Husband Sit (Husband #1) (16 page)

“What
am I allowed to do?” I asked.

He
shut his eyes and shook his head, dropping his forehead to rest it against the
mirror. Hell, no wonder he’d left this one till last. It was the free pass: go
anywhere, do anything, knock-yourself-out permission.

I
wanted Fritha there so we could both say
Fucking hell!

I
also wanted someone there to stop me, because I had a bad feeling that I was
about to let out some inner urge that I’d later regret. I proved that a second
later by saying, “Get ready to be on the receiving end for a change.” He
swallowed loudly so I took that as my cue and stepped back, wavering for a
second on my heels because I was so excited my knees were wobbling. I managed
to totter to the bed and get the lubricant which I applied liberally to my blue
appendage. Then I came back to him and smeared a handful straight up his butt
crack.

He
shuddered again and my instinct was to say,
Okay, are you ready
, but I
held that in. He clearly wanted to be dominated. Asking permission would spoil
the tone, so I set my shoulders back, widened my stance and set up a mantra
inside my head that said,
Be the man. BE the man.
I needed to pretend I
had balls between my legs instead of latex straps, and the best way to do that
was to shut up.

Finn
came into my head and for a horrible second I imagined him inside the room,
appalled at what I was about to do. For a moment,
I
was appalled, but it
was too late for that. I was past the point of no return, determined to erase
the past. So I reached around, grabbed Simon’s rock-hard cock at the base, and
held him still while I guided my blue butt-banger to poke at his tightly
clenched hole.

“Relax
or this will hurt,” I commanded, channeling Damien.

Simon
said nothing, but his biceps, which were just beside my face, clenched. His
voice came out strained. “If it hurts, will you stop?”

“Of
course,” I lied. I fully intended to fuck him, whether he liked it or not. That’s
what he’d wanted, and I wasn’t about to let momentary panic ruin this finale to
our fortnight of fucking.

“Okay.”
His shoulders slumped, so I slid my ‘cock’ up and down over his puckered
entrance until I was sure he was as relaxed as he was going to get. Then I
deliberately shoved against his anus and the head of the dildo popped in.

“
Fuck!
Fuck stop!
” he shouted, so loudly my ears hurt.

“Okay,”
I said calmly, but I made no move to pull out.

“That
hurts. A lot,” he whined.

“I
know.” I stood still, waiting for him to relax again. When he didn’t, I stopped
gripping his cock like an anchor and ran my hand up to caress the tip. It was
dry, so I leant back and snatched some of the lubricant I’d accidentally
smeared across his lower back and used that to stroke and pull on his cock.

“Oh.
Fuck. That’s good.” His eyelashes fluttered open. “Just do that.”

I
kept stroking on his cock, but I leant close to his ear and said, “I do what I
want, not what you want, bitch.” And then slowly, deliberately, I nudged my
hips while I stroked him, tiny movements back and forth, sliding the dildo in
further with each push—back a little, in more, until at last my groin was hard
up against him and his head was back almost on my shoulder, his mouth open as
he panted.

“That’s
what you want, isn’t it?” I said, and he gulped noisily.

I
took my hand off his cock and gripped his hips.

It
was time.

“Ready
to be fucked?”

His
head came up and his eyes fluttered open again. He could have looked at me, or
at himself in the mirror, but he pressed a cheek against the cold glass and
stared at the wall, where the posters of footballers were.

I
didn’t wait for a response. I just started pumping, being careful not to pull
too far out, but not sparing him on the in-thrust. He grunted at first, then he
started to croon, “
Do me. Harder. Fuck me hard
.” Over and over. He
closed his eyes at some point and was lost in a fantasy world I didn’t care to
think about.

The
inside of my own head was a mess. I was thinking about Damien, and how it felt
to have a cock up your ass. Then Finn would flit in and I’d wonder if he’d
think this was good-dirty, or disgusting. If I’d been trying for an orgasm
myself I would have been hopelessly distracted, but as Simon’s explosion was my
only objective, all I did was keep at him until finally his whole body tensed
and he pulled down on the rope so hard the wardrobe creaked.

I
expected some shout of exaltation but instead there was only a muffled groan as
his hips jerked back into me and cum spurted against the mirror in front of us.
It seemed unnaturally quiet after that, as if what he’d done was so bad, he had
to be silent in case his mother could hear him from Los Angeles, or wherever
she was en route home.

I
forced myself to let go of his hips and slide my hands up his chest to hug him
to myself, trying to make up for what I’d done, because on some level I knew it
was bad. In fact, it felt sharing a cigarette with your kid sister and then
discovering she goes on to become a life-long smoker while you give up. You know
you shouldn’t have done it in the first place.

Somehow
,
I knew
I shouldn’t have done this. Not with Simon. Maybe with some other
guy. But not with a kid who had fantasies about footballers. What had I been
thinking?

A
heaviness settled inside my chest, but I ignored that to concentrate on him.
“That was incredible,” I said and kissed his back. “Did you like it?”

“It
was...” His voice sounded small and almost frightened. “It felt good.”

But
did
he
feel good, about himself, about what we’d done? I wasn’t sure how
to ask that. Or even if it was my business.

I
was leaving his house in a few hours, and I belatedly realized we’d never speak
again, never meet. After what we’d just done, that felt shallow and horrible in
a way I’d never considered amid the turbulent emotions of storming away from
Finn or fleeing Damien. A hollow loneliness wound inside my chest like an eerie
silent wind.

I
needed to get away.

Now.

“I’ll
clean up,” I said, and heard the wobble in my own voice.

He
didn’t seem to notice. “Sure,” he whispered, his eyes still closed, as if he
wasn’t ready to come back to reality.

I
reached up and untied the padded rope that held him. Then I unstrapped the
dildo from its latex harness and left it inside him. “I’ll let you take that
out when you’re ready.”

He
nodded, his eyes still shut. I was just turning to leave him when he said,
“That was the last one. You can sleep in mum’s bed now if you want.”

It
was completely understandable. He’d just had an experience that had probably
rocked his world. Of course, he’d want to be alone to assimilate that. But my
low self-esteem in that moment translated his request into
Fuck off, you
disgust me.

“Sure.”
I mumbled, and got out as quickly as my ridiculous high heels would allow. In
his mother’s bedroom—which only made me feel guiltier—I quickly pulled off the
harness and ran a too-hot shower so I could scrub myself over and over, as if I
could wash off the shame of what I’d just done.

I
wanted to call Fritha so she could tell me I was a decent person, but it wasn’t
dawn yet and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t phone her in the middle of the
night any more like a needy schoolgirl. That would be
boy crying wolf
.
If I ever needed her in an emergency I didn’t want her looking at my ID on her
phone and going back to sleep. I needed her as my
go to
person, because
I sure as hell wasn’t calling Finn again.

Ever.

So
I pulled myself as together as best I could and decided to leave. It was
nowhere near dawn, but I’d never sleep, so I may as well hit the road. I threw
on clean clothes to leave the job—sensible ones this time—a strappy floral
sundress and a pink cardigan, and I started to pack my car. It was dark outside
and I propped the front door open so I could go back and forth. It took half an
hour, and Simon must have heard me but he didn’t come out either to comment or
to help, and that felt damning.

Again
and again, I told myself that I’d done nothing wrong. In fact, I’d done
everything right. I’d done what his mother wanted and I’d also done what he
wanted. No one should be disappointed. Logically, I was a success, but what the
head knows and what the heart feels can be two different things, so despite all
my rationalizing I felt dirty and perverted and...like some sort of corruptor
of morals.

Which
was crazy. The kid had a porn addiction! He’d surely seen way more bizarre
things than heterosexual butt fucking.

Whatever.
I couldn’t just drive away, so I knocked on his door. When he didn’t answer, I
let myself in and sat at the end of his bed. He was lying on his back, staring
at the ceiling, covered by the sheet. That was telling. He usually sprawled on
top.

I
struggled for a casual tone. “I’m ready to go.”

“Okay.”
He didn’t look at me.

“And
I wanted to thank you for a spectacular fortnight. You made me come every
night. That’s never happened to me before.”

I
could see he wanted to ignore me, but reluctantly his gaze slid into contact
with mine. “Are you bullshitting?”

I
shook my head. “You’re my youngest client. And you absolutely had the most
stamina. Hands down.”

He
couldn’t manage a smile, but he did say, “Thanks.”

We
stared at each other for a second before I added. “I’m sorry if that last one
was...”
Uncomfortable? Psychologically damaging?
“...too far outside
your comfort zone.”

“It
was,” he said straightaway, and that made me feel bad, even though he’d asked
for it. “You told me it wouldn’t be gay.”

He
sounded like he was accusing me of something, and despite my guilty feelings, a
flicker of indignation stirred in me. “It wasn’t,” I said calmly. “You’re a
man. I’m a woman. Whatever we do together is heterosexual.”

He
shook his head, pouting like a cranky toddler. “It felt gay.”

“Your
eyes were shut,” I reminded him. “Were you thinking about gay things?” I’d
stupidly assumed that the porn he’d been watching had girls in it.

He
didn’t blush, but his breathing quickened and his eyes narrowed. “You’re not
supposed to fuck with my head. This is supposed to be
normal.
”

He
sounded so anguished, I had a moment of feeling completely out of my depth,
particularly when his lips pressed together and I suddenly realized he was
angry. At me.

I
stood up quickly. “I think you should just forget about—”

“Right.
Mess with my head and then fuck off. Typical woman,” he spat, and in that
moment I realized this wasn’t about me. Simon probably had mother issues, and I
wasn’t a trained psychiatrist. There was no way I could help him, so the best
thing I could do for him was leave, before I did further damage.

I
took a step backward. “I’m sorry.”

He
resumed staring at the ceiling so I left, stumbling out of the house and
locking the front door behind me because I could see that he wouldn’t. He
didn’t give a shit about anything.

And
that was my fault.

By
the time I reached the car my hands were shaking. I drove away swearing that
I’d never do anything like that
ever
again. Strap on dildo. What had I
been thinking? Somewhere between Simon’s place and the arterial road that would
lead me from the city, I realized I wanted a drink. It was sensible to get out
of town before the morning rush-hour which would start in two hours. Sydney was
a gridlock after seven am, and I had a hotel booked in Newcastle—three hours
away on a good run—a treat I’d been saving for with my secretarial work. I
planned to spend a few days on the beach before my next job.

Which
I was going to do.

I
said that to myself very determinedly, but a niggling suspicion that I wouldn’t
be able to, crept into my consciousness. I was clearly terrible at this job.
And I had no right to be going from home to home doing bad things. Yet what was
the alternative? When I imagined not paying the hospital and Brittany being
tossed into jail...

That
wasn’t an option.

At
all.

Yet
I’d just left Simon lying on his bed, traumatized by what I’d done to him.

That
felt horrible as well.

The
two opposing
wrongs
built up in my chest until, before I knew it, I was
parking in a backstreet of Kings Cross—the only place I knew I’d find alcohol
readily available at four am. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the gloomy,
back corner of a titty bar. I looked incongruous in my pretty pink sandals and
matching cardigan, tossing down straight whisky. If I’d been wearing the
cocktail dress and high heels I’d fled Damien in, I wouldn’t have lasted ten
minutes without some creep hitting on me, thinking I was a local prostitute on
a break. But in a sundress and ponytail, I looked more like a client. So the
only guy hassling me was a young male prostitute offering his services, which I
hurriedly declined.