Ethan
Her arse jiggled as she darted off, leaving me hard with nowhere to bury it. I reached out and touched one of the golden spirals dangling from a balloon, the foil crackling under my fingertip. I smiled at the banner.
Happy Birthday, Husband.
Two gold hearts entwined on either side.
I was adapting to her antics, but this was sweet of her.
I couldn’t remember many happy moments as a child, and this felt like a balm over wounds I hadn’t known still ached.
I sat on the couch and dragged the blanket off the end to cover my legs against the morning chill seeping through the villa’s old windows.
When Anne returned with two steaming mugs, the smell of coffee arriving before she did, I sat up.
“Come share my blanket,” I said, patting the couch as she set them on the coffee table.
She arched a brow but sat beside me, her thigh warm against mine. I covered her legs as promised. Before I could reach my coffee, she thrust a box into my hands.
I didn’t protest. I would remain gracious.
She rested her head on my shoulder, hooking her arm through my elbow as I tugged at the black ribbon. Her damp hair smelled of lavender and something darker beneath it—her, unmistakably her.
Our wedding had been a small registry affair. Neither of us had wanted lavish; it would only have drawn attention our way.
I opened the box, and beneath the tissue paper sat an embossed logo. When I flipped the inner lid, I smiled at the watch within—dark navy leather strap, broad silver casing, a deep blue face at its centre.
“I love it,” I said, clearing my throat. “The colour reminds me of your eyes when you cum on my cock.”
She slapped my arm with a giggle.
“My eyes are not that shade,” she protested.
“When was the last time you watched yourself come?” I murmured, settling my arm around her shoulders.
She lifted the watch from the box, but before fastening it, she turned it over. Engraving caught the morning light on the caseback.
My one love, my monster, forever yours, Anne.
I read it twice. My throat tightened around anything I might have said, so I said nothing at all.
She fastened it onto my left wrist, the leather cool against my pulse, the inscription pressed to my skin, then tilted my arm this way and that to admire it.
I couldn’t remember anyone making such a fuss of me.
My father had left everything to my mother, who’d had nothing but hatred in her heart for her son.
I pushed Anne onto her back and moved over her, the blanket sliding to the floor.
“You’ve still got presents to open,” she said, even as her hands found my cock.
“There’s only one present I want,” I said, peeling the lavender lace away from those rose-coloured peaks.
She didn’t get a chance to reply.
?? ?? ??
By dinner time, I’d decided she could make a fuss of my birthday every single year. It had been open ploughing season on Anne for an entire day, and she’d done everything I asked.
Everything.
Unspeakable things.
I paused mid-dishwasher. I should have recorded it. A wasted opportunity.
I was mentally compiling next year’s list of depravities when the doorbell chimed and my head snapped toward the kitchen door.
Who was disturbing us on our fucking holiday?
“I’ll get it,” Anne sang, her feet tapping rapidly along the wooden floor.
I abandoned the dishes, washed and dried my hands.
Muffled voices drew closer, and that pissed me off further. I only had a few short hours left of my wife’s compliance.
The door swung open before I reached it. Anne stepped aside as a man in his mid-twenties entered beside a woman in her fifties.
“These are our guests for tonight. They won a trip to France,” Anne said—but she was shuffling in behind them, both hands hidden. “They’re from Farringbridge.”
The name rang a distant bell. Farringbridge.
I stared at the man, his dirty-blond hair, placing him. Placing his crimes.
A sudden buzz erupted, and the man dropped. Anne followed him down, taser in hand, cackling as he shuddered violently against the floorboards.
“Oh, come on, baby,” I groaned as a dark stain spread across his crotch.
The woman screamed and lunged for Anne—who sliced clean through her Achilles tendon with a knife I hadn’t even seen her draw. The mother collapsed.
Blood, piss, knives and taser.
Christmas and my birthday, all wrapped up in one.
The mother had run an online campaign on her son’s behalf, denigrating his teenage victim. The victim who had taken her own life. A young girl Anne had decided to champion, even in death.
“I fucking love you,” I growled.
I strode across the room, pulled her up, and kissed her.
The sobs and groans of pain beneath us were beautiful.
Best birthday ever.
The End.