Warning:
A weak husband and a gullible wife make this another cuckold story.
Note.
I was sent this story unsolicited and have not had direct contact with the writer but I am posting it mainly for the humour content.
Surrogate Wife
My name is Ben Wood and I was brought up on a farm. My father owned the farm but it had been in the family for generations. The land was quite poor but we had a lot of it and there was a river running through the middle. That river was a handicap because the farm was on the flood plain and every twenty or thirty years the river burst its banks putting almost the whole farm under water. It was meant to have been a bad year for that in 1947 and I also remember the fields being flooded when I was very small.
Sally is two years younger than me and she lived with her mother in the farm workers cottage across the yard from the farmhouse. She didn't have a dad. The story I have pieced together is that Sally's mother Edna was a bit wild when she was young and only settled down when she was twenty-five. At that time she started being courted by a farmer's son and they were engaged for five years until she fell pregnant with Sally. The wedding had been arranged when rumours started that the farmer's son wasn't the father of the kid and he believed them. Maybe they were true but I think the rumour was put out by some bloke Sally's mum had knocked back because she never did shake off a reputation for turning a trick. Edna had been my mothers best friend at school so when she was kicked out by her parents and left pregnant with nowhere to live, my mum persuaded dad to let her have the cottage. During the years Edna lived in the cottage lots of people thought my dad was knocking her off but she was always more my mother's friend than his.
Sally and I grew up almost as brother and sister. For quite a number of years we went together to a small school in the nearest village but never progressed to further education - we were miles from anywhere and I think the authorities forgot about the pair of us. That school taught us to read and add up but there was no need to learn anything about Greeks and Romans because I was going to be a farmer and it was assumed that Sally would eventually be my wife.
Sally is a really lovely looking girl now and so she must have been even more so then but at the time she was just my pal. She was very kind hearted from being very young and was always seeking out damaged creatures to help. My instinct was to put them out of their misery with a short sharp blow but she persuaded me to rescue these victims of nature for her tender care. Many did survive and I eventually finished up as soft as her.
In the early years we were often bathed together and that casually physical familiarity stayed with us. In our middle and late teens, we often skinny dipped together and Sally thought nothing of stripping to the waist before sticking her head under the pump. I liked looking at her rather large breasts but without sexual overtones, rather teasing her about them and laughing at the way they bounced as she ran in infuriated fashion after me. To me tits were just something that all female creatures happened to have. Even in minor bodily functions were far from shy. If I needed a piss then I simply directed a stream at some thistle or fence post while she would pull down her knickers and squat with equal unconcern.
This all changed one hot day in July when we were both in our late teens. Our farm had a champion boar and this was a lucrative sideline because farms from quite a distance sent their sows to us for servicing. One of my main responsibilities was to look after these many matings with Sally as my willing assistant. She generally concerned herself with the sow, (soothing the creature if it had not been covered before), while I ensured that the boar's dong was nicely lined up on target. Sometimes depending on the circumstances our roles were reversed and I think that was the situation on the day in question. It had been hot work mainly because the boar had needed a lot encouragement before he would perform so afterwards we took a pitcher of lemonade into the barn and lay cooling off on top of the bales of hay. Sally had removed her jeans and lay by my side wearing only a bra and tiny sweat dampened panties. Something overcame us both at the same time and the next second we were doing it. From then on we couldn't stop. We did it by the river, in the woods, at least twice in the barn every day and then sneak into each other's beds at night. It took only four months before we realised that she was pregnant.
There was no hassle because our parents were pleased - well, if not exactly pleased they were not too badly upset. We were married quickly and Sally moved across the yard to share my bed officially. Life was perfect and when our daughter Sophie arrived all three grandparents doted on her. I had guaranteed employment for life but with fifteen to twenty years before my father handed the farm over to me – I had plenty of time to learn the administrative as opposed to labouring side of running a farm.
Sophie was two when the rains came. It was not a once in every couple of decades sort of the storm but the river was running exceptionally high. Pulling a trailer containing three sows, my parents were crossing the wooden bridge to the farm, for some reason the trailer slewed sideways and broke through the struts at the side of the bridge. Had mum and dad uncoupled the trailer they would have been all right but instead they made a valiant effort to rescue the pigs. Unfortunately the trailer slipped further, the current caught it and pulled trailer, car and my parents into the torrent. It was over a week before their bodies were recovered.
Compounding the grief came the realisation that I hadn't the faintest idea how to run the farm on my own. Edna had been slightly eccentric before but now she went completely doo lally, not Alzheimer's - I think that the doctor said grief inspired dementia. It gave some credence to the gossip about her and my father because she spent each day rocking backwards and forwards, tearing her hair and muttering, "Will, Will, Will," (my fathers name) over and over again. The whole world had crashed around me and it need a miracle to save us.
That miracle came in the form of the government declaring that the country needed millions of new houses over the next twenty years and to facilitate this, large tracts of green belt were declassified. Included in this, my farm was selected as the ideal site for a large development and I received for the land far more than I would have ever dreamed possible. I bought us a nice house and invested in a business. So while Sally happily stayed at home raising our daughter, I went in to work every day and spent the time walking about and looking important but actually doing very little.
It was when Sophie was old enough to go to play-school in the afternoons that Sally first complained of being bored - to be honest I was finding life a bit boring myself. I suggested that she try doing charity work and this she did. It was either serving customers in charity shops or pushing envelopes through doors and going back later to collect the reluctant donations. The real problem started when our daughter was at school between nine and three thirty when the charity pastimes failed to pass all the available time. Sally was unhappy because her fellow charity workers tended to be either old age pensioners or wealthy educated wives and the later seemed to take pleasure in making her feel inadequate.
Then evening day my wife told me that she had been working with a lovely lady that day. "She's called Pamela and she was only helping out in the shop that one day because she has a charity job full time," Sally said excitedly. "She says that it is the most rewarding job she has ever done - and she also told me that the organisation is always looking for volunteers."
"What kind of work is it?" I felt obliged to ask.
"She says that she is a surrogate wife. Her job is to help unfortunate men with sexual difficulties."
"Surrogate wives?" I repeated, not liking the sound of it. "Is this Pamela single."
"No, she's married but her husband works in London all week and only gets home at weekends, which is why she has the spare time. She said that all the women she works with are either married or have been. The organisation doesn't accept girls who haven't been married but they are desperate to attract volunteers my age."
I asked some additional questions to which she did have an answer but then Sally said that she would know more the next day, adding, "I'm going out for a drink tomorrow night with Pam and some of her friends who work at the centre – they're going to tell me exactly what they do and how much they like it."
"You're not thinking of doing it?" I asked suddenly realising that I had not been told this just as a topic conversation. "I might - it depends on what is involved, Sally said trying to seem casual."I'll get training on overcoming sexual problems so I might learn something to help you."
"I haven't got any problems," I said emphatically. "You can't complain that I don't do it to you often enough."
"Oh I grant that you are always chasing me for sex but it never lasts very long, does it?"
"Exactly how long should it take?" I asked, taking offence, "- as you are the apparent expert now perhaps you would like to tell me."
"I don't know," Sally said with an edge of exasperation. "I just know that there must be more to it."
We hardly exchanged a word for the rest of the evening and slept on opposite edges of the bed so it was the next night after Sally returned from her evening out before I could try to make matters right. In the intervening time I had been honest with myself and was now prepared to concede that our sex lives were possibly not all that they could be. I enjoyed sex immensely but had to admit that our quick fucks seemed to be a different experience to the sex act as described in books.
However, before I could even start my apology, a buoyant Sally launched into an account of her evening. She began with a quick pen portrait of the four ladies present. PAM - aged about 45, plumpish with a motherly face. ISLA - slim 39 year old divorcee with a seven year old son, close cropped hair and a rather plain face. MABEL - widow and over fifty but bleached blonde hair, lots of make-up and figure hugging clothes. DOROTHY - a bit mousey, two children, early forties, married to an accountant. He supports her fully in the work and his interest extends to wanting to know every detail of what she has done each day.
"There are mainly three main types of men that get helped by the unit," Sally went on to say. "The first lot are men who had sex with their mothers when they were young I think but I can't understand why they would want to or how the women could let a little boy do something like that. Anyway the men are so guilty about it that their cocks don't work any more. The next lot are similar in having cocks that don't work but it's for a different reason. Some have had accidents and some had other problems but they have got it into their heads that their pricks won't go stiff even though they really can. The rest are men who have been in prison and while they were in there other men made them think that they were women."
