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“Mia! Mia, darling, are you here? Sweetheart, I’m home!” It wasn’t entirely uncommon to come home to my gorgeous wife in the enchanting backyard, potting soil up to her elbows, and her charming garden smock smeared with mud. So, I wondered nothing of her failure to respond. Failing to spot her through the patio door, I guessed that she might be in the basement, humming sweetly to herself while she folded freshly laundered towels or steam-pressed my work shirts.

Bounding down the stairs with an adoring smooch primed on my lips and finding nothing, I decided that she must be upstairs indulging in some well-deserved “me time.” The house only had so many hiding spots, after all. She must have been in the bedroom. “Mia, babe, did you hear me…JESUS CHRIST MIA!”

My wife was a quiet, modest woman, not prone to anything extravagant in the bedroom, nor any particularly outlandish proclivities. Imagine my outright shock, then, when I found her in a state of undress, lying back on our bed, sensually exploring herself with half a spit-soaked cucumber pushed firmly down her glistening throat.

“Grrrhk!” she gagged, retching with desire on the vegetable I was sure she’d plucked from our own enchanting garden. “Oh, baby…FUCK,” she panted, rhythmically pushing her fingers in and out of herself with an audible sucking smacksmacksmack, “I just…I just…just…”

Her eyes screwed shut as she abandoned the train of wondered and plunged the slobbery green produce back into her mouth, hunching forward in a tight, cramping shudder. The moan that she hummed around the cucumber was outright feral. There was little for me to do but stand and watch in something like curious horror; her clothes looked like they’d been passionately ripped away, her hair was a tousled nest of temptations, her fingers coated in a dazzling mess of thin white film, and…the cucumber! I’d obviously seen my wife in some very intimate positions, but it was exceedingly rare to come face-to-face with her during her private moments like this.

“Mia, what the fuck?” I asked, only after her fingers had slipped out to fall against her thigh in a languid exhaustion; the cucumber was similarly allowed to fall to the bed next to her. “It smells like pure fucking ecstasy in here! How long have you been at it?”

“What…what time is it?” She muttered as though deep in the haze of a passionate dream, drooly saliva still trickling through her lips. “It’s 5 o’clock,” I replied tenderly, concerned at her apparent delirium. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“Mhm,” she nodded blankly, “never better honeybun.” The conviction in her voice faded dramatically as she spoke; “Just needed a little…a little…” she mumbled softly, her eyes drifting shut, “a little me time is all.”

As desire and concern mingled within me, I dialed 9-1-1 as fast as my racing heart would allow.

*******

“Mr. Greene, I’m not really sure how to put this professionally,” said the serious-looking physician from across the desk, “but your wife has most certainly developed a rare, yet dangerous, hormonal disorder.”

“A disorder? What do you mean, she was fine when I left for work!” While she was bodily present in the chair next to me, Mia’s face was a near expressionless mask of vacant, uncomprehending bliss. The lights were on, but my darling wife was definitely not home.

“I know that this can seem far-fetched, but the truth of the matter is that your wife has something colloquially referred to as ‘Terminal Hysteria’; exact symptoms often vary, but your wife’s levels are all consistent with the other few documented cases that we have to refer to.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about this?” I asked impatiently; Mia had slept for nearly 4 straight hours after arriving at the hospital but was otherwise fine. Well, almost fine.

Dr. Sorenson held his hands up defensively at my rising ire, seemingly sympathetic to my plight. “Mr. Greene, please; there are medications that will help Mia and a number of at-home interventions that you’ll need to assist her with. While certainly disruptive if not treated, there’s no reason to believe that Mia won’t be able to live a full, exhilarating life as long as you stick to the treatment plan.”

I looked from the wise doctor back to my wife in unwilling disbelief. Bodily, she was still my perfect, stunning firecracker. Mentally, however, she was entirely bereft of any affect at all; her long, dark lashes blinked too slowly, and her mouth hovered open in the slightest parting of her plump red lips. Occasionally, she’d take a breath that was just a little too deep, heaving her already prominent chest forward like it might help her get just that little bit more oxygen.

“Well,” I huffed begrudgingly, “tell me what we need to do.”

*******

The months that followed that fateful day failed to make my part in treating her condition any easier to manage. My days began at half past 4:00 in the morning out of necessity; Mia’s care team had made it clear that I’d need to take my own physical condition at least as seriously as I took hers if she was ever gonna recover. And so, like every other day since that first, my morning started with a bleary-eyed trip to the state-of-the-art gym in our home, where a bike, treadmill, weight bench, and a luxurious tub for ice baths awaited me.

Over the course of the next hour, I dedicatedly sculpted my body into submission, eager myself desperately to attain the sort of physical condition that would make everything she needed from me efficient. Workout done, I reached for the bottle of magic little pills that Dr. Sorenson had discreetly slid me. “Trust me,” he’d said somberly, “you’re gonna need these.”

And he was right; working for a 14% body fat and keeping up a six-and-a-half-minute mile meant that I could keep pace with Mia *most* of the time, but the little pick-me-ups were nearly important for those really challenging days. I popped one that morning, just to be safe.

“Mia, darling, time to start getting up,” I whispered, padding back into the bedroom quietly on my way to the beautifully designed shower. “Rise and shine, baby girl.”

“Five more minutes,” she groaned, still at least half-asleep. I pecked her forehead endearingly, whispering my permission to let her doze while I cleaned up. The cold shower did nothing to hamper the efficacy of my little chemical assistant; I was more than ready for Mia’s first exercise of the day before I finished toweling off.

Stepping back into the room from the master bath, I found my wife similarly prepared to receive. “You’re up,” I said proudly, mildly surprised to discover that she’d kept her word about the five minutes. “What can I say,” she said perkily, pushing up on her tippy toes to stick her alluring ass up towards me from where she sensually bent over the foot of our bed. “Now come here and give me.”

“Are you doing anything today?” I asked with a chuckle, working a fat bead of welling precum over the head of my eagerly throbbing cock as I stepped up behind her. “I was…thinking,” she said with the barest pause as I slid into her welcoming warmth, “of going down to the…oh!…garden center later.”

“That sounds great!” I replied, stifling a yawn as I pushed up against her exquisite curves. “Is this position okay?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” she moaned breathlessly, anchoring onto the bedcover with her elegant hands as I withdrew slowly. “You can go a little faster. Do you…ah!…sorry, do you have a long day?”

I focused a moment longer on finding a rhythm, my legs already feeling the burn from a ten-mile bike ride. “I should be home for lunch,” I replied matter-of-factly, relishing the intimate view of my wife’s winking star as I spread aside her curvaceous cheeks with my hands. “I’ll text if not, so you can…God, baby,” I said as she looked back at me devilishly, gripping me tightly from within, “so you can take care of your needs.”

“Why don’t you make sure you fill me up nice and full, so I have something to indulge in later, just in case?”

With that enticing invitation, she pinched the tip of her tongue between her…

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