So that was it, then. Ten years of marriage ended just like that. He was surprised
by how unemotional he felt.
He poured himself a generous portion of whiskey, took a large swallow and winced. He wished he had ice to put in it.
He sat at his desk for the rest of the day, but he got no work done. He alternated between dialling Emilia’s number on his mobile phone and from the work phone. Rain hammered against his office window.
To think he’d actually been concerned when she hadn’t turned up for work this morning. It was unlike her to be off sick; she’d once come in with a running fever because she couldn’t bear the thought of him fielding calls by himself.
But now this. He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to do it. He never thought she’d force his hand like this. In a way, he was impressed. She’d done the dirty work so he didn’t have to.
At five pm exactly he placed the bottle and tumbler carefully back in the drawer, buttoned up his raincoat and left the office into the deluge. Getting into his car, he turned on his windscreen wipers and assessed his options. He thought he could get away with driving, despite the whiskey. It was rush hour, there’d be loads of dickheads on the roads. Plus, the police never stopped men in Jags, did they? They stopped boy racers in souped-up Corsas.
He began to drive, knowing exactly where to go.
Monday 17th September 2012
5.26pm
Flat B, Dean Court
The door buzzer is ringing relentlessly, as though someone has their finger pressed down on it and isn’t letting up. I know who it before I even answer.
Picking up the receiver, the camera flickers on, but the picture is dark, obscured.
“Hello?” I say, cautiously.
“It’s me,” Piers replies, and I realise he has his hand cupped over the camera. “Let me up.”
I buzz him in and wait at the door, listening to his uneven steps as he climbs the stairs. As he draws closer I can see he’s been drinking; his hair is unusually unkempt, his eyes bloodshot.
“You little bitch,” he says darkly, and then he pushes me suddenly back against the hallway wall and starts kissing me. His mouth tastes of liquor. He pulls me into my bedroom and folds me onto my hands and knees on the bed, then he goes to my bedside table drawer. He knows where I keep my sex toys.
He grabs a pair of handcuffs and fastens my wrists behind me, then he gets a mouth gag fixes it in place. I’m secured in position, at the mercy of his urges now.
He grabs a rabbit toy and puts it inside me, pressing the vibrating part close against my clit. He fucks me with it until he hears me get close to cumming, then he pulls it out. After thirty seconds he puts it back in, gets me close to orgasm again, then pulls out once more. He does this several times. Orgasm denial. He’s never done this on me before. I’m soaked with sweat, moaning into the ball gag with the strain of so many disrupted orgasms. My body is in a strange, almost pleasurable agony.
He pushes his cock into my pussy and starts railing me, gripping his hand around my hair and yanking it back. I can feel myself creaming on his cock as I moan into the gag in pleasure and pain.
It doesn’t take him long to cum inside me, filling me up with an unfeasible amount of fluid. He pulls out and swiftly shakes his cock off. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, naked, more vulnerable than I have ever seen him.
“That’s it, then,” he says.
“What?” I say.
“My marriage is over. We can be together,” he replies.
I wish he’d said it with more enthusiasm.
Monday 15th October 2012
10.55am
Bichard’s Building Supplies
Piers sat in his office with his head in his hands. He had a splitting headache. Mediation with Aoife that morning had been a nightmare. Divorce was turning out to be in equal parts complicated and costly. Aiofe seemed determined to fuck him with a broom handle at every turn, and so far she was succeeding.
Not only that, but a cohabiting life with Emilia was expensive. She was a girl with champagne tastes. He had no idea why he had agreed to the penthouse; the place was a money pit. The trouble, really, was that every time she set her little heart on something she sucked his dick, and in the post-orgasm bliss of good head he agreed to whatever she wanted. Every time.
He had to find a way to make more money, and quickly. The business was plodding along, neither a huge earner nor a huge loss-maker. He had to find a way to
expedite the process of securing success.
He looked at his computer screen, at the invoice he was preparing for a client. The client was stupidly wealthy, a millionaire department store developer. If Piers massaged the figures a little, adding a hundred here and a fifty there, would his client even notice? Likely not.
Piers added a couple of ‘zeroes’ in columns they weren’t before, sat back and scrutinised the document. He could do this. If he could make an extra hundred or so from every client, every time, it could all go towards keeping his life afloat. Now that he was divorcing, it was especially important that he keep up appearances. He couldn’t let Aoife know that he couldn’t live a good life without her.
I wake, my naked body warm beneath the midday sun. Piers had woken me and we’d had quick sex before he left for work this morning, but afterwards I’d fallen back into a contented slumber. I don’t have a day job any more, so I can sleep until whatever hour I want.
I rouse myself from the covers and pull back the window drapes, exposing the floor-to-ceiling panel with stunning views across the city. It’s surprisingly warm and sunny for October; an Indian Summer. I stand in the sunshine for a moment, letting it play upon my skin. We live in the penthouse, so I don’t have to worry about nosy neighbours looking in; we’re far above everyone else. I only have the sky to answer to.
I wander into our open-plan kitchen-living area. The twelve-seat dining table sits alongside another floor-to-ceiling glass panel; opposite this, there is a gargantuan marble kitchen island. There’s a huge velvet corner sofa and widescreen TV in the living room, which our private elevator opens straight into.
I open up the fridge. I’m not hungry yet, so I just pluck a ripe cherry from a punnet and nibble on it as I make my way back through the bedroom and into the ensuite. I step into the enormous wet room shower and feel the warm spray trickle down my back.
When I get out of the shower I forgo a towel; I simply walk naked back to the fridge and grab an ice-cold bottle of Coke, which has condensation mottling its glass surface. I pull open the sliding glass door onto the balcony and collapse into one of our creamy soft deck chairs.
I lay in the chair, lazily sipping my drink and observing the hum of the city beyond the glass railing of our balcony, far below me. I have my little pull-string bag of rune stones next to me. I decide to draw one at random, to see if it can give me some indication of what’s next to come in my life. I draw the Fehu stone, associated with wealth and property. I smile at it. I didn’t need a stone to tell me I have that.
I might work at the strip club later, if I can be bothered. Piers likes me working at the club still; it continues to massage his ego that he gets to sleep with a stripper. When I get home from a long night of having dozens of men lust after me, Piers is almost always awake, wanting to fuck me while the pheromones are still dewy on my skin.
I’m not sure if I’ll work tonight, though; that does sound like a lot of effort. For now, I lay in my chair and snap nudes on my phone to send to Piers. Receiving those at work will get him all hot and bothered. There’s a jacuzzi on the balcony; I might take a dip later. I prop myself up on my elbows, crane my head back and look into the sky. It’s a violent blue. Gulls swoop overhead. I’ve found my nirvana. There is nowhere I would rather be than right here.
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