At the time of this story, it has been just over four months since the first part of She Came To Me. If you have not read that, you will not understand where we were.

We have had more sexual interaction in those four months than in the combined total of twenty-six years of marriage—making our marriage, in hindsight, feel like a long conquest of celibacy.

We were active nearly every second day. Sometimes even more.

And we talked.

A lot.

Some conversations about our past were difficult. We had to walk away from each other in pain. Others were raw, direct, almost confrontational—but we walked through everything: her infidelity, biological paternity, my emotional abuse, my explosive anger.

It was hard. And slowly, I began to understand why she wanted to leave. It did not excuse what she did—the affair, the secrecy, the stepping out, the life she lived in that year and then kept hidden for fifteen—but I began to understand.

The biggest shock came when she told me she had been sexually abused as a preteen – sodomized as a young innocent girl. I could barely process it.

Then she continued.

During the affair, the man promised her a job, a salary, a way to live independently—on condition she performed sexual acts she would never consider in a healthy relationship, not even in an unhealthy one.

Given what she had just revealed about her past, I sat there in pain as she explained it.

What had happened to her as a young girl . . . happened to her again during the affair.

And she did not stop it.

Because she wanted out of our marriage that badly.

That broke me.

And I was still trying to recover from the truth that she had a sexual affair outside our marriage.

For a few days after, I had no idea what to say or what to do.

It took me some time to realise that I had two choices: either get an apartment and move out within the next two days, or commit and build a new relationship.

Early on, we both agreed that our marriage was technically over. We would no longer refer to ourselves as husband and wife. If not for the legal consequences, we would have formalised our divorce.

We spoke about when I initially discovered her “emotional” affair fifteen years ago. We went to our pastor. I believed she had stopped anything going forward with the affair. I never knew it had gone further than lunch dates and office romance—until now.

She told me how she became the shame of the church. How every woman she spoke to, even those she did not know, would approach her and offer to help her become a good and proper Christian wife—to take care of her own husband.

It was a betrayal of faith and church. She became the centre of gossip, and I became the faithful, betrayed husband. No wonder her resentment grew, while no one knew how I behaved—my anger, my emotional outbursts, my non-physical abuse.

We spoke about how marriage had assigned roles and obligations—what a good husband should be, what a good wife should do. And we began to see that this was not what God intended—no rigid roles, no imposed obligations, no blind belief or forced forgiveness.

We went back to older text, and I discovered something that changed how I see her.

The “wife” was never meant to be a submissive figure, simply obeying her husband. As I understand it, she is meant to be a counterweight—an ezer kenegdo. Someone who stands opposite, who pulls in the other direction when her husband loses his way.

She is the hameshulash—a cord of three strands—helping hold him when he is breaking, when the world threatens to snap what remains.

“An ezer kenegdo—a strength corresponding to me, a balance that resists me when I tilt.”

We decided that, from now on, if we were to continue, it would be as an equal partnership—where we submit to each other, and to Christ.

Having had a sexually dead marriage—one that had, in our eyes, already ended—we started to discover each other again like young lovers, like in the days of our engagement.

One morning, we sat on the patio. I had recently installed an LED strip behind the TV, controlled by an app to adjust brightness and colour when we watched movies or TV, especially at night to balance the lighting.

As we sat there, watching the trees sway in the wind and neighbours pass by on that peaceful Saturday mid-morning, I handed her my phone.

She looked at the open app, slightly confused.

She studied the patterns on the screen, selecting different modes, glancing toward the TV. Every now and then she switched it off, tilted her head as if listening, then continued playing with it.

A few minutes passed.

Nothing.

She looked up at me for the first time since I handed her the phone—maybe five or ten minutes, though it felt much longer—confusion written across her face. I was sitting back in the camping chair, relaxed, my eyes barely open. That confused her even more.

She explained that the app seemed to do nothing. She showed me, increasing the “brightness” to its highest setting, pointing to the LED strip in the TV room just visible from the patio.

Nothing.

She pushed it again.

A light shudder moved through my body. I closed my eyes for a second as my breathing shifted.

Now she thought something was wrong. She stepped closer, still focused on the app, trying to understand it.

Then she opened the “About” screen.

At the top, it said: “Satisfyer Deep Diver Anal Vibrator (App Controlled)”.

An audible gasp escaped her. She looked around, then back at me. Slowly, she placed her hand just below my beltline.

She didn’t hear it. She felt it—the vibration. Deep. Rhythmic.

Her hand snapped away as if she had touched something dangerous.

Then, slowly . . . she touched me again.

Shock spread across her face. For a moment, she went pale. Then her eyes widened, her breath caught . . . and I watched her lips, bare of makeup, darken into a deep crimson against her skin.

A blush crept up her neck, slowly spreading across her face, like sunlight pushing through cloud.

I said nothing.

I waited.

Inside me, the pulse continued—stop, go, stop—the tip of the device pressing perfectly against my prostate.

She sat down again, and her breathing slowly steadied. She looked back at the app, and then at me, a small smile forming as she saw the setting labeled “Manual Pattern Draw”.

She selected it, holding my gaze.

The vibration stopped.

A sigh escaped me.

Still watching me, she slid her finger upward on the screen.

A sharp pulse shot through me.

For the next few minutes, she played—carefully, watching everything. Every breath. Every shift. Every involuntary reaction. She would bring me close—then stop. Start again. Pause. Push further. She was in control, and she knew it. I could see it in her face—the focus, the curiosity, the quiet enjoyment of it.

She lowered the vibrations to a slow pulse, looked at me, and said, “Let’s take this to the bedroom.”

I could barely walk. My legs didn’t want to cooperate.

Halfway there, she triggered a stronger pulse from behind me.

“Hurry up.”

I did.

In the room, she looked at me.

“Strip.”

I obeyed again.

“Lie down.”

A towel appeared on the bed—I hadn’t even seen her grab it. She sat between my legs and reached into my bedside drawer, finding the packet of condoms that came with the toy. She smiled, took one, and with obvious inexperience, she tried to put it on me. Fumbling slightly, she soon looked at me and asked for help.

I obliged, though I was still confused. She could no longer get pregnant. She noticed the confusion and laughed, but gave no further explanation. She only changed the vibration pattern again and placed the phone on my chest.

I reached for it, but her hand slapped mine.

“No. Don’t touch.”

I froze.

She looked at me, then slowly lowered her gaze and wrapped her hand around me.

Firm.

Slow.

The condom dulled the sensation, making it unfamiliar, almost strange.

Then she leaned forward . . .

. . . Breathed in . . .

. . . And her lips closed around the head of my penis.

A cold shock ran through me.

Twenty-eight years, and never once had she done this.

And now . . . this.

She was unsure. Learning. Adjusting. But it was beautiful.

She lifted her head slightly, a thin string of saliva stretching from the condom to her lips.

She looked at me, questioning.

I had no words, only need. Hunger.

She lowered her head again and continued, but with her inexperience, it didn’t take long before she got tired.

She sat up, looked at me, and said, “Show me how you do it,” removing her hands.

Without hesitation, I removed the condom.

Within five, maybe six strokes, I came. Hard. I felt it land on my stomach, my chest.

She watched me, a strange expression on her face, then she smiled and stood up.

“Clean yourself. Take a shower.”

She turned to leave, then paused, came back, took my phone, set the vibration to full, and walked out laughing—taking the phone with her as she left the room.

It took me some time to remove the device, and by that time was feeling aroused again. I decided I may have come again . . . without her permission.

 

To be continued next week in Part 2.