I watch Skype like a fucking hawk. He said he’d be on about 9:00, and it’s nearly 10:00. if I wasn’t so heated I’d skip it altogether, but I need to hear His voice. I need to hear His ragged breath in my ear and the way my name sounds in His throat when He comes, because that’s what gets me off. It’s the savage, illicit wanting. It’s the taste of the forbidden with the necessity of air or water. He calls, I come. That’s our arrangement, and I almost live for it.
He’s got a family, so naturally He can’t just call whenever. But both of us work from home which is what got us into this mess.
Wait – I said “mess,” but it’s not what you think. Don’t judge it, at least not yet. Not till you know how good it is for all of us – for me, and Him, and even for them.
Once upon a time I was withering on the vine, unplucked, rapidly approaching the day when I might no longer be a morsel anyone would want to taste. My husband, Dave, is a great provider and an excellent father to our three sons, but his interest in me doesn’t extend too much farther than the lasagna. He’s got his boys. As for them, he hung their moon. The older they get the less they cling to me like, but I am still a vital organ in the living, breathing makeup of this family. I’ve thought about what life I might have if I were on my own, but it is easiest and kindest not to leave. Besides, what would I gain by such a selfish act?
Though I am selfish, of course. If I left Dave, the boys would make their choice and I would be even more on the fringes of their life than I already am. This way I have a shot. This way…
It’s 4:50 and He’s not on.
Dave likes kittens in the bedroom and I am a tigress, which intimidates him. He’s terrified of me, sexually. He liked it best when I was an impressionable young bride who’d only ever seen two cocks in the flesh. He tells me my desires are too dark. That they consume me. That they make me scary. So he hasn’t touched me in going on seven years. Not a kiss, not a squeeze, nothing. I am no longer a woman to him, I am merely a nun who makes dinner.
When I met Him he was honest about his marriage, his unhappy wife, their sheltered young daughter. I thought it would matter to me, his being married, but in the end, it didn’t. We figured out a way to make it work. Now He doesn’t live with the constant frustration of being unwanted. What’s that expression, “What men want is to be needed”? That’s absolutely true. His wife could live without Him, but I need Him. I need Him every day. And He needs me, too, which is odd and frightening and fiercely arousing. Knowing that He counts the minutes until he can be alone so He can have me gets me wetter than anything.
I’ve done things… No. You don’t need to know what I’ve done. Not yet. Just know that He makes me slick and needy and my heart is a trapped bird in my chest just thinking about Him. His voice. His hands. His cock.
The air escapes my lungs in a huff as the call comes through. I’m here, I murmur to the blue screen. I’m right here.