Life, like a river, flows along its course. At first, a turbulent, swift current sweeping away everything in its path, then a broad, full-flowing current, calm and predictable. But sometimes, beneath this apparent calm, deep and dangerous whirlpools arise. I'm thirty-seven. My name is Elena. My husband, Grisha, is forty-three, and I have been together for fifteen years. During this time, we've experienced everything: poverty, the first modest joys, arguments, reconciliations, and the joy of owning our first apartment. But our greatest asset, our shared project, into which we've poured our hearts, are our two children. But this story isn't about them. It's about Grisha and me. About that quiet, almost invisible crack that was slowly but surely spreading across the façade of our well-being. It all started around the time I turned thirty-five. I began to notice a strange, almost animalistic restlessness within me. It was as if a beast had awakened within, dormant all these years. It demanded food, affection, attention. I began to crave sex with a strength I couldn't explain. It wasn't just a desire, it was a physical need, an obsession. I felt an itch, had explicit dreams at night, and during the day I caught myself looking at men on the subway, in cafes, imagining their hands on my body. At every opportunity, when the kids were with their grandmother or already asleep, I tried to jump on Grisha. At first, of course, he liked it. He joked that I was back to being like I was in my twenties. But gradually his enthusiasm began to fade. He started blaming fatigue, work, a headache. Then he started avoiding me altogether. He'd stay up late, spend hours in front of the TV with his tablet, and if I did cuddle up to him, his body would respond with a tense, wooden coldness. I felt rejected, unattractive. I went to the doctor, and the elderly gynecologist, smiling, said it was "peak age." She said the body senses its youth fading and is trying to produce more offspring, which is why my hormones are raging. But for men, she explained, it's the opposite. If their heads are full of work, career, and worries about the future of their families, they have no time for these things. Logical. But that doesn't make it any easier. The last two years have been a silent torture for me. I searched for ways to tame the inner beast. And I found it. In a great secret from my husband, I paid cash on delivery and bought myself a dildo. It was the best, most brilliant purchase I've ever made. It brought me so much intense, incomparable pleasure that at first I even felt guilty. But the guilt quickly dissolved in waves of pleasure. It was significantly bigger than Grisha's. And every time I showered or pretended to go to bed, I'd pull it out of its hidden place in the closet, buried in a pile of laundry, and head to the bathroom. I'd prop it up on the suction cup against the tiled wall and, kneeling, give myself to it, biting my lip to keep from screaming. Or I'd lie down in the bathtub filled with warm water, the water splashing in time with my movements, drowning out all sound. These were moments of pure, mindless physiology. But after them, emptiness washed over me. In a fit of excitement, I started watching porn. At first, the usual, traditional stuff. But it quickly became boring. My attention gradually shifted to another, more specific niche. I was captivated by videos of white women with dark-skinned men whose dicks looked like incredible clubs. And most importantly, my husband was often in the frame. He watched. And he liked it. Sometimes he even participated, but more often than not, he simply watched, aroused by the spectacle. I didn't know what came over me. Perhaps subconsciously, I was looking for an excuse. I didn't want to destroy the family, I didn't want a real betrayal. But here, in these videos, everything was consensual. Moreover, my husband not only agreed, he enjoyed it. And my Grisha... Grisha was a real, albeit unselfconscious, cuckold. Quiet, skinny, always agreeing to everything. In the family, I always made the main decisions, where to go on vacation, what technology to buy. He wasn't very good at that. But he was a brilliant design engineer. His world consisted of drawings, calculations, and complex projects. He was completely immersed in his work, and his superiors valued him, generously paying him. Our material well-being was largely thanks to him. I also worked as a sales manager at a large retail company. I was lucky, taking the place of a woman who had gone on maternity leave, and she left behind a well-established client base. I didn't have to travel anywhere or chase clients. I just had to manage the administration, communicate by phone and email, and send orders to the warehouse. The salary was more than decent, and most importantly, there was plenty of free time. Too much for my soul-corroding thoughts. I always took care of myself. I vowed to always be in shape. I knew the calorie content of every bite, every cookie was weighed on the scales of my conscience. And it paid off. I looked younger than my years, wore tight dresses, and men on the street often glanced at me, sometimes trying to pick me up. But I never stopped, never responded. I was married. I was a mother. And so my vacation came. A week I was supposed to dedicate to myself, my home, my family. Grisha was at work. I spent the first two days in a hysterical marathon of self-gratification. But by the third day, my rubber friend, my faithful savior, had become tiresome. He was a soulless piece of silicone. He didn't breathe, didn't look at me with lust, didn't whisper nonsense in my ear. I wanted adventure. Intensely, to the point of dizziness. Those same videos where girls, their eyes rolling back, sucked huge black cocks, drove me crazy. I tried to casually slip them to Grisha. I left a tab open in his phone browser, hoping he'd see it at work or in the bathroom at home and... what? Got it? Get excited? But he either didn't notice or pretended not to notice. His indifference was deafening. On the third day of my vacation, after sending Grisha off to work, I buried myself in my laptop again. I was looking for something new, something that could shake me up. And I found it. The video was called "Happiness Hole." It showed a girl in the semi-darkness, smiling at the camera, giving a blowjob through a neat hole in the wall. A sizeable penis protruded from the hole, and the wall itself was clearly part of some kind of underground club. It turned me on like crazy. It was brilliant! Anonymity, safety, no obligations. You don't see the person, and they don't see you. Just two bodies, united in an act of carnal service. It seemed like the solution to all my problems. No mental anguish, no real betrayal. Just... service. But that was in another country. Here, in my city of a million, such a thing probably didn't even exist. Doubtfully, I typed into the search engine: "Happiness Hole 'my city'." Imagine my surprise when I found not just links, but an entire private chat. Access was paid, and potential participants were first contacted by an administrator, a filter for random onlookers and strange individuals. Although, I thought, the strangest ones were precisely us, those who were looking for this kind of thing. My heart pounded as I transferred the money using the specified details. A couple of hours later, I received an invitation to a Telegram channel. I'd been added to a group with about a hundred members. Everything inside me was on fire. I began frantically scrolling through the rules and the chat history, and the picture became clear. Everything was organized with almost military precision. The administrators chose the location, usually either apartments rented for the evening or, what struck me most, equipped lockers in the changing rooms of some shopping centers. They'd prepare everything in advance: an inconspicuous hole would be made in one of the adjoining lockers, disguised as a vent or simply covered with a removable panel. Then the address, time, and photo of the location would be posted in the chat. Men and women would reserve their "slots" independently. Men in one locker, women in the next. It was necessary to arrive early to minimize risks. The most astonishing thing was that the administrators of these locker rooms were sometimes the same people from the chat, who would negotiate with security or keep a close eye on anyone entering at the wrong time. Anonymity was sacred. It all seemed so well-thought-out and plausible that my doubts began to melt away. I thought this was the way out. That if I tried it, I'd satisfy my inner beast, calm down, and stop torturing myself and my body. Especially since it was just a blowjob. I didn't know this man, I wouldn't see his face, I wouldn't hear his voice. We wouldn't kiss, we wouldn't lie in bed together. We'd just make each other happy. And Grisha... Grisha could even stand next to me. My thoughts became confused, and a crazy, brilliant, and at the same time monstrous plan was born in my head. I could ask him to go shopping with me. Take a bunch of things into the fitting room. And he would stand outside, wait for me, hold my bag like a faithful dog, guarding his mistress, unaware that at that very moment that mistress... The plan was flawless in its cynicism. But I was still afraid. That evening, having satisfied myself with a dildo to the point of exhaustion, I calmed down and almost decided to forget the whole adventure. Grisha and I went to bed, he immediately rolled over, and then my phone quietly vibrated. It was a message from the chat: "One slot available for tomorrow, 7:30 PM. Gallery Shopping Center, second-floor locker room section. Book via PM." The sleep vanished. Everything inside me was on fire again. I turned to Grisha, pressed myself against his back, and slid my hand into his underwear. He was soft and indifferent. His flaccid penis simply lay there, like something foreign, showing no signs of life. No amount of caressing on my part could rouse him. I pulled away, and a wave of bitter resentment washed over me. I was a beautiful, well-groomed woman, with a body that men admire, and yet my own husband couldn't get it up! It was the last stone that weighed on my hesitation. I went into the chat and wrote to the administrator: "I'm a woman. Booking." The next day was incredibly difficult. I was on tenterhooks. That morning, someone who was supposed to be on the other side of the wall started messaging me. According to the rules, the man had to send the girl a photo of his penis in advance. The girl, however, remained completely anonymous. The logic was ironclad; what difference did it really make who was giving you a blow job? Young or mature, beautiful or not so beautiful? The main thing is the process. I waited for that message with the photo with the same tension that spies probably have for a secret password. And when the phone finally vibrated, I opened it with bated breath. He was good. Not monstrously huge, like the ones I'd seen in videos, but... solid. Strong. Like a "shock worker of capitalist labor." Straight, confident, with pronounced veins. But most of all, I liked his head, neat, perfectly rounded, slightly thicker than the base, like a ripe, plump fruit. Grisha's penis was much smaller and simpler. With trembling fingers, I sent a "like" emoji in response and went to get my silicone comforter. I held it to the screen. They were practically twins. For some reason, this similarity didn't cool me down; on the contrary, it inflamed me even more. It was a sign. That evening, trying to speak as naturally as possible, I said to Grisha, "Listen, I want to buy myself a couple more dresses, the ones I tried on yesterday. Want to come with me? I'm bored alone." He, of course, agreed. A real cuckold. We arrived at the mall a little ahead of schedule. I acted like a robot, loading a dozen items—dresses, blouses, skirts—into my cart. I needed to create an alibi for a long time in the fitting room. We approached the appropriate section of the locker room. My legs were wobbly, my face was flushed, and bukvoeb.run was wet between my legs from the mere realization of what was about to happen. I handed Grisha my bag and, looking him straight in the eye, said sternly, "Please stay here. And don't even think about coming in or peeking. I'm going to change, and if you open the curtain, strangers might see me. I'm shy." He nodded, accepting his eternal post as sentry. I was one hundred percent sure he wouldn't disobey. And so my husband, with my handbag over his shoulder, stood two meters away, guarding my honor from strangers, while I prepared to commit what for me was already treason, albeit anonymous. I entered the stall. It was a standard one, a small room, a mirror, hooks, and a thick dark curtain instead of a door. My heart was pounding so hard you could almost hear it from outside. As instructed, I ran my hand along the wall adjacent to the neighboring stall. And there it was. A barely noticeable seam. I pulled, and part of the panel, secured with Velcro, came off, revealing a neat, round hole, about ten centimeters in diameter. It would have been level with my face if I had knelt down. Taking a deep breath, I sank to my knees on the cool linoleum. It smelled of dust and new plastic. I reached out with a trembling hand and pulled back the remaining flap. And there it was. The very same penis from the photograph. Real, alive, solid and warm. It literally fell out of the hole, bobbing elastically a centimeter from my face. I froze, examining it up close. Beads of moisture were visible on the tip, a fine network of blood vessels under the skin. It smelled alien, unfamiliar, arousing, like the scent of clean male body. I turned, glancing at the thick curtain behind which my husband stood. Somewhere out there, in this same hallway, he was waiting for me, unsuspecting. My mouth went dry. Guilt, shame, wild, forbidden arousal – all mingled in one tangle. Slowly, as if in a dream, I leaned forward and touched his head with my lips...