My Wife Walked In
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
I was naked when my wife walked in, and not in the discreet, under-the-covers sort of way—just bare, sprawled in my worn desk chair, mouse in one hand, cock in the other, browsing a private folder with all the subtlety of a teenager left home alone. It was past noon, and the cheap blinds in my office were glowing honey and white, making the dust motes dance and flicker over the LCD. My left hand worked the mouse with greasy precision; my right squeezed, then idled, then circled back for another lazy tug. I was taking my time—there was no hurry. I could hear the faint sound of my wife in the kitchen, the staccato of a knife on a cutting board, the soft thump of the refrigerator door.
I was just starting to think about lunch when the office door creaked. No knock, no warning; just the soft slide of slippers across laminate, and then she was there, standing in the doorway, framed by a rectangle of hallway light.
“Hey,” she said, as if I were only perusing the news or buying batteries on Amazon.
I had a split second to look at her—pale blue pajama pants, t-shirt three sizes too big, her hair twisted into a topknot that trembled when she moved. She was holding her phone in one hand and the glass recycling in the other. Her gaze dropped, not coy but clinical, and the corners of her mouth tilted in a way I couldn’t decode.
She made a noise, like a single syllable of laughter, and let the glass clink into the recycling bin by the door. “I need to get the old laptop. Ignore me.” She strode past me, trailing a trace of lemon cleaner and caffeine.
I caught her eye as she reached for the battered HP on the bookshelf. “Sorry,” I said. “I thought you were in a meeting.”
“You thought wrong,” she said, grinning wider now. “Clearly you’re not.”
I glanced down, as if I could hide the evidence by sheer force of will. My dick was still at half-mast, a silly pink periscope, half-shaded by my fist. “It’s a slow day,” I muttered.
She set the laptop down on the desk, inches from my twitching hand, and leaned in—her hair falling forward, her eyes big and serious. “Did you want help with that, or were you enjoying the solitude?”
“Solitude is highly overrated,” I said. My voice came out more hopeful than intended.
She cocked her head, mock-considering, and then without breaking eye contact, she reached out and gave my dick a quick, businesslike squeeze. Not a lingering, erotic caress, but a clear acknowledgement. “Carry on, Captain.” She turned her attention to the desktop, booting up the HP, typing in a password. I watched the curve of her wrist, the flex and release of her fingers, felt the warm aftershock of her touch smoldering on my skin.
We existed in a weird sort of marriage—half best friends, half accomplices, sometimes each other’s accomplice in crimes of private vice. I’d long ago lost the shame that came from being caught; now it was just a running joke, a shared eccentricity. We were both too lazy for elaborate deceptions. She’d walked in on me masturbating more times than I could count, sometimes joining, sometimes critiquing, sometimes just taking a mental snapshot before moving on to her next task. It had ceased to be a violation years ago. If anything, it was intimacy in the truest sense—every bodily function, every messy urge, bared and accepted.
She tapped a few keys, found what she was looking for, and glanced back at me. “You got anything good today?” She nodded at the monitor.
I debated telling her, but then my better angel went on break. “Actually, yes,” I said, and fished my phone from the cluttered desk. I’d saved a picture just for this purpose, a little treat in case she caught me in the act. I handed her the phone, trying not to look like I was holding my breath.
She squinted at the screen, then snorted so loudly I thought she’d inhale the entire topknot. “Is that supposed to be you?”
“Artist’s rendering,” I said, feigning dignity. The image was a cheap digital commission, maybe thirty bucks on Fiverr: a cartoon of me, unmistakably me, naked on a beach, legs spread, drink in hand, cock gloriously engorged and encased in a teal-blue Gush—my favorite toy. I’d even requested they add in a ridiculous floppy sun hat and sunglasses. The effect was somewhere between pornographic and outright absurd, which was exactly the point.
She enlarged the image, shaking her head, her mouth wide with laughter. “You look like a porn star on vacation,” she said. “Is that an actual drink or just an elaborate metaphor for your own semen?”
“Why not both?” I shrugged, enjoying her amusement.
She swiped to the next image, which was an equally offensive drawing of the Gush itself—high-gloss, aquatic blue, rendered with so much loving detail it could have doubled as an ad. She handed the phone back, eyes wet. “I can’t decide if it’s horrifying or adorable. It’s definitely you, though.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s the vibe I was going for.”
She looked at me, then at my dick, then back at me. “Well, have fun on your beach, Captain. Don’t get sunburned.” She closed the HP, gathered it under her arm, and paused in the doorway.
“Oh,” she said, as if remembering something important. She returned and, without ceremony, bent down and kissed the head of my dick, a quick peck, as if it were a lucky penny or a baby bird. Then she stood, wiped her lips on her sleeve, and headed back to the kitchen.
I watched her go, feeling a giddy, unearned sense of triumph. My dick was now fully hard, grateful for the attention, and I was left alone with my absurd porn and the afterglow of conjugal solidarity.
People always talk about marriage like it’s a long slow death of desire, a steady drip of compromise and lowered expectations. But nobody ever tells you about the secret perks: the inside jokes, the unspoken permissions, the freedom to be as weird and unguarded as you want. To have someone who laughs at your fetishes, who not only tolerates but celebrates your stupid, horny id—who can make you feel like a conquering hero even while you’re hunched over your keyboard with your hand wrapped around your cock.
I scrolled back to the cartoon, studied the crude lines and the broad, idiotic grin. I raised my glass—a coffee mug, this time—and toasted my imaginary beach, the warm sun, the cool breeze, and the even cooler woman waiting in the next room. Then I got back to work, emboldened, my office now a little less solitary, and a lot more alive.