Strong Wife: From Chapter 7

[taoschild]

Section from Chapter 7 of the Strong Wife - available at all online book dealers - You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
This is the first chapter he realizes for sure that his wife is stronger than he is:
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As usual, she served me breakfast with the newspaper, but this time in bed, moving through the room with the calm efficiency of someone who had already conquered the day. She probably already had. She was sweaty and pumped. Absolutely no part of me wanted to stir, but my cock had already twitched past that point.

"Coffee?" she asked, setting the tray down carefully.

"You're spoiling me," I said.

"Temporary arrangement," she replied. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

Shannon catered to me like a full-time caregiver with a side hustle in construction, checking in, refilling my water, and reminding me not to twist or bend like I was a particularly fragile lawn ornament. In between, she somehow found the time to finish the barbecue pit herself.

At one point, I was shuffling to the bathroom and stopped at the window when I heard voices outside. Shannon was in the backyard with our neighbor Jim, who was offering the kind of foreman-style commentary usually delivered by men who had not lifted anything heavier than a rake since the Obama administration.

"No, no," Jim said, pointing vaguely with his beer. "You want the bubble right in the center of the level."

Shannon adjusted the block with one hand. One hand. Like it was nothing. She just nudged the thing into place like she was straightening a picture frame.

Jim nodded immediately, as if this had been a collaborative effort. "Yeah. Just like that."

As I watched from the window, I felt a little too much like an absent landlord secretly watching his robust farm wife manage the estate while he recovered from a constitution-related illness.

A very hot, alarmingly capable farm wife.

Her shirt clung damply between her shoulder blades, dark with sweat in long streaks down the center of her spine. Every time she bent to lift another block, the fabric stretched tight across her back, outlining the broad taper of muscle underneath. Her gardening shorts rode high against thick thighs that flexed visibly as she moved.

And then there was the front view, which, unfortunately for my blood pressure, appeared every time she turned sideways.

The thin white shirt had gone just sheer enough from sweat to hint at the sturdy sports bra beneath it, and every lift pulled the fabric taut across her chest. Full, heavy curves sat atop a torso that had become visibly stronger over the last year. The combination did something catastrophic to my concentration.

Jim laughed at something she said. Too hard.

I couldn't miss the way his eyes lingered either. First on her back. Then lower. Then, with the lack of subtlety common to suburban men who think sunglasses count as camouflage, he looked directly at her chest when she straightened again.

Eyes up, Jim, I thought irritably.

Jim's eyebrows lifted despite himself. Yeah, welcome to the club, buddy.

Shannon either didn't notice or was gracious enough to pretend she didn't. She just hooked her fingers under another cinder block and lifted it against her hip with easy strength.

Then, because apparently the universe had decided I personally needed to suffer more, she started casually curling them while Jim talked.

She was listening to him explain drainage gravel or grass seed or some other deeply unsexy yard topic while absentmindedly pumping slow curls with forty pounds in each hand like someone idly clicking a pen during a meeting.

Her biceps swelled visibly beneath the damp sleeves every time she flexed. Thickened. Tightened. The muscles rose in smooth, rounded peaks before lengthening again as she lowered the blocks under complete control.

One rep.

Two.

Three.

Jim's monologue started circling and then ceased, mid-sentence.

I understood completely. Because it was hypnotic.

The blocks looked enormous in her hands, rough concrete hanging from forearms lined with thick cords and faint blue veins. Her breathing stayed calm. She didn't even seem to notice she was doing it. At rep eight, she switched to hammer curls.

Jesus Christ.

The hand strength to even hold them like that was enormous, but to curl them on top of that.

"You were saying," Shannon prompted Jim.

Jim blinked twice, like his operating system had frozen.

"You're a strong gal," he finally managed. "I think you have things under control here now." That was what he went with after watching my wife casually perform backyard feats of strength like an off-duty Marvel character.

[taoschild]

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When she finally came back inside, flushed and smiling, she looked pleased with herself.

"Pit's done," she announced.

"By you," I said.

She shrugged. "You supervised."

Right. I had bravely observed from a climate-controlled environment.

Monday morning, I was well enough to drive. Shannon was already up as she always was, having finished one workout and clearly preparing for another. Breakfast waited on the counter like I was a guest in a bed-and-breakfast run by someone who could deadlift me.

As I grabbed my keys, she stopped me.

"You know," she said casually, "this is kind of a warning."

I paused. "A warning?"

"You ate too much junk food when you're abroad," she said. "And you don't work out."

"Guilty as charged."

She nodded. "You should do some planks and sit-ups, maybe. Strengthen your core. It would help prevent another back injury."

"I'll...consider it."

She wasn't done.

"And when you lift, you use your legs. Not your back. You rushed it on Saturday."

I opened the paper like it contained urgent international developments about literally anything else.

"Mike," she said.

"You're right, honey," I said quickly, cutting her off before she could cite sources.

She smiled, unconvinced, and headed back downstairs for round two.

On the drive to work, I couldn't stop thinking about the weekend. About how helpless I must've looked and how capable she'd been. And worse, how visible that capability was to everyone else.

It wasn't just her chest anymore. Her whole body was an advertisement for better living.

As the week went on, my back improved, and by Saturday, I convinced myself it was time to reclaim some dignity. I slept in longer than I meant to. I was probably stalling, if I'm being honest, but eventually dragged myself out of bed and headed downstairs.

Shannon was in the kitchen, relaxed and glowing in a way that suggested she had already lived a full, productive life before 9 a.m. Her muscles were still pumped, pressing against her skin, faint lines of vascularity tracing along her arms like a map I did not know how to read.

"Already done," she said cheerfully.

"Already?" I asked, knowing the answer before I spoke it. "Hard to tell," I said. "You hide it well."

"Ha ha," she responded, wiping the sweat off her brow. "I'll join you in a bit. Second serving. Maybe some cardio." Second serving.

I swallowed.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Sounds great."

As I headed toward the basement, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to discover just how far behind I really was. As if the barbecue incident hadn't foreshadowed that already.

When I finally made it down to the basement, I decided to start with the exercise bike. It seemed safe. Neutral. Something I could plausibly do without humiliating myself further.

I swung a leg over the seat and started pedaling. Immediately, I knew something was wrong.

The pedals barely moved. My thighs protested as if I'd tried to push a car uphill with my knees. I glanced down and noticed the tension gauge was set to seven.

Seven.

I twisted it down to three and tried again. I found a rhythm. Much better. Still challenging, but manageable. I set the timer for ten minutes and focused on breathing, staring at the far wall like it might save me.

When the timer finally beeped, I was sweating and mildly nauseated. I hopped off quickly and, without thinking too hard about what it said about me, turned the tension back up to seven.

No reason Shannon needs to know.