My Hanna

I'm gonna tell you a story about my neighbor, Hanna. Well, she used to be my neighbor. We lived next door to one another for almost three years, a significant stretch given that both of our households were military families. You move a lot when your spouse is in the Service. I'm not complaining - it's a good life - but with all the relocating it can be a challenge for wives and kids to make new friends in each new place. I was lucky during this tour. Hanna became my best friend.

She was a dream come true compared to the woman who previously lived next door. That bitch was a stereotypical Karen if there ever was one. Bratty kids. Weak husband.

I only mention them cuz Hanna and her family were the opposite. So sweet and kind and thoughtful. Just great neighbors.

We spent a lot of time together, raising our young kids. Both of our husbands deployed from time to time so we had that in common, coping with life without them for months on end. Doing the military wife thing.

Hanna was so together. So grounded. She seemed wise to me, as if older than her thirty-something years. She'd come to this country from Eastern Europe. Her story wasn't some dramatic overcoming-all-odds kinda thing, but I think it's safe to say I've led a sheltered life compared to hers.

She was always calm. Her armor against the big bad world seemed to be a simple cloak of warmth and goodness and decency. Nothing seemed to rattle her. I respected and admired her.

I'd frequently go to her with my stupid annoyances, my petty hurts, and this and that. And Hanna would make me feel better. More than once I ended up feeling silly about my troubles after chatting with her. She had this gift for lending perspective.

We'd known one another for maybe six months when my mother died unexpectedly. Tim, my husband, was deployed halfway around the world. He was granted emergency leave but it took like a week for him to get home. That's when Hanna became a forever friend. I spent those days swinging between emotional states. Denial. Zombie-like nothingness. Inconsolable grief. Agonizing regret over things left unsaid, undone. It was too big to grasp - my Mom was gone.

Through it all Hanna was there. She took charge of my household. Kids, meals, cleaning - all taken care of. But mostly she was a constant presence. She held me as I wept. She was there. She got me through.

So that was Hanna.

----------------------------

Months later, during one of our many conversations, she surprised me when she related that she saw a therapist. Apparently regularly. That wasn't the point of the chat - she just casually mentioned it as an aside.

I didn't let it slide.

I teasingly needled her. "You see a therapist? You?"

Of all people. Shows what little I know about such things. Maybe the therapist explains why she's so grounded. If so, I could use a therapist.

"Oh, it's nothing. More out of habit really. I suppose I should stop and save the co-pay." She laughed.

It was an unimportant tidbit of information shared between us. Like so many. Just friends talking.

But there came a morning - not long after - when that little exchange popped back to mind.

Hanna and I were in her kitchen and she was giving off a weird vibe. Nervous energy. Anxiety? It was very unlike her.

"Hey, you ok sweetie?" I asked.

"Ah, what? No... I mean, yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing. Just...something on my mind. It's nothing."

She was standing at the sink, her hand on the counter, looking down.

I moved to her and put a hand on hers. With the other I lifted her chin, drawing her eyes to mine.

"Hanna, what? What it's not is 'nothing.'"

Again, her gaze dropped.

I steered her gently to the kitchen table and we sat next to one another.

"So...what's up?"

A pause.

"Victoria, I trust you. I mean, like a sister. But this isn't something I talk about. Ok?"

I'll admit I was a little - I dunno - hurt? Not hurt. Disappointed that she couldn't share, or wouldn't. Whatever it was. I was also kinda alarmed. If Hanna was troubled about something - to the point where it was so outwardly obvious - it had to be at least a little serious.

Probably marital. Hope not.

"Ok, well, do you have someone you can talk to?"

"Sure. My husband. My therapist." She added a mumbled, "...a couple donors."

"Donors? Hanna, what's that mean, donors?"

Has she got some medical thing going on? How could I not know?

Her petite shoulders slumped. She sighed and just sat, deflated and small.

I let the silence hang there, thick.

She subtly stiffened a bit, gathering herself.

With a deep inhale, she said, "I have a thing called paraphilia. A particular paraphilia."

"I..."

"It just means I'm attracted to a certain thing more than I should be. Um, a psychological need for it."

"Ok...so...do I wanna know what that 'thing' is?"

I inwardly cringed at myself.

That sounded so insensitive! Fuck! Shouldn't have said that!

I backtracked. "You don't need to say anything else, sweetie. It's fine."

She just sat there.

Just to change the focus - from the mysterious 'it' - to anything else, I asked, "But...why now? Why are you having trouble now?"

She was barely holding back tears. "Cuz Tug is deploying! And we're not ready...I don't have enough of them..."

Yeah, her husband's nickname was Tug. Active duty aviators' callsigns pretty much replace their real names. How and why he came to be called Tug was a mystery.

She went on, the tears so close. "Gone for six months this time...and not enough donors for me..."

My heart ached for her but this was soooo confusing.

"Ok, ok. Hanna, maybe start over. I just don't know what you're saying. I wanna understand so I can maybe help."

She took another deep cleansing breath. Centering? Seeking that normal inner calm of hers? All I could do was wait. Was she going to continue? Or was she gonna shut down the conversation?

The only thing that was clear was that she needed space in that moment. So, yeah,

I waited. Until you've sat through a silence like that, you've no idea how long two minutes can be. I was tense and anxious but I tried to appear placid and supportive.

Finally, she raised her head, I guess having decided.

"I'm going to tell you. You must swear..."

"You don't need to ask."

"All right. So...here it is. If I don't get enough..."

Exaggerated hesitation.

Beginning anew, she repeated herself. "If I don't get enough...semen...I get anxious. Worse than anxious. Victoria, I break down if I don't get enough."

I was stunned, failing to process what she'd said.

She locked eyes with me, her expression intense, animated with an almost feral wildness. "Cum, Victoria. That's my paraphilia. It's cum."

I looked at her blankly. It took a second for my mind to even form the thought - What?! - and the word almost slipped out. But no. Thankfully, this time I managed to stay silent in the moment.

"Tug takes care of me. A couple times a week. Gives it to me - what I need. The cum. And then I'm fine. I can go five or six days. At most. My psychiatrist thinks we should keep working on it but it's been years now."

I was catching up. Psychiatrist. Not therapist.

"So, uh... 'donors' huh?"

"For when Tug is gone."

"And he...he knows? He's aware?"

"Yeah, he arranges it. Finds them for me to consider."

I'd seen her get male visitors on a few occasions. If it got mentioned in passing, she always had some explanation for the car in her driveway, the man entering her house.

"And now you don't have enough 'donors' with Tug about to leave?"

"Right. He's trying to make arrangements but we need at least two more. And it's less than two weeks time."

I like to think I'm a perennial lock for Wife of the Year - I have other stories about that - so I said, "Would you guys consider Tim?"

It was her turn to look momentarily blank. Then, comprehension seemed to flood her eyes all at once and she shook her head. "Couldn't ask that of you, Victoria, no."

"Look, I don't know how you pick men but I don't even need to ask him. I can't tell you how many times he's talked about you. In bed."

"What? Really?" She paused. She just stared, shock plain in her eyes. Then, "What are you saying?"

"Hanna, since you shared..." - I made air quotes when I said 'shared' - "...I'll share too. We're talkers."

Her eyes were wide but she didn't speak.

I pressed on.

"I mean, we're monogamous. Totally. It's just talk. We, ya know, just think it's super hot to talk about people in our lives. During sex. People we find attractive."

This was probably too much for her but I was determined to finish explaining.

"Hanna, Tim's very sweet on you and I don't blame him. This 'donor' thing of yours is, well...it would be a dream come true for him. He'd just die. But that's not the point. If we can take care of you... Hanna, if I can take care of you...You know I'd do anything for you. Right? You must know that. I love you."

I'd blurted out those final three words easily, casually. And I'm sure she took them as intended, words of friendship. But for me, hearing myself say them, voice them aloud...it was...I mean...my stomach flooded with butterflies and chills coursed through me. I felt like I'd somehow surreptitiously gotten away with something.

Holy shit, what was that?!

Back in reality-land, Hanna nodded and her expression telegraphed gratitude. Tears began to form in her pretty eyes.

I moved my chair closer so I could put my arm across her small shoulders.

Hanna dropped her head to my breast and she began to let it out, crying softly.

It was so very...intimate, the act of holding her. No, not sexual intimacy. But still.

My senses flooded with the scent of her hair, so nice, so lovely. I gently, so softly, caressed her hair with my cheek and then, just so, with my full lips, as I reassured her.

"Everything's gonna be fine...you'll be ok...we'll take care of you."

She nuzzled her face within the fullness of my breasts, melting into me as she cried. I gently rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Comforting her was the right thing to do. A perfectly appropriate action, befitting the moment.

But, yeah, I began to get lost in it. In her.

This isn't about you, Victoria!

And here I am remembering the physicality of it so vividly. The upwelling of emotions.

What's happening?

----------------------------

It turned out that Tug and Hanna had developed a rule set for their Donors.

I hadn't found out about the situation the same way a prospective Donor would have. For them, things were laid out by Tug beforehand. Clinically, formally.

They were told there was this medical situation. A clinical need. Could the prospective Donor be counted upon to meet the need? This was a months-long commitment. Just choosing not to show up when scheduled would be a disqualifier. The Donors had to acknowledge that there would be no remittance beyond the act itself. There would never be any expectation of anything beyond that. The act would be simple. Show up on the assigned day, at the appointed time. Ejaculate in Hanna's mouth. Leave. And, of course, exercise discretion.

There were to be two regular Donors and at least one - preferably two - on-call Donors in case something precluded the participation of one of the regulars.

A couple days later, we met Tug and Hanna for coffee to discuss Tim's potential service as an on-call guy.

So, yeah, we met for coffee. But the venue! Of all places we met them at our local library, where they'd reserved one of the small conference rooms. Not kidding. The library. The setting made it feel formal. I mean, we could've just done this while lounging around their house or ours. Obviously, the vibe was very much intended.

After the hellos and hugs, we took our seats on opposite sides of the too-big table and Tug began.

"Thanks for meeting us. I..." He caught himself. "...I mean 'we.' We need to cover some things so there's clarity. So if that's ok, I wanna just lay it all out there and then we can discuss or answer questions or whatever. Ok?"

Tim and I both nodded.

"Right. So you probably have questions regarding Hanna's condition. Me too. Hanna too. Both of us have asked a million questions of three psychiatrists, and have listened to their theories and their conjecture but none of that matters. The bottom line is that we don't know why. Even if it's 'all in her head' the physiological reaction to not getting enough, uh, semen - well, it's real. And it's debilitating. So we deal with it.

"I've had potential donors sorta probe me, suspecting that this is some elaborate cuckold thing. A lot of questions along those lines. So let me say, firmly, no. I don't get off to my Hanna having sex with other men."

Tug paused, as if to gauge our reaction. We said nothing, so he continued.

"Hanna isn't a nymphomaniac. She just needs a certain amount of semen on a regular basis and then she's fine. She doesn't so much look forward to it as she does react to its absence. Again, it's difficult to explain. And again, I'm telling you, it doesn't matter.

"The goal for the donations is that they be quick and that a sufficient volume happens. If, at the end of our discussion here this morning, we all decide to move forward, we'll need to test that to ensure those conditions can be met."

I thought, "What?!" And I've no idea what was going on in Tim's head -- he just looked stunned.

Tug plowed on, perhaps used to this sort of reaction?

"If at any point either party decides to discontinue, that's ok. But the need for discretion is absolute. I'm going to ask you to swear to that, for all time.

"During my deployment, the regular Donors have committed to show up once weekly. One will donate on Mondays, the other on Thursdays. Tim, if you agree to be on-call, more than likely it'll be on those days because the regular Donor had a conflict. However, Hanna may need a supplementary visit on an off day so we'd be asking you to be flexible on that.

"Any questions so far?"

My husband was seemingly incapable of speech in that moment so I spoke up and asked, "How does the actual thing happen? Like, how does it play out?"

"It's really basic. Which is deliberate. It's not like there's chit chat or foreplay beforehand. Hanna gets on her knees and the Donor...donates. Then he leaves. Nothing else happens. Being a Donor isn't like some stepping stone to anything else.

"I mean, you get what I'm saying, right Tim?"

Tim said, "Absolutely. Sure."

"Usually, we've no interaction with the Donor's significant other. So this is unusual, Victoria. You being aware and involved... We discussed that and we're thinking that maybe you oughta observe the trial run later today or tomorrow. It's y'all's call but if we've learned anything over the last couple years with all this, it's that openness is super important."

I dunno if Tim heard all that but he picked up on at least one piece of it.

"Today?" Tim asked.

"Yeah, sorry man, but it needs to happen pretty quick. It's just that if there's an issue with your donation speed or semen volume we'll need to move on and interview someone else. I mean, I leave next week and we've gotta get this arranged."

Again, Tim lasered in on his immediate concern, asking, "Uh, speed?"

I know my man. He was worried he'd be shy to the point where it'd take him an embarrassing amount of time to get fully erect and cum. Being watched. He hadn't been with all that many women before marrying me.

I knew he wasn't concerned about volume. He's a pretty heavy cummer. Not the heaviest I've blown but sometimes I do have to gulp twice. So, you know, enough.

"We're looking for Donors who don't take forever to finish. We need the Donor to be responsible for his own erection. We're ok with Hanna manipulating the Donor's testicles if that helps him along. We've been discussing the possibility of Hanna going topless but haven't decided yet."

She spoke for the first time. "It just feels...appropriate." And then she faded back into silence.

Huh.

My hands in my lap, I reached over and checked Tim's dick at the mention of Hanna's breasts. I'd seen them in the shower at the gym and they were magnificent, of medium size, just beautifully formed, like some statue of a goddess. Home from the gym that day, I'd described them to Tim during a blowjob. Who's Wife of the Year? Uh huh, me.

I had another question. "Have you considered - how do I put this? - just getting the Donors to do it into a cup?"

Tug answered, "We've tried it. It's less effective."

Effective? As I attempted to process that, Hanna interjected, "I...I just need the warmth of it in the back of my mouth, my throat. To feel it hit there...shooting there."

Nobody said anything to that. The ensuing silence began to feel a bit awkward.

Finally Tug said, "Ok, that's kinda the deal. What do y'all think?"

Having already checked Tim's cock I felt I could speak with confidence for our side of the negotiating table.

With my best bright, sunny smile I said, "We're good!"

----------------------------

I drove us home. We were quiet, probably for different reasons. I think Tim's mind was super focused on his impending good deal - understandable. He was clearly nervous though.

I was fixated on Hanna's "condition." The explanation was, to put it mildly, less than satisfying. Which isn't to say I thought they were being, like, shady or whatever. I believed that they believed. Does that make sense? Or maybe they'd just adopted the best explanation available to them, one that made it possible for them to cope with her need. To cope as a couple.

I dunno.

They'd said she didn't crave cum. Craving it would've been something I could begin to understand. Just a fetish. But no, she didn't crave it. Rather she was affected by "its absence." That's what he'd said.

I let that roll around in my mind a bit. It was as if her body needed cum the way it needs, like, say, insulin. You don't think about insulin until you're not getting enough of it. You'd notice its absence.

But if it was simply a chemical sort of thing then getting it from a cup should work. No, Hanna needed it straight from the source - and then the phrase "as God intended" popped into my mind which made me inwardly laugh. Alone with my own thoughts, I can sometimes be pretty slutty. Lord knows, I'd prefer it direct - not from a cup.

One other thing gave me pause. Now that I had a fuller idea of the way they addressed Hanna's "need," a nagging thought formed.

Hanna's Donors supposedly played a purely clinical role. Considering that we were their long-time friends and next door neighbors, you'd think that taking on Tim as a Donor would potentially introduce...complexities.

And worse(?), I'd confessed to her that my guy was hot for her. Really hot. Which I play into and encourage. Another - to say the least - complicating factor to consider.

Had she not shared that information with Tug? If she had, and they decided to consider Tim anyway, what did that mean?

I'd shared with her what was going on in our bedroom. Now, as I pulled the car into the driveway, I found myself wondering what was going on in theirs.

Unknowns aside, I'm the one that pushed for Tim, not them. This was on me.

I wanted to take care of her, would do anything for her.

Juliet popped to mind. "In truth, I am too fond..."

----------------------------

"God, why am I so jittery?"

We were in our living room, processing. Tim paced, unable to settle. I chuckled, my own note of nervousness probably detectable in my response.