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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-09-30 01:12:08+00:00.

I was married to my wife for seventeen years and never once had she turned to me and told me she loved me.

For ten of the seventeen years the marriage had been sexless. This wasn’t on the part of my wife. She always had a high libido whereas mine has always been low. I guess we just wanted different things when it came to sex. She wanted wild and dangerous sex, while all I wanted was passionate lovemaking between two people who loved each other.

To be fair, we were two very different people when we met. They say opposites attract, and at the time I felt lucky to have found her. She worked as a psychologist and taught at a very prestigious university. I owned a small building company and we met when I was contracted to do work in the building where she taught.

The marriage wasn’t always bad. At the start, she was amazing and tried hard to make it work, but it didn’t take long for the differences between us to become a barrier.

The last three years have been the hardest. The constant arguing meant we no longer shared a bed together. Whenever we do manage to be in the room together, the air is thick with a tension that is pressed down on every breath, filling the room with an unspoken weight. It had reached a point where the love I craved was no longer just a longing, but a gnawing hunger.

When I first hired a sex worker it started as a way to just feel the warmth of a woman. I wanted to feel like I was wanted and loved even if it was a hollow performance.

The first two times I hired a sex worker it was just sex. It was nice and passionate at times, but it wasn’t the sex I was missing. When I hired the sex worker the third time, I made it clear I didn’t want sex; I just wanted someone to hold and to hold me. It felt great, but it was still missing the emotional aspect and that’s when I came up with the idea for the flashcards.

I hired the same sex worker every time. Gemma was considerably younger than me. She was the same age my wife was when we first met. Apart from age, the only other thing that resembled my wife was the colour of her eyes.

By our fourth encounter, Gemma knew what I was after, so when I pulled out the flashcards, she was happy to go along with it.

“You make me feel safe.”

"Hold me tightly and don’t let go.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I love you so much.”

Gemma was perfect. I didn’t need to prompt her and she knew exactly when to read the cards back to me. Her touch was warm and gentle as if she could sense the weight of my loneliness, wrapping me in an embrace that felt both safe and electric. With each encounter, I felt more alive, as if she were breathing colour back into my grey existence.

My encounters with Gemma went from once a month, to a couple nights a week. My need for love and validation became like a drug. I was hooked. The withdrawal was unbearable and left me feeling empty like I had a dark void in my soul.

There was a change in me that didn’t go unnoticed by my wife. I started dressing differently. There was what you could call a pep in my step, especially around my wife. I won’t lie, it started having a strange effect on my relationship with her. She was easier to be around, but I did suspect she knew something was up.

The motel where Gemma and I met was a little more upmarket than the usual sleaziness and despair of a roadside motel. It wasn’t five stars, but it did offer a certain discreteness.

When the door opened, I was taken aback. Gemma stood before me, but it felt as if my wife had stepped into the room. She wore the same soft blue dress that my wife loved, its fabric hugging her figure just right, and her hair was styled in the same way, long and cascading with those effortless waves. Even her eyes seemed to shine with that familiar sparkle, making my heart race with a mix of longing and confusion.

As she stepped inside, I noticed how she embodied my wife’s mannerisms perfectly: the way she tilted her head when listening, the gentle laugh that danced from her lips and the soft way she held her hands. It felt surreal, a haunting echo of my wife. My heart raced, torn between pleasure and a disquieting sense of unease. Was I still with Gemma, or had I somehow crossed a line into a disturbing fantasy.

Gemma’s uncanny resemblance to my wife sent a chill down my spine. The same blue dress, the exact haircut, and her mannerisms mirrored my wife’s so perfectly that it felt like a cruel joke.

“How did you know to dress like this?” I asked.

She smiled, tilting her head just like my wife. “I thought you’d like it. Don’t you remember how much she loved this dress?”

My heart raced as a knot twisted in my stomach. Was this a coincidence, or had she been watching us? I wasn’t sure what to think, and I couldn’t, in good faith, continue this charade.

“I have to go,” I said as I quickly left.

That evening, a fragile tension hung in the air as my wife and I sat across from each other at the dining table. She glanced up, her blue eyes searching mine, and for the first time in ages, I felt a flicker of something I thought I had lost.

“I’ve missed you,” she said softly.

“Really?” I replied. It was the first time in ten years I heard even a hint of empathy from her mouth.

She nodded as the tension in her shoulders slightly eased before she reached across the table, and gently brushed my fingers.

As we moved to the bedroom, an unfamiliar warmth washed over us as our barriers slowly crumbled.

“Let’s forget everything for a moment,” she said.

That night she gave me everything I had longed for in our relationship. For the first time, I felt the affection I craved as we made passionate love.

As we lay there in the sweaty aftermath of our lovemaking, I revelled in the closeness. But that was quickly shattered when my wife started echoing the same phrases from the flashcard I had Gemma recite.

I lay there, stunned, my heart pounding as her words echoed in the darkness.

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered.

How could she know those exact words? My mind raced as I pulled away slightly, the intimacy suddenly replaced by a chilling unease.

I shrugged off the previous night as a strange coincidence, convincing myself that I was overthinking things. My wife had simply said the right things at the right time, nothing more. The next evening, I decided to sleep in the spare bedroom, seeking solitude.

Sometime during the night, I was jolted from my sleep as I felt a familiar warmth. Opening my eyes, I froze. Gemma was lying beside me, her arms were wrapped around me in a tight embrace. A chilling feeling of dread crept up my spine as I looked around the room. All the flashcards I had made for our encounters were now nailed to the walls of the room.

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered, repeating each phrase like a ritual, her voice eerily soft.

I couldn’t handle it anymore. The flashcards, the strange way my wife had been acting, the eerie resemblance Gemma had started to take on everything felt like it was closing in on me. I needed space. I needed to breathe. So, I went to the motel. The same place where I had met Gemma before, back when things were simpler, back when I thought I had some control over my life.

I’d barely settled in when I heard a knock on the door. My heart stopped. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Reluctantly, I opened it, and there she was Gemma, but something was off. She looked exactly like my wife again, but this time, there was no warmth. Her eyes were cold, just like the way my wife used to look at me when we argued.

“You couldn’t stay away, could you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom.

“Gemma, why are you doing this?”

She stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation.

“Gemma? Is that what you call me now? You pathetic little man.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. That’s exactly how my wife used to talk to me in our worst moments.

“You think paying for affection makes you a man? You think a few nice words on flashcards are enough to fix your sad, broken life?” She said in a cold unrelenting tone.

“Stop it,” I said, shaking.

She ignored me, walking further into the room. “You’ve always been weak. That’s why she can’t love you. You disgust her.”

“Shut up!” I shouted.

“You’re worthless. You were never enough for her. You’ll never be enough for anyone.”

I snapped. The words, the look in her eyes, the way she embodied everything my wife had said and done to break me over the years, it was too much. I lunged at her, shoving her hard. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just wanted her to stop. But she stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the coffee table. Her body crashed through the glass, as I stood there, frozen in horror as she lay motionless on the floor, blood pooling around her.

“What have I done?” I thought to myself.

I rushed over to her, but she wasn’t moving. The blood was everywhere, glistening under the motel lights. I didn’t know what to do. My mind was spinning out of control. In a haze, I dragged her into the bathroom, laying her body in the tub. My hands were shaking as I wiped the sweat from my forehead. For a moment I thought about walking away and leaving her for the cleaning staff to find.

I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. I needed help so I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

“There’s been an accident. “Someone’s hurt.”

The police arrived quickly, faster than I expected. I led them to the bathroom, trying to calm my racing heart. I w…

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