Chapter 3

I’m a fan of music. I’m a fan of mixing up a lot of songs I like and hearing what the soundtrack to my night looks like. At the moment it looks good.

My wife is naked, on her knees, working on pulling her boss’s friend’s cock out of his pants. The room is fairly dark, as I turned off the television as she removed her robe to expose her gifts to this amazing lucky man. With the lights down low I can make out the curve of her buttocks as they raise and lower in height as she works to gently remove him through the dual escapes in his underwear and unzipped pants.

As she takes him her mouth I notice her eyes are open, looking up into the darkness. He’s got his eyes closed. Her tongue does that. You feel her fingers encircling you, the warmth of her mouth and the comfort and energy of her tongue as she works her careful ballet. She’s looking up at him, hoping for a reaction. I’m pretty sure his head arching backwards, breathing short and halting gives her what she’s looking for.

Another song comes on, a little threatening in its initial chords. I take a sip of my bourbon, ice just starting to melt in the glass but not enough to mitigate the burn.

I can feel myself hard and pressing. I again resist the urge to put a hand on myself. I don’t want to anything to happen for me for quite some time yet. Not to mention the embarrassment of having to excuse myself for cleaning and a wardrobe change.

His hands slip into her hair, the red occasionally breaking up the black and white darkness. I imagine I can hear the warm parts inside her, no doubt glistening with moisture by now, making liquidy clicks in the darkness, just 18 or so inches off our carpet.

You wait on letters fishing for any sign of life. Drinks after dinner, your friends will get you to unwind.

The drums on this song seem almost tribal. Ritualistic.

Her head moves in consistent rhythm. I see glimpses of her right ear as his fingers catch and releases large portions of the lovely red. The hand she doesn’t have on him slips off his lower back and buttocks and between her own legs. I picture my open hand slamming into her ear.

His sudden moan breaks my trance and gives me some concern. This can’t end too soon, but sometimes it does happen. In those cases there’s no way to reset. He’ll be embarrassed and thinking more clearly, wine waves in his mind receding as he looks to exit while she looks to politely find a way to spit his ejaculate into his used bourbon glass. I can’t have this. Those are not good nights. She’s slept in the garage for mistakes like that.

I sit up, making as much noise as possible to subtly grab his attention. It works and he looks over. My love slides her face as far down his shaft as she can, then opens her mouth and leans back. As space between them develops, I can see the beginnings of perspiration developing on the white skin closest to her areolae.

His eyes on me, I sip my bourbon, then set it down.

When I’m home, we tap-danced on broken glass

“I think to continue this, you should probably head upstairs.” I glance up the stairwell, doubting either can see my eyes in the relative darkness.

My love sits on her knees, a quick respite. Her hand is no longer between her legs, but caressing her own thigh. Memories of her back arching as I inserted a second finger into her asshole, true fear in her eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tucking himself back inside his underwear.

“Sure he’s sure,” says my love cheerily, trying to reduce his trepidation. She looks up into his eyes. “You’ll like me.” A white flash of searing ice in my mind.

He almost laughs then catches himself, knowing that might not be the right message to send. He’ll like her alright.

She extends her hand so that he might help her stand.

Let’s skip the charades. You’re seeing right through me anyway.

I can see the milkiness of her thighs and stomach as she stands upright. The shadows hide her pubic region. I briefly consider eating her before sending her up, but remind myself to save it for later. We’ve both learned that my unfulfilled lust quickly ignites into a violent storm. And she likes cowering from it. If things go well she could be fearing for her life.

“I just don’t want there to be...” he pauses, expecting me finish his sentence.

I don’t do it. I glance at her breasts, remembering the first time I saw them, tumbling out of bra I undid with her laying above me. When she briefly pretended she belonged to someone else. Transitional phase before she’d ever felt my belt.

He waits for ... something. Neither of us gives it to him.

“I just don’t want there to be,” he starts again. “ ... hard feelings.”

I swirl the bourbon in the glass. Look down at it. Hear her breath under the music. I can always hear her breathe. It’s the heartbeat in every conversation we’ve ever had. I see her scrunch her toes on the carpet, most likely cold. And anxious.

Can we just speak plain?

“Don’t worry about that at all,” I reassure him. “I want this to happen. Please accept this as a gesture of my friendship.” My glass wishes him salut.

We’re playing for the same team

The only woman I’ve ever loved takes his hand and he willingly follows her buttocks towards the stairs. At the base of the stairwell she pulls him down to whisper in his ear. He pulls back and nods, then picks her up into his arms and begins ascending the stairwell. Her arms wrap around his neck and her face gets very close to his, him inhaling her breath. The breath that sustains me.

But I’m the one that’s acting like acting like acting like...

As the door to our bedroom closes I realize she forgot to bring me my bottle of bourbon. As I get up to get it I can hear her giggle, maybe even laugh. Warm blood rushes down my neck as I pour a deep glass and add new ice. Make a mental note to make sure we have cubes left over for later. I picture her begging me to stop inserting ice into her as I watch the sun begin to come up.

As I sit down I turn down the volume slightly just in time to hear the springs of the bed sag as weight bears up on it. Then I hear nothing. Nothing as the song ends and an Oasis song starts and then eventually ends. My lust for her begins reshaping itself into a bloodthirsty animal. As the Rolling Stones “Spider and the Fly” starts up, I do finally hear her moan. She means to moan softly, but she does not mean to moan so softly that the sound wouldn’t make the trip through a wooden door and down a flight of stairs for me and my drink to hear. I can feel my teeth in her breast. Taste the smallest amount of her blood on my tongue.

The springs of the bed - our bed - shift again. I wonder how many songs will play before the springs start to create their own rhythm, adding their own percussion to the night.

The ice in my glass makes a popping sound as the warm liquid melts its defenses. Upstairs I hear her laugh softly as downstairs a harmonica solo begins.

Peering into the bourbon bottle, seeing only a small wave of brown water sloshing against the side, I am guessing it’s been at least an hour since my wife and her admirer stepped upstairs.

That time has been spent sipping, pouring and listening. Listening to the music playing throughout the house - the same songs in their ears as mine. Sound waves no doubt resonating ever so slightly inside her. And listening to the occasional sounds drifting down. A laugh. A moan. Weight on the bed shifting. But lately not much at all. Has he given all he has and fallen asleep on top of her? Has the alcohol dulled his abilities? I picture him sobbing at his failure to capitalize, her consoling him, as she’d most likely do. Her nature is to make people feel better. Obviously.