Chapter 1 — Wedding Ring 1 (1)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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My wife was busy preparing dinner. I always loved this time of day. The kids wouldn't be back from after-school academy yet, and I cherished these quiet moments when she'd explain her special dish while setting the table. If something was missing from the banchan, it was my job to fix it.

Sometimes I'd rush out to buy what we needed, or we'd wash the leftover dishes together, facing each other with tired smiles. It was a warm, satisfying rhythm.

And I knew it wasn't just me who felt that way.

"Honey, we're short on tofu. Can you run out and grab some?"

"On it!"

I asked her what kind and headed for the door in my workout clothes.

The weather was still a bit chilly, but I didn't bother with a coat—I just wanted to dash out and back. I slipped on my sneakers without lacing them, dragging one foot as I stepped out, just like I always scolded the kids for doing.

I took the elevator down and started down the apartment's front steps. In my hurry, I lost one shoe.

As I bent down to put it back on, I twisted around—and suddenly, a loud crack exploded through my body. I collapsed forward, dazed.

"Are you awake now?"

I opened my eyes to a stiff, numb sensation all over. The sharp scent of antiseptic, the murmur of voices… a hospital.

My mouth wouldn't move right. Only then did I feel the full-body pain, twisting my face as I finally managed to speak.

"Where am I?"

"Where do you think? the hospital!"

"Hospital?"

My wife was looking down at me, eyes glistening with tears. She told me not to talk and explained what had happened.

In the brief moment I'd crouched to put my shoe back on at the apartment entrance,
a car backing out had hit me with its rear bumper.

I'd taken the full impact on my tailbone and lower back. The doctor said they weren't sure how serious it was, but since it happened right at the entrance and the car hadn't been going fast, I was lucky.

Standing beside her was the woman who'd caused the accident.

"I'm so sorry. I was upset, didn't check behind me… I didn't mean to—"

After she left, my wife told me the woman had been arguing with her husband and stormed out in a rage, distracted and careless.

I just nodded weakly. I recognized her face—she lived in the same building. I think her husband was a lawyer or something.

"What about the kids?"

I finally remembered to ask.

"They were so worried, crying and clinging to me. You were out for over four hours. I was terrified you'd hit your head. But the scans came back clean—see? The kids had school tomorrow, so my mom took them home. Don't worry."

I told my wife to call my coworker and let them know I wouldn't be in for a while. I gave her the speed dial number and asked her to use my unused vacation days instead of marking me absent.

Only then did I feel calm enough to drift back to sleep.

How long had I been out? When I opened my eyes again, I was in a regular two-person room. It was quieter, neater—somehow more peaceful.

My wife walked in with my doctor, a chart in hand.

"Mr. Daniel Cho? We're lucky it's not worse. Any specific pain?"

I told him my lower back and tailbone ached so badly I couldn't lie flat.

"Ah, we'll need another X-ray of that area. Please bear with the pain a little longer. We can't give you full painkillers before the scan. I hope you understand."

I asked why another X-ray was needed. The doctor glanced at my wife.

"She didn't tell you?"

"No… he was unconscious earlier."

"I see. Externally, there's no major issue, but when you were brought in, your toe reflex test showed some irregularities. We'll explain more after the next scan."

After the doctor left, I asked my wife what a reflex test was.

"He said that sometimes, after trauma like this, the nerves in the lower body might not respond normally. We won't know for sure until they test again. But he said if you wake up, just keep trying to move your toes."

I asked her to pull back the blanket. My toes were visible. I tried to wiggle them as instructed—but they barely responded.

The fact that my toes, which I'd moved without thought my whole life, now refused to obey me, left me deeply shaken.

I looked at my wife. Her eyes were fixed on my feet, filled with the same unease.

"It'll be fine. It's temporary, right?"

But my legs—completely numb—felt anything but temporary. I'd heard too many stories about people losing the use of their legs after car accidents. The anxiety surged, impossible to suppress.

"Don't stress so much, honey. The doctor said there's a minor fracture in your tailbone, but no nerve damage. It could just be shock. Let's wait and see. It'll get better."

She was trying hard to sound reassuring, but I could see the fear behind her smile. A nurse came and went. I fell asleep again.

This time, I didn't dream. Hours passed. My wife shook me awake.

"Honey, it's time for your X-ray. Let's get up."

My swollen tailbone made it impossible to sit in a wheelchair. I was transferred to a mobile stretcher instead. My wife's face was dark with worry.

But worse than that was the sight of her—exhausted, having spent the entire day at my side, leaving the housework behind. It broke my heart.

After the scan, I was put in a cast around my lower back. The doctor confirmed a hairline fracture in my tailbone.

The pain was getting worse. I'd been given multiple painkillers, and my mind felt foggy.

The cast dulled the pain somewhat, but my toes still wouldn't move. I lay there, heavy with dread.

One day. Two days. Time slipped by, motionless.

My lower-body paralysis showed no signs of improving. Even as the fracture healed, the nerves in my legs remained silent, unresponsive.

We did X-rays, physical therapy, repeated tests. The doctors just shrugged and repeated: It's temporary.

Lying in bed became unbearable. My back was healing, but my legs weren't. My wife and I decided to leave the hospital.

The doctor agreed—outpatient care was possible, and the cast would come off soon. He even said a stable home environment might help recovery from this kind of neurological shock.

Two weeks before the cast was due to be removed, I finally returned home.

I felt I'd made the right choice—not just for me, but to ease my wife's burden. She'd been running between the hospital and home, worn down to half her size.

"It's good to be back, isn't it?" she said. "Mom's been overwhelmed—taking care of the kids, the house. I practically pushed her out the door today. She wanted to stay, but I told her to rest. You're uncomfortable enough as it is…"

"Your mom's been through so much because of me. What about the hospital bills?"

"Oh, that family took care of everything. We live in the same building—we can't avoid each other. We settled it quickly. Is that okay?"

I was grateful for her thoughtfulness. I'd heard they were wealthy—no surprise they didn't worry about the cost.

And they didn't seem resentful. They'd apologized, and promised to cover all future treatment costs until I was fully recovered—even after discharge.
The wheelchair I'd brought home? They'd bought it. My wife called it a blessing in disguise.

Life after discharge was unbearably dull.

I'd already filed for a six-month leave from work. But if my legs didn't recover, I'd have to resign. My wife and I avoided the topic, but the fear was always there.

At home, I tried moving my toes and leg muscles as the hospital had taught me. Nothing.

And the cast—tight around my hips—was rapidly wasting the surrounding muscle.
My legs—unused and numb since the accident—were thinning. My anxiety grew with every passing day.

"Honey, how are you feeling today?"

She'd ask every morning, forcing a bright smile. I'd say I was better than yesterday—but my voice always trailed off, uncertain.

I still wore diapers. My sense of bladder control was unreliable. My wife was constantly busy.

I remembered how, in the early mornings, I'd wake up hard and pin her down before work.
Now, the only sensation came when I woke up soaked, the heavy diaper pressing against my lower back.

And then it hit me—I hadn't had sex with my wife since the accident.

How could I? She wasn't particularly sexual, but she'd never rejected me either.

One night, unable to sleep, I tossed and turned. I noticed my wife's blanket moving.

She was breathing harder, the fabric shifting slightly. I realized—she was touching herself.

She seemed tense, checking if I was awake. She hadn't even taken her panties off—just rubbing herself over the fabric. That was her.

While she was out shopping, I went online. I decided to buy her a dildo—something not too grotesque, something to comfort her.

A week later, it arrived.

"Honey, what's this?"

"What do you mean? It's your new husband!"

I joked, trying to lighten the mood. She opened the box, saw the dildo, and glared at me.

"Who asked you to buy this? You're not even trying to get better—wasting money on nonsense. Are you even thinking straight? And who says I'd use something like this?"

She was angry.

"Baby, you don't have to hide it from me. I know you touch yourself at night when you think I'm asleep.
Now that things are like this… having one around isn't a bad thing, is it?"

She stared at the dildo, her face turning red. Embarrassed that I knew. But maybe… she'd thought about it too.

"Honey, it's okay. I'll work hard to get better.
Just… use this until then. If I'm fully recovered and you still can't let it go? Then I'll smack it out of your hands. Deal?"

She didn't answer. She just wrapped up the dildo and took it into the bedroom.

The night my cast came off, she put the kids to bed early and helped me into bed.

She took a shower and stayed in the bathroom for a long time. I waited, watching TV.

When she came out, she was wearing a bathrobe. Her hair was down. Her face—made up like she was going out.

"Wow, heavy makeup at night? Going somewhere? You're not ditching a husband like me, are you?"

She shot me a look, then slowly slipped off the robe beside the bed.

Underneath, she wore lingerie I'd never seen—revealing, sheer, and completely unlike her. Her full body writhed beneath the fabric.

She never wore makeup. This was for me. I smiled, eyes roaming over her.

"Damn. You're killing me. You never wore stuff like this before, no matter how much I begged. What changed?"

"I got a call from the hospital today while you were sleeping. They said… events like this can help with nerve shock.
So I borrowed it."

"Borrowed it? From who?"

She said she'd become close to the woman who hit me. They'd been having coffee together.

She didn't know where to buy lingerie like this, didn't have the courage to go. So the woman lent it to her.

I looked closer. It was a high-end brand. The lace, the price—it showed. The mesh barely covered her, exposing her completely.
The lingerie made her already voluptuous body look even more intoxicating.

She covered herself with her arms, embarrassed.
I ached with regret—my cock, once ready to pound her senseless, now useless.

"I'm sorry… for being like this."

"Don't be. Don't feel pressured. Just watch. Enjoy. I even watched a video at her place today."

"A video?"

"Turns out, most couples married ten years or more have something like this. They just don't talk about it.
And her husband? He's into it. He even films her using it."

Damn. While I was lying here, my wife had been exploring every option.

She went to the closet and pulled out the dildo I'd bought.

"You really going to use it? After saying you wouldn't?"

"All of this… it's for treatment."

She climbed onto the bed. Sitting between my legs, she slowly spread her thighs.

She turned on the switch at the base. A battery was already inside—she'd clearly been trained.

She rolled a condom over the dildo and started licking it—right in front of me.

She explained she'd gotten a flavored one, just like in the videos.

Like a student reporting to a teacher, nervous but proud.

A soft whir filled the room.

She flinched at the vibration but kept going. She sucked the dildo, eyes locked on mine, smiling.

She was mimicking what she'd seen.
When she ran it over her neck, her chest, she closed her eyes, face flushed, fully immersed.

When the vibrating tip brushed her nipple, I could clearly see it stiffen—even from a distance.

The old her would've turned off the lights, too shy. Now she kept them on. I was stunned. I just let her continue.

She shivered as the vibration hit her nipple, biting her lip, shoulders twitching—clearly overwhelmed.

She opened her mouth, hunched forward, overwhelmed by the sensation.

And the fact that she was pleasuring herself with a device in front of her husband? That alone seemed to excite her.

"Honey… it feels… so strange… tingly… like bugs crawling…"

Still, she didn't stop.

I was deeply moved. She'd borrowed lingerie from another woman, learned how to use a dildo, faced her shame—all for me.

To see my wife, usually so reserved, engaged in such a lewd act… it felt like a rare privilege.

Now she moved the dildo down her stomach.

The bent position must've hurt—she flipped over, lying on her back, legs spread toward me.

Before the dildo touched her clit, she flipped another switch.

Now it vibrated and rotated slowly at the tip.

Like a cock swirling inside a pussy, it began to turn.

She dragged the tip from her clit down to her perineum.

This time, she didn't look at me. Her eyes were closed, mouth open, breathing fast.

I pushed myself up.

My legs were useless, but I wanted to be part of this. I reached out and grabbed her hand—the one holding the dildo.

She looked up, startled—but then naturally passed it to me.

Like a baton, I took over.

I began tracing circles around her pussy, like drawing with a crayon.

Even without lube, the condom-covered dildo glistened with her wetness.

I teased her clit while slowly pushing the tip into her slit.

My cock stayed limp, but my mind was flooded with sex—excitement I hadn't felt in ages.

Watching the dildo part her labia, it felt like another man's cock was opening her up right in front of me.

She was aroused.

Normally, she'd grab her breasts when she came. Now, without even having sex, she was squeezing them like she was milking herself.

"Mmm… nngh… hnnn… yes… yes… honey, like that… like that…"

She moaned every time I pushed the dildo deeper.

I felt pity—she was turned on by a dildo, not me.

But another part of me burned with resentment.
My wife, who always said she needed no one but me, was now excited by something that wasn't me—just a machine shaped like a cock.

And so, my hand gripping the dildo, a dark urge rose: I'll fuck her senseless with this thing. Make her collapse.

Her legs trembled, swinging side to side. Her hips rose and fell, matching the dildo's rhythm.

My head was about to burst with arousal.

And yet, my own cock—limp, unresponsive—only made me angrier.

So I gripped the dildo harder, merciless.

"Like it? Yeah, I'll fuck you. You like being stuffed like this? Even though it's not my cock—some other dick—does it feel this good? Are you dying for it?"

She shook her head, weakly resisting—but her pussy surged around the dildo, betraying her.

She was going to come. Her back arched like a bow. With one final groan, she collapsed onto the bed, gasping, unable to move.

"Was it good?"

She didn't answer. Face flushed, she kept her head down, unable to look at me.

She was ashamed—ashamed that the very thing she'd scolded me for buying had reduced her to this.

"How about you? Do you feel anything?"

"Give it time. It'll come back. I was excited tonight—really excited. Let's believe it'll get better.
If we keep having nights like this, I might heal in no time."

I told her it was okay, trying to ease her embarrassment.

In truth, at the very end, I'd felt a tiny pulse at the tip of my cock.
But I kept that secret to myself.

That night, she fell asleep in my arms, whispering, "I hope you get better soon."

I drifted off too.

But hours later, I woke to a sharp tug on my cock.

My wife wasn't beside me. Instead, the blanket below me was bulging in a strange, rounded shape.

I pulled it back. What the hell?

"Mmmph, honey… it suddenly got hard in the middle of the night. Can't you feel it? Since the accident… tonight's… mmmph… the first time… look… mmmph… it's so hard… and you can't feel it?"

She'd woken up, felt my erection, and started sucking without thinking.

She was going at it with insane speed—head bobbing wildly, like it was the most important thing in the world.

And then—I felt it. A faint, deep twitch in my lower back.

But I didn't move. I let it happen.

My toes still wouldn't budge.
But my cock—alive, pulsing—throbbed in her mouth, twitching with life.

She smiled, delighted, gripping it tightly, sucking it like she wanted to devour it whole.

Then—a thin, electric spark.
And for the first time in months, I felt a fragment of the pleasure of climax deep inside me.

She kept sucking, even as she gagged.