Tom (Mary's Husband)

Tom slouched on the sofa, scratching his belly through the stretched fabric of his old t-shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt the dull weight of middle-aged lethargy pressing down on him but right now, with the microwave humming and the familiar ping of his lasagne announcing another badly cooked meal, he found he didn’t care.

Mary walked past, and despite the years, his breath still hitched. At fifty-two, she was softer, fuller, her hips swaying with a confidence that made his throat dry. She bent to pick up an empty beer bottle, and the neckline of her loose pyjama top gaped, giving him a generous view of her heavy breasts, barely contained. He could feel the fabric of his boxers tightening.

Christ, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

She brought their plates through and Tom marvelled how the lasagne could be both over and under cooked, the edges brittle—and they ate in silence as the news played. Then, the Prime Minister’s smarmy face filled the screen, oozing faux gravitas.

"My fellow citizens, in these unprecedented times…"

Tom’s fork froze mid-air. The words "fertility crisis" and "national duty" slithered out of the TV like snakes.

"Effective immediately, all male citizens over the ages of eighteen will be required to register at designated clinics for semen extraction. Private sexual activity is hereby suspended under the Human Continuity Act…"

Tom’s beer bottle hit the coffee table with a thud.

"Every sample is precious," the PM intoned, smiling like a used-car salesman. "Together, we will rebuild."

Mary’s hand found his, her fingers trembling. Neither of them spoke.

Work was unbearable.

The builders' merchant was usually a refuge the smell of timber and cement, the lads’ crude jokes bouncing off the warehouse walls. But today, the air was thick with something else. Panic and fear.

"Fuckin’ hell, no more wanking? They’ll have to pry my dick from my cold dead hands!"

"Nah, mate, think about it—free wanks on the NHS! Proper posh ones, with nurses and that!"

Tom locked himself in his office, their laughter scraping at his nerves. Most of these lads were barely out of school, still bragging about weekend conquests they’d probably invented. But the thought of never being inside Mary again of some sterile clinic owning his pleasure, his seed made his stomach twist.

That evening, Mary stood in the kitchen, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She only smoked when she was stressed.

Without a word, she handed him an NHS letter.

Tom skimmed it. "Reassignment… vital national role… commendable service…"

"What’s this? They’re promoting you?"

Mary exhaled smoke. "Not exactly."

Then he saw the job description.

Sample Collection Facilitator.

His vision tunnelled. "You’re what, you’ve got to make men come?"

She nodded, her jaw tight. "They said my ‘maternal demeanour’ makes me ideal for putting donors at ease."

Tom’s fist clenched around the paper.

A week later, Mary stepped out of the bedroom in her new uniform.

Tom’s mouth went dry.

The white dress was too tight, her breasts straining against the fabric, the hem riding up her thighs. The stockings and suspenders were meant to be hidden, but the outline was unmistakable. She looked like a porn star from one of those films now banned, Tom's cock throbbed painfully.

He grabbed her waist, grinding against her. "Mary—"

She pushed him back gently. "Tom. Don’t."

The rejection stung worse than the law.

Outside, their neighbour Bill, a greasy little creep who lurked by his rotting fence was staring, slack-jawed, as Mary walked to the car. Tom’s hands curled into fists.

At work, the lads couldn’t shut up.

Stu, a cocky twenty-something, was holding court in the canteen.

"So, I went in, right? They make you strip, stand in this little white room then bam, hole in the wall. Nurse grabs you, starts working you over. Proper technique, mate. And the noises she was making fuck, like she was enjoying it."

Tom’s coffee cup cracked in his grip.

"Got a peek at the end didn’t see her face, but she had these massive tits. Pretty sure I shot my load right onto ’em."

Laughter. Whistles. "Bet she’s used to it!"

Tom’s vision went red.

"AM I PAYING YOU TO TALK ABOUT WANKING? GET BACK TO WORK!"

The room emptied and Tom returned to his office, he tried to control his breathing but the image of his wife pleasuring Stu filled his mind, what was worse was his erection was beginning to throb more.