Surprise Package Delivery - The local ‘Abandoned Spouses Support Group’ just started. (erotic coupling) By MarthaMcKinley. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. The prickling feeling was getting more painful especially right above my pubic bone, a sign of the sun doing its damaging, yet tan-inducing, thing. I could also feel little beads of perspiration appearing on my abdomen, another indicator that this 85° day in May was a good choice for lying out in my backyard; naked. A large beach towel kept the annoying little critters from scaling the grass blades to climb onto me, guaranteeing that I could have a peaceful thirty minutes in the sun. I was nearing that time limit, based upon what I was feeling, but the warmth and the slight breeze had lulled me into a tranquility that I wanted to indulge in for just a little while longer. These sensual adventures, though simple, were all I was left with over the past many weeks. After a marriage of 20 years, I was blindsided by my husband, Ken, who informed me that he had been hearing a call to his gay side, and needed to find his “true self.” That made it difficult for me to feel an attraction to him, when I knew his ultimate desires were now for a man. In fact, he had met a man recently, a potential lover, which made me even less inclined to want a sexual intimacy with him. Being only forty and still in my womanly prime, though, I wasn’t ready to surrender my sexuality, nor was I ready to give up on my marriage. Being an unfaithful wife was not in the cards for me, either, I told myself. So Ken and I had begun talking about how to somehow make this marital relationship work within our present constraints. All of which made me wonder why I was still beautifying my body with slow tanning and shaving my various body hair, because he had practically told me that his interests were no longer for women. Yet I felt compelled to do so nonetheless, as I guess I couldn’t turn off a lifetime of perfecting my appearance. “A few more minutes,” I told myself, as the seductive sensations of warmth and tingling were difficult to resist, as was the lure of how my skin would look, evenly bronzed without those distracting tan lines. I was startled into alertness when I heard a truck pull into our driveway, then quickly accelerate and brake, making a three point turn to maneuver the vehicle with the rear door facing our porch deck. Having my escape into the back door blocked, I hastily wrapped the beach towel around me just as this tall, hunk of a man stepped out the side door of his UPS truck. He looked in his early forties, judging from the faint streaks of gray in his wavy black hair, which appeared a little unruly, like he had repeatedly run his fingers through a perspiring scalp to keep it from perpetually falling onto his forehead. “Ken Dyer residence?” He called out quizzically, eying me in a way that could only be interpreted as pleasantly stunned. After an awkward pause, I affirmed that he was at the right house. “Your husband?” He asked. I nodded. “Guess you all are getting a big order of track lighting?” Overcoming my surprising shyness, I managed to say only, “Yes.” He moved swiftly to the rear door, flung it up, gave me a quick glance back, and hopped up inside. Within a couple seconds, he stuck his head out and inquired, “Don’t suppose you could give me a hand in here? It’s kind of a mess after driving up your bumpy road, which caused a package avalanche of sorts.” I froze. “Uh, sure,” I eventually offered, though I was not quite sure how I had to be tapped for undoing the consequences of his probably too assertive driving. I slipped into my sandals, strode across the little lawn to stand at the back of the truck, and awaited his instructions. “Come on up,” he invited me, extending his right hand in a polite gesture of assistance. I took his hand, and, holding my other one around the top of my towel to keep it tightened, I hoisted myself up into the truck. “Thanks a lot,” he said since