Saturday, we were lying in bed, and I was massaging her feet.

The need to know about her weekend infidelity fifteen years ago became overwhelming, so I asked her why she went away to have sex with another man.

She was calm, relaxed, and told me she was simply tired of feeling unloved and neglected, and that she wanted a way out. We spoke for about an hour. I apologized for ever creating an atmosphere in our home where she felt that was the only escape, the only way forward.

We kissed. I prayed. I told her that asking these questions did not mean I did not love her. I needed us to understand each other’s pain so that we would not build our future on lies, because lies, left unattended, will always find a way to divide.

The next morning, Sunday, she had to have blood drawn for her chronic illness. I took her afterward for her favourite coffee. Then I asked her to sit in a camping chair while I single-handedly cleared half of the pantry, something she had complained about for years and struggled to manage alone while I had ignored it.

Later that day, the world exploded.

She suddenly accused me of weaponizing her vulnerability by ambushing her with questions about her infidelity. She said she believed I was already at peace with what had happened, that we had moved on over the past week. She was furious.

I looked her in the eyes, smiled gently, and reminded her that for fifteen years she had made me believe she cancelled that weekend after I saw the text messages. But last night when I asked why she went, she forgot to keep the lie. She told me she had spent the weekend away while I was trying to build our financial future, and that another man had taken her repeatedly over those days.

And she had lied.

I told her I always knew something was wrong. I needed the truth so that we could move forward without shadows, without something waiting to tear us apart later.

In that moment, she realised she had never actually told me that she had sex with another man while we were married.

The shock was overwhelming. Devastating.

I stood up and told her that my love for her was not in tension with what she had done. I loved her unconditionally, no matter what. The past weeks should have shown that. The last few days had shown it. I knew she had not cancelled that weekend. The truth had been pressing against me for years.

I smiled and walked away.

I did not yell. I did not shame her. I was not angry. I was not resentful. But the truth had been exposed, and the lie collapsed, creating an existential moment between us. I believe she feared I would stop loving her. She could not understand how the man who once yelled and shamed her could now love her without conditions. She does not believe it.

As I left, she told me this was why she feared sex, because vulnerability was always used against her. I was left dumbstruck.

The rest of the day was polite, but distant. We did not shower together on Sunday evening.

Monday morning, I yearned for her. I desired her. I asked if I could take her hand and lead her to the loft. She said yes.

We stopped at the stairs. I asked if she was okay. She said she was.

At the top, I held her. I kissed her.

Her body went rigid. She slipped into full panic. She began to hyperventilate. She shook violently.

I held her gently and told her she was safe. I moved my body aside, clearing the stairway behind her, and held her as she cried tears of anguish.

After a few minutes, my computer chimed. My first meeting of the day had begun.

I told her to wash her face. I had to work.

I was deeply confused.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Later, I went downstairs and asked her if I could help her with anything, knowing she was not in a good place. She told me she needed a lot of love and a lot of hugs.

My heart broke. I told her I could give her love, but not hugs. I could not touch a woman who felt such fear being with me, not even my wife.

I left. She cried as I walked away.

Later, in the early afternoon, I made coffee and sat with her on the patio. She was distant, not showing much affection. I took her hand and told her that we had spoken about this, that we had prayed together afterward. I asked her why she was still so upset.

She explained that on Sunday morning she realised she had never told me the truth, that she had never said she had sex with another man. That realisation caused shame, anger, and devastation to come rushing back all at once. She told me she did not want to live anymore. It was too much. She could not believe the monster she had been, that she wanted to hurt me.

My heart broke for her.

I told her I had suspected she lied. Over the past weeks, I did not know with certainty, but I knew. I would not call it divine revelation, but I knew. I asked her if she truly believed I would pursue her with all my heart, my mind, my body, my entire being, if I had not already forgiven her. She explained more about the weekend, non-graphic details. I did not care. I loved her. I needed her. But she had to overcome her own fear.

Later that afternoon, when I made her coffee again, she asked me if I would really end our marriage rather than be with her if she felt unsafe. I told her I would rather end our marriage than stay with her knowing my touch caused severe trauma responses. Not in the moment of intimacy, but later, when her mind drifted. She told me she enjoyed my touch, my passion. I replied that pain experienced afterward is abuse, and I would not do that to her.

We sat in silence.

She was upset by my physical distance. She tried to sit closer. I looked at her sharply and moved away.

I made more coffee.

When I handed it to her, she looked up at me shyly and asked if I liked it when she “shaves down there”.

Damn it.

She is a master manipulator, make no mistake. I love her female bush, so womanly and proud. But the thought of the soft skin of her folds, exposed, open, clean, soft under my lips—

She asked if I could help her shave. She said she could not reach all the way.

I decided to hold to my no-touch boundary. I told her that under no circumstances would I allow an opportunity to touch her so intimately, to hide my desire for her behind something that looked practical.

Her eyes lit up.

Damn it.

I crumbled. I was too weak to hold my ground. I failed. She was drawing me closer into her womanly web of love, and I was powerless.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

My meeting started, and I had to rush to attend it.

About an hour later, I suggested we go shower, explaining that I needed to decide what tools to get to “sometime” shave her. I tried to be clinical.

We went to the shower. I stepped in first. She lingered behind for a moment. I ignored it and continued washing.

She joined me. Shyly, she asked me to look down.

I nearly choked.

She was open, soft. She had shaved while I was in the meeting, something she explained later. She looked lovely, smooth. I wanted to taste her right there, bend her over, take her in the shower, make her mine.

I resisted.

When there was enough blood back in my brain, I held her and asked if she was okay. She said yes. Again, she apologised for breaking my trust, for having sex outside our marriage boundaries.

I told her the only anger I had was that she did not make a video. I would have loved to see it. She did not find that very funny, but male fantasies are and will be.

I told her I had already answered her before: nothing except broccoli would disgust me. Everything else was welcome, even preferred.

She rolled her eyes, clearly catching my innuendo. So much for romance.

She felt so soft. She ignored my fantasy remark and held me. She asked if we could maybe sleep in the loft that evening.

As if I would say no.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Later, I prepared the bed in the loft, laying out enough towels. I intended this to be an evening of my desire.

She came to me, walking up the stairs in a very short pink nightdress, the fabric blending with the skin of her folds. It did nothing to hide her pussy, soft, bald, glistening in the low night light.

She asked for some background music. Only later did I realise I had put on my *Bible in Folk* playlist, a gospel selection. Hardly what I thought appropriate for what I was planning to do to her.

We talked. She apologised again. I assured her that I loved her. I had not pursued her for the past six weeks just to be offended now by what I already knew to be the truth.

I undressed her slowly, my eyes never leaving her body. I touched her skin, caressed it. I was hungry with desire. Moonlight danced over her breasts, intoxicating me. I asked her to turn around and lie on her stomach. Her back had been neglected.

As my hands moved over the backs of her thighs, she pushed herself back toward me. I withdrew. She was hungry with desire. I denied her.

I asked her to lie on her back. She was gorgeous. I told her God made her perfect, that she was my wife, and that she was made good.

I reached for the essential oils and realised I had added peppermint for a slight sting. I hesitated, afraid to spoil the moment.

I held it out to her and told her she must first check if it was okay. We once had a moment long ago where she discovered alcohol burns on sensitive skin.

She took some oil and reached for me. I stopped her and told her that for me, the peppermint would only be exciting, but she had to make sure it did not burn her. She poured a generous amount onto her hands.

I did not realise she misunderstood me.

She shifted her body, placing her head at the end of the bed, her glistening pussy a breath away. She reached for herself and, instead of testing the oil, attacked her clit with a vigour that was unbelievable to witness.

I wanted to tell her I wanted her for myself. I wanted to take her.

But watching her head fall back, hearing her ragged breathing, I could not stop the moment. The vixen was here. She was alive. She was unashamed.

After the day we had endured, I suppressed my own desire, coated my finger with oil, and entered her with it.

Her eyes flew open in shock, pleasure, surprise.

She looked at me with the desire of a woman in need.

I told her how beautiful it was. I begged her to come for me.

She said…

She had a leg cramp.

Damn.

I massaged her lower leg, my body slightly turned away from her. After a while, I turned back and asked if it was better.

It seemed like it was, because the vixen was there again. She was masturbating, legs spread, free, safe.

I entered her with my finger once more. She moaned. I withdrew, though her folds tried to pull me back.

I coated my fingers with oil again. I slid my first finger inside her and slowly, gently, joined it with another. I felt her muscles tighten around me, drawing me deeper.

She looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said she was going to come. She was so close. Her language was out of place, urgent, raw. She is usually so gentle.

Her orgasm overtook her. Her body shook.

I thanked God.

She looked up at me in confusion.

And in that moment it struck me: there she was, riding the waves of her orgasm, two of my fingers inside her, her body open and unashamed, gospel vocals filling the room. And without realising it, out loud, I thanked God for what my eyes were witnessing. Not an exclamation. Not an “oh my God.” A true thank you, spoken from my heart.

I was confused.

How could I call on God’s name while being in this position? Sex is supposed to be dirty. Are we even allowed to praise God while doing this?

Something shifted inside me. I felt it immediately. I lost some of my vigour.

She brought me to climax. It was not unsatisfying, but I was disconnected.

I took her hand and prayed for our marriage, for the fruit of our love, for the consummation of our union.

When I opened my eyes, my seed was drying on her glistening skin where her pubic hair used to be, whiteness crusting her folds. And there I was, praying for the privilege of being with her, of sharing myself with her.

This may not have been erotic in the way stories usually are. But it was love. And confusion.

Do we truly seek the Kingdom of God first, even while giving in to the carnal desires of our flesh?

It felt wrong. Dirty. My prayer felt empty, almost mocking.

The fantasies of my mind clashed with my faith, opposing each other, mixing like water and oil. And yet, it felt right.

A day later, I am still struggling to integrate the acts of the flesh with my faith. I am reminded of the Song of Solomon. Is this what it means? To be truly one with your wife before God? To not be ashamed of desire? To call on God’s name at the height of pleasure, not cheaply, but in gratitude, in privilege, for a marriage resurrected from the dead?

What are your thoughts on this? Because I remain unsettled by the moment.