enjoyed the feel of her soft body against me, her breasts pressed against my chest and side, the soft hair of her groin against my thigh when she threw her left leg over my legs, with her hand slowly caressing my chest. I would pull her closer as if pulling her into me to become one. We enjoyed the pleasure we gave to each other.

Cheryl and I tried watching porn together a few times, but neither of us could understand the attraction. I mean, really, what guy wants to stick his fingers or dick into a woman's ass, covering them with shit? And who wants to taste their partner's pee hole, or look at their back when making love? Sodomy and other positions just weren't exciting for us. Other than just normal sex, the most we ever did with each other was feel around in the dimly lit bedroom to explore the other's body with our fingers.

Besides not appealing to us, some of the things we saw in porn videos were just ... offensive! What kind of monster wants to slap or beat their partner. How can you ever say "I love you" after that to someone?

Most of what we saw in our few distractions of trying to watch porn together were disgusting and alien to both of us. We both felt the same way about it, and about our own sex together. We were perfect soulmates, together for life.

As we approached our thirtieth anniversary, we decided to spend one fateful evening dancing at our favorite nightclub. We had been going there once or twice per month for ten years. It was our special place for date nights when our kids were finally old enough to allow us time to reconnect as a couple. It's not that we ever grew apart in the first twenty years of marriage. But priorities change when you have kids, and those little ones were the most important priorities in our lives. Once they were old enough, Cheryl and I looked to each other and again found our private, loving connection, spending the last ten years dating and having fun again.

The last time I saw my soulmate that evening is now burned into my mind, seeing her as she walked down the hallway toward the nightclub's lady's room.

My whole world up to that moment was the "before".

***

Then came the "after" ...

Fifteen minutes is not a long time, but longer than my wife had ever taken in a public restroom. I asked a waitress we knew to check on her, hoping my wife hadn't fallen or suddenly fell sick. The waitress came back out, quickly walking over to the manager and saying something to him as she pointed at me. Then the club manager almost ran to his office.

My wife and I had heard there were two girls within the past year claiming they were assaulted near here. But we assumed the girls probably knew their assailants, or that it might have been drug related. After all, this was our favorite nightclub for almost ten years, and we knew many of the people who came here. But the club manager took those women's accusations seriously and had just recently installed additional security cameras.

I pushed past several patrons to get to the waitress, asking "What's wrong? Is she okay?"

She grasped my arm, pulling me toward the manager's office, saying "Cheryl's not in there."

When she opened the manager's office door, he was looking at a computer monitor, with the back turned toward us and he was talking on the phone.

"Yes, twenty minutes ago. We know this couple, and the video shows she's been taken, probably like the others. ... Thank you," and he hung up. Looking at me with a worried expression, he said "They're sending investigators and broadcasting an alert."

My relating these events may sound rather clinical and emotionless, but for me at the time it was very emotional. My initial worry of not knowing if she was alright in the lady's room grew quickly, now knowing something else was wrong. Then seeing the manager's face and hearing him describe the video, ... and with the police reacting so quickly, my worry turned to panic.

He described a woman coming out of the lady's room, and a man grabbing her from behind putting his hand over her mouth, as two other men picked up her struggling body and they hauled her out of camera view through a back service door into the alley behind the club.

After the death of the last girl, the police this time reacted quickly when the manager called. In hindsight, the speed with which they checked adjacent building security cameras, traffic cameras, and various private home front door cameras should have been impressive. But they could never be fast enough.

A few hours later, the woman I saw in the hospital wasn't the same as the one I married, or even the one thirty years later who smiled at me when she left for her restroom break. The woman in the hospital was bruised and emotionally broken, damaged and in need of repair.

Morning News

She came into the kitchen wearing her yoga outfit but looking a little haggard after her latest nightmare. This wasn't the cheerful, hot MILF who gave me our three kids and loving family. She looked a little scared, quickly glancing around, almost as if she wanted to run but not knowing where to go. Those darting eyes were the sign her therapist warned me to look for and to be careful what I say.

"When she does that, don't press her too hard. You'll just make her retreat, back into her solitude."

I watched as she sat at the table, plopping down into her chair, worn out, and not caring.

"There's an article in today's newspaper," I began "It says the trial has been cancelled, so you won't have to testify." I hoped that bit of news might take some of the pressure off her.

I had set the newspaper folded in the center of the table, not displaying the headline. I didn't want to surprise her, possibly triggering another breakdown.

"What happened?" she quietly and calmly asked in a resigned tone, since things were beyond our control, and it wouldn't matter.

"The article says the security video showed you struggling, even as the one guy held the knife at your throat. They said that was the key evidence. And with the DNA linking them to the two other attacks, the defense attorneys convinced them to accept a deal. With the death of that second young woman, they were facing first degree murder. All three of them accepted a plea-bargain for twenty years with a chance at parole to avoid the death penalty,"

"Twenty years," she said, and she snorted derisively, "I know it's mostly for that eighteen-year-old girl's life. Too bad the nightclub didn't have the security cameras a year earlier," she said a little despondently. "She might still be alive, and I wouldn't have had to go through that."

"We'd been going there for the last ten years. And it was always a safe place to go for an evening out," I pointed out. "It's only been within the last year or so that things around here got this bad."

Cheryl was sitting at her usual spot at our kitchen table, which I'd set with a glass of orange juice, and a toasted bagel and fruit on a small plate. I placed the mug of coffee in front of her, then turned to the stove to dish out her favorite omelet, sausage, and hashbrowns. I didn't know what she might want, or even if she wanted to eat this morning, so I prepared all of her favorite selections. Placing the plate in front of her, I then retrieved my own coffee cup and sat across from her.

"I called the doctor's office," I said, "and Rachel wants to see you for a half hour this afternoon at one o'clock. Would you like me to call your mother, too?"

"NO!" she quickly insisted. "Don't call my mother! She never understands and she doesn't help at all. She criticized ME when I told her some of the details and how I felt. ... And I don't feel like talking to the psychologist about it either. Rachel gave me some meditation exercises to try," then she added "I just want to try handling this my way. I'll be okay" as she tried to reassure me and take control.

"But you're not okay," I pointed out. "That was the second time this month. You're getting better. But you're not okay when that still happens."

"I know what I need to do," she said insistently. "... I do love you for trying. But I can handle it myself," and she picked away at her breakfast in silence for the next few minutes. Then she sat back with her coffee, looking thoughtful. "Why don't you go and talk to the counselor," she suggested. "Maybe she can help you better deal with it, too."

Psych

"The last four times," I said to the psychologist, "I did what we discussed, and it seems to help. After I'm done, she acts calmer, but also as if someone is still there with her for a minute or two before she rolls over and goes to sleep."

"Does Cheryl talk to you at all about what it was like?" her therapist, Rachel O'Keefe asked.

Rachel's not a medical doctor, but a psychologist with a master's degree, and she asked us to call her by her first name. She's worked for decades counseling women after abuse. And the psychiatrist said she's the best in the area.

"She doesn't like to talk about it much, Rachel. And I don't press her for details," I admitted. "She tried talking to her mother. But our parents grew up in a different time and different culture. I don't know what she described to her mother. I just know that Cheryl blew up at her mother's response and won't talk to her anymore. So, I'd rather wait until she's ready to tell me on her own terms. I don't want to appear prying or say the wrong thing."

"I watched all of the police bodycam footage," Rachel explained, "... the stuff they wouldn't show you. And they were right not to allow anyone else to see that."

"What did it show?" I asked.

"It's best for you that I don't go into any details," she explained. "But when they burst into the room in that abandoned building, they saw all three of them on her. The police rushed in and surrounded them. But the toxicology reports said they were all on Extasy, and they didn't react or stop until the police pulled them apart."

"Cheryl wasn't on drugs," I insisted.

"No, the blood test showed she wasn't," Rachel admitted. "But at that point, I don't think she even realized the police were there."

"I keep hoping she'll somehow be able to forget it and go back to the way she was. Maybe if she could partition the experience off into a part of her mind and bury it.

"Very few people can forget something like that," Rachel explained. "Some can block out the bad experience, as if it never happened. Most people just try to reshape their memories of a bad thing to make it more acceptable. They might blame others or change the characters. And your wife isn't one to block it out. She tells me she can remember all of the details, the scary stuff, the physical pain, and ... more."

"What do you mean; 'more'" I asked.

"She's afraid to tell you that she orgasmed," Rachel explained. "She's afraid you'll judge her with a negative opinion of her."

My eyes must have widened at that, because she went on, "Just as you look surprised now, like that," she pointed out. "Subtle reactions when she tries to tell her side will appear judgmental. Most husbands don't want to acknowledge their wife is a sexual being. She can enjoy sex, even when it's with another man or in different ways."