[Being a Husband is Difficult] (01-02) Author: derksen

Author: derksen
Word count: 5651

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(1)

In such a busy and stressful big city, even for a
white-collar worker in the tech industry who graduated from a prestigious MBA program, it is not an easy thing to smoothly buy a three-bedroom, two-living-room house, have an SUV for the whole family to travel in,
and then marry a beautiful wife and have a baby son. Just to save up for
the down payment for the house, I turned 30 in the blink of an eye. I bought a house and prepared to have a child to explain to my elders, but
I did not get pregnant after more than a year of intercourse. I found out that due to the high work pressure and irregular lifestyle, my sperm motility
was insufficient. It took more than a year of hard work to finally get my wife pregnant. After ten months of pregnancy, she gave birth to a handsome
son, enough to explain.

Two months after my wife finished her postpartum confinement, I came home one night and saw her breastfeeding. I was
eager to get back to work, but after leaving our son aside and taking off my wife's underwear, I discovered—perhaps
because I was exhausted from being woken up by our son's crying for milk every night—that I
couldn't . After that day, I tried several more times. The best I could manage was to force my penis into
my wife's still-relaxed vagina, but after only a few thrusts, I would become completely unable to get
an erection. I tried watching porn and masturbating to get an erection, but while I could get hard,
my penis became extremely sensitive. I couldn't even penetrate her; just holding it at the entrance made me
ejaculate inexplicably. After several such attempts, my wife said there was no need to try anymore and went to breastfeed.

I thought things would improve once the pressure of raising a child lessened, but
three years have passed in a flash. My son is already in kindergarten, and my penis is still half-erect, ejaculating at the slightest touch.
The doctor said women often experience postpartum depression, and I might be experiencing the same symptoms—
erectile dysfunction due to excessive stress and tension.

However, just days after being diagnosed with erectile dysfunction, an even bigger blow struck:
the company I'd worked for for ten years declared bankruptcy and was taken over by creditor banks after the boss embezzled funds. Because I had to help with the
liquidation , I, as the finance manager, was required to stay and help with the inventory before the company's liquidation was terminated. Since
the company still had some cash to pay salaries, I had a two- or three-month buffer period to
look for another job while receiving half-salary to help with the cleanup. Considering my stocks and savings, I could still
cover the mortgage payments for several months, so I thought the problem wasn't too serious. After hesitating several times, I ultimately didn't tell
my wife about it. Even if I wanted to talk to my wife, I didn't know how to begin. I'm busy with work
, leaving early and returning late every day. When I get home late at night, she's already washed up, changed into her pajamas,
and gone to bed. In the mornings, I leave even earlier than her to drive the kids to school
. On weekends, she spends almost all her time helping the kids with their homework and drawing lessons .

Thinking about it carefully, since our son started kindergarten, we've hardly had a proper
conversation . It's almost always about mundane
things like groceries, school fees, homework, and what extracurricular activities to spend money on. Not to mention sex. After a few forced attempts a few times in the months following the baby's birth, and how I
didn't act like a man, we haven't done anything for over three years. Even now, with my wife
not only but also her breasts having increased several cup sizes, lying
next to me in a thin nightgown, I've never touched her. But to say our relationship has reached rock bottom wouldn't be accurate; rather,
it's become an extremely ordinary and happy family life.

So, to avoid disrupting our peaceful and happy family life, I decided to wait two months until I found a new
job. After saying goodbye to my current, soon-to-be-defunct company, I would casually tell my wife that I had changed jobs
, without causing her any extra anxiety—because she, too, was burdened with the mortgage,
household expenses, and our son's exorbitantly expensive kindergarten tuition. Moreover, as a young
woman in the financial industry who had risen to a junior management position at the young age of 28, her work pressure was no less than mine.
There was no need to bring up the small difficulties of changing career paths and create tension in the whole family. The awkward part was that, because
I had to continue pretending to leave early and return late, even though there wasn't much overtime at the company, I couldn't
drive to pick up our son from kindergarten at 6 PM—I had to pretend to continue working overtime until 10 PM, pretending to be
a
responsible middle manager responsible for the company's cash reserves, waiting until the US stock market opened to determine the day's trading strategy before I could leave work with peace of mind.

But after two weeks of idly wandering around after work every evening, I finally couldn't take it anymore.
It had been so long since I'd picked my son up from school, so I drove around to the kindergarten area in the evenings, parked, and
sat in the coffee shop across the street. Watching the innocent
faces , just as it was getting dark, I finally saw my wife, wearing a tight A-line skirt, brown stockings, and a suit with high heels , walking briskly into the kindergarten. Her rounder ,
fuller hips after childbirth swayed with each step, her figure graceful and alluring. Soon after, she came out, holding my son's hand, the two of them chatting happily. A few days later, I went to check again after school, but this time, for some reason, even after dark , presumably all the children had left, my wife still hadn't appeared. Was something at work keeping her there? Just as I was considering picking up my son first and then calling my wife, a Buick sedan covered in black window tint, obscuring the interior, pulled up in front of the kindergarten. A moment later , my wife got out, closed the door, and hurried inside. Shortly after, she emerged with a tired-looking son, got into the Buick , and drove off. That night, I waited until around 11 p.m. before driving home. I didn't question why my wife was so late picking up our son; I assumed something at work had delayed her, and she'd asked a colleague to drive her. Having not been able to pick him up from school for the past six months, I understood she sometimes had difficulties being on time.

Just as I got home, changed out of my suit, and took a shower, and was about to put all the family's dirty clothes into the washing machine,
my gaze fell upon the small basin where my wife usually soaked her underwear and pantyhose that she had worn that day. When I saw my wife
tonight , she was clearly bare-legged, so how could she have a pair of worn pantyhose?
And they weren't flesh-colored pantyhose, but black ones. I thought maybe my wife had spilled coffee and gotten them dirty,
so she took them home without wearing them. I fished the pantyhose out of the basin, intending
to wash them and her underwear as well.

But then I smelled a strange, fishy odor on the pantyhose—a very familiar, foul odor, like
… the smell of male and female genital secretions. While washing my wife's pantyhose, for some reason, my
penis became erect. When washing my wife's black lace panties, the fishy odor was even stronger where the panties touched her genitals
, and there was some sticky liquid clinging to them that hadn't dissolved in the water.

I gently wrung out my wife's panties, smelling the scent that made me unconsciously aroused
. My penis, which hadn't been erect for a long time, was surprisingly hard. However, my wife was already asleep. I looked at her full , womanly
body lying on the bed, at her nipples that were enlarged from lactation and her areolas that were bigger than coins. I used
my wife's lace panties to masturbate, panting heavily. Soon after, I ejaculated on my wife's panties.
The amount of semen was so much that it couldn't be contained by the panties and dripped onto the floor. Soon after, the air-conditioned bedroom
could smell the bleach smell that I had smelled on my wife's pantyhose and panties.

Being a husband is hard! (2)

From that day on, every evening after I got off work at six o'clock, I would wait near my son's school to see
if my wife would pick up our son in that Buick sedan again. After monitoring for three weeks, I discovered that
my wife would have the Buick pick up our son about one or two days a week, but the exact
day —sometimes Monday, sometimes Wednesday, and most recently Tuesday and Thursday. After observing for a whole month, I
concluded that the Buick never appeared on Fridays, and my wife always brazenly and openly
got out of the car right at the entrance of our community. I just never knew about it because I used to get off work too late and didn't interact with the neighbors
or even greet the security guard.

Since surveillance alone wasn't enough to draw any meaningful conclusions, I
subtly asked my son about it one weekend when my wife went out to dinner with friends—after all, he got in the car, so he must know
who was in it, right? Strangely, my son said there was a
man , who, according to my son, seemed like an ordinary driver. Had my wife been promoted to
a company car without my knowledge? That doesn't make sense, because a car wouldn't be used only once or twice a week, especially since my wife never
takes the car to work; she always takes the subway. Another possibility is that my wife might be using her supervisor's car
. After all, it's reasonable for a supervisor to help out when a subordinate is too busy with work to pick up the kids.

But that still doesn't explain why, on days when my wife gets off work late and is picked up by that car, her underwear
always has that suspicious fishy smell near her genitals—and what's most puzzling is that, despite almost
never being able to get an erection, I can somehow regain my
virility when I smell that smell. After all, although I can't get an erection, my libido is still there, but even when I want to masturbate
, I can't get an erection properly, and when I ejaculate, it's no longer a powerful spray, but a slow
trickle from the urethral opening. But every time I smell that scent on my wife's underwear, my penis gets
as hard as it did when I was a young man over a decade ago. I can feel the blood rushing to my groin, and I relive that exhilarating ejaculation . It's like
I've rediscovered a bit of my manhood.

A few days ago, my company finally shut down, and becoming unemployed, the first thing I thought of was
figuring out what was triggering my sexual urges while my wife was out and no one was home. I
rummaged through all the clothes, bras, panties, and stockings in my wife's dressing room, but nothing
gave the same sexual urge. Just as I was about to put all the clothes and stockings
back on the racks according to my
memory should have been empty; at least when it was renovated, that spot was supposed to be
the partition between my bedroom and the dressing room, not a closet. I searched the wall in the dressing room for a while without finding anything,
so I went back to the bedroom. Still, I didn't see any hidden doors or anything that could be opened, but I noticed that the location was right
next to the bathroom door. I went into the bathroom and closed the door—there was
a shelf hanging where the bathroom door would normally be open, filled with cleaning supplies like detergent and rubber gloves. Behind this shelf, hidden in
the tiles , were removable bricks, concealing a
black plastic box with a resealable design.

I carried the rather light plastic box back to the room, placed it on the floor, and opened it—it was filled with a large number of
silk garments, as well as some stockings with styles and patterns very similar to those worn by prostitutes.
I had never seen my wife wear these sexy lingerie, pajamas, and rather gaudy dresses and stockings. I picked up each item
and smelled them; they were all thoroughly washed, with a faint scent of laundry detergent. But when I pulled a crumpled brown stocking from the bottom of
the box , I smelled that arousing scent again
. The stocking had several snags, and there was no smell of sweat;
it must have been thoroughly washed after the last time it was worn, or at least not for long. I
smelled along the crotch, buttocks, and thighs, but couldn't pinpoint the source of the smell. Finally, when I
pressed my nose against the sole of the stocking, I smelled it—and it was incredibly strong. The stocking's scent,
mixed with the fishy smell of almonds, instantly made my head spin. Without hesitation, I inhaled the scent
and masturbated, ejaculating onto another pair of open-crotch stockings I'd found in the box.

Had my wife stepped on something while wearing these stockings? Impossible. Not to mention these suspiciously styled
clothes; there must be something wrong. But judging from the way his wife didn't try to hide it or seem guilty when she got home in that Buick
, it's hard to say whether she had anything to do with that car. So I took the box I found from the wall compartment...
After taking the money home, I decided to wait for my wife near her workplace after work. Although I had seen her drive her home in her Buick
, I had never seen her get in the car, and it had been many years since I had picked her up from work. Perhaps I could glean
some additional clues from this. I arrived half an hour before my wife's usual closing time and
spent almost an hour loitering in the convenience store across the street before finally seeing her emerge. My wife
appeared, as usual, wearing high heels, a tight-fitting suit that hugged her hips, and brown pantyhose, hurrying towards the subway station. Judging from
her in leaving work, I guessed that this was probably her usual day to pick up our son. Sure enough, she
took the subway directly to the vicinity of the kindergarten, walked for about ten minutes to pick up our son, and then went home. That evening,
there was no smell on my wife's underwear.

The next morning, after picking up our son from school, I quickly drove back to the intersection near the community that I always passed
, and parked there, waiting for my wife to pass by on her way to work. Half an hour after I'd noticed the time had passed—past my wife's "should" be at work
—the Buick appeared. Had she not gotten in after work, but
instead boarded it on her way to work? Or perhaps, she hadn't gone to work at all? I started the engine and chased
after it. The Buick hadn't taken my wife to her company; it had crossed half the city and was on
the other . Initially, I was afraid of being seen by my wife, so I only dared to follow four cars behind the Buick. Unexpectedly
, I almost got stopped at a red light at the last intersection, so I had to accelerate and overtake on the side, running the yellow light to catch up. That 's how I
ended up behind the Buick on the left rear.

Through the Buick's rear window, I saw my wife. She was dressed in her usual suit
, nothing unusual. Her expression was that of a typical tired office worker commuting to work, nothing out
of the ordinary. She was alone in the back seat, while the front seat was indeed occupied by a middle-aged man in a
black stand-up collar suit, looking like a driver. I followed her all the way to the old town. My wife's
Buick pulled into the underground parking garage of a somewhat old, ten-story commercial building. Since
outside vehicles weren't allowed in the parking garage, I parked nearby and walked to the building's lobby to peek inside—it was just an
ordinary , old commercial building. The floors were roughly divided among three companies, two of which were
traditional industries with little reputation, and one was in the same industry as my former company, but not a formidable competitor;
in fact, I used to look down on them.

I waited at the street corner near the parking garage. After a while, the Buick pulled out, and when I went to check,
I found that my wife wasn't in the car; she was still inside the building. So I waited in the car,
prepared to wait all day until evening before she appeared. Unexpectedly, around 5 p.m.
, my wife walked directly out of the building's lobby—but she wasn't wearing the suit she had worn that morning, and her makeup
was completely different. If she weren't my wife of many years, I probably wouldn't have recognized her at all. My wife
was wearing the clothes I'd found in the box hidden in the wall that day—a cheap, shiny white
jumpsuit made of washed silk, flesh-colored stockings, and blue platform heels adorned with cheap rhinestones. Her makeup
was so heavy it made her look five or six years older; the entire outfit was so gaudy it ruined her
originally delicate and beautiful appearance.

I put on a mask and watched from several meters away as my wife walked into the dilapidated neighborhood. This
area, which had once prospered decades ago, now only had run-down shopping streets, homeless people loitering in the park
, and various entertainment venues and pachinko parlors catering to the lower classes. Just as I was carefully keeping
my distance to avoid being spotted by my wife, she seemed to slip into an alley and disappear.
Afraid that following her into the alley would lead to a chance encounter with my wife, I checked a map on my phone and
went around to the other side of the alley. Inside, there were several dimly lit guesthouses and
karaoke bars with strangely shaped signs. Near these old, crooked shops stood women dressed similarly to my wife in
gaudy clothes. Some were old, some were young, and some even seemed to be from Eastern Europe. These
women were prostitutes.

(To be continued)

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