The power of empathy

My wife and I know this guy Steve. He's not really our friend, but sort of a friend of several of our friends, so we always see him at most of the social events we attend. Usually it's just small talk, like, "Hey, what's up, dude?" We ask him about his wife, or his job. I think he's a computer engineer. He's one of those guys who is sort of nerdy, and was probably awkward in high school, but after college he got a high-paying job and a position where he could manage people below him, so his social skills are really extreme: he's either introverted, or sort of pushy. That's probably why we never really hit it off. Also, he seems to always be staring down my wife's blouse when he talks to her. My wife has never said anything, but she has made off-hand comments about how much she secretly enjoys being looked at lustfully from other men. I can't say I blame her; it's like if a pretty girl came up and told you you had a nice smile, or strong looking arms. It boosts your self esteem, makes you feel like a stud.

Anyway, at a recent party, we learned that Steve was going through a divorce. It was pretty rough. After a while, I didn't want to spend the whole night talking to him about his failed marriage, so I left him and my wife in the kitchen. She's much more empathetic and patient than I am.

As the evening progressed, I'd glance over at them. She would lean forward sympathetically, as he told her his sad tale. Sometimes she'd hug him and pat his back. It seemed pretty sorry to me.

Much later, when everyone was pretty drunk, and it was about time to head home, I walked back to the kitchen to find my wife. I stopped short when I saw her. She was leaning back on the kitchen counter, and Steve was standing in front of her. He was blocking the view of her, but I could she her head over his shoulder, and the expression on her face was sort of glazed over, like she was really drunk or something. I'd seen the look before, but couldn't place it. She looked like she was concentrating intensely, but also totally relaxed. She was staring off into space at nothing in particular, as if totally lost in her own thoughts.

Then I realized Steve's right arm was moving slightly. I could see his elbow moving sort of up and down and back and forth. I couldn't see his hand from where I was standing, but it was clear from the angle of his arm that he was reaching up under her skirt. The expression in my wife's face suddenly made sense; it was the same look that would come over her as she masturbated.

I was too shocked to move. I wanted to burst in and break up this business, and yet, it was also a shockingly arousing site to see my wife being secretly fingered by another man at a party.

I watched for a bit, then stepped back so they wouldn't see me. In a bit, my wife emerged from the kitchen. Her skirt was neatly back in place, her hair combed, but her cheeks flushed. She'd obviously tried to tidy herself up, but it was clear she had the glow of orgasm.

We didn't say much on the ride home. In the car, I could smell her scent of her pussy. I wondered how wet she still was. I knew she'd be ready for some good hard sex when we returned home. I asked, casually, how her conversation with Steve had gone. "Really well," she said. "Very cathartic."