Chapter 1
ROXANA
It’s a garbage collection day, and the bin lorry’s mechanical screech overshadows the equally mechanical sound of Silas’s balls slapping against my flesh.
It has fallen dark outside, and since I haven’t closed the curtains, the flash of the amber beacons carries inside and dances across the ceiling.
It gives me something to look at other than my husband’s laboured grimace as he ploughs in and out of me, sweat dripping down his temples and chest, the cool drops of it falling on my face and splayed thighs like raindrops.
I shift my hips in a pointless attempt to feel anything that he’s doing inside of me.
But bar the slightest friction against the edges of my artificially lubed entrance, there’s just nothing.
Depending on where I am in my cycle, I can sometimes feel him hitting my cervix, and that at least provides a sensation somewhere between pain and pleasure.
But now, a few days before my ovulation, there sadly is no hope of even that.
When did he become such a fan of the missionary, anyway?
When we first started fucking, he liked to hold me against the wall like a weightless doll, his hands large under my ass and his tongue plundering my mouth until my lips felt swollen and tender.
I don’t even remember the last time we did the sixty-nine, but I spent a big portion of the year I turned twenty with his cock in my mouth as he sucked on my clit.
Then, when we first got married, it was all about fucking me from behind.
On all fours on the bed, bent over his desk, or else with my outstretched arms braced against a wall, my bare ass was constantly up in the air, and I was there for it all as he drove into me with animalistic grunts, holding me by a fold of flesh or else slapping my ass-cheeks until they turned bright red and I begged him in my sweetest voice, “Please, Daddy, stop, it hurts.”
Oh, look at that, I actually feel a twinge of something at the memory of him growling, “Not until you’ve learnt to be a good girl.
” He would continue to spank me, his cock relentlessly hitting my G-spot as he pumped into me with vigour that seems impossible now.
But he was capable of all that once. He used to make me come every night, multiple times sometimes.
So, when the hell did he start fucking me in a way that seems designed to avoid giving me any pleasure?
Thinking back on it, I guess around the time I turned twenty-five.
Outside, the bin lorry rolls away, and I’m snapped back to the present moment as Silas’s grunts become deafening in the silence.
As do the splats of his cock sploshing the lube around my indifferent hole.
I really overdid it with the grease today.
Half the ointment will do next time. Who knows, I might get more out of it if I keep things a bit drier down there.
I attempt to wedge my palms between us to press on my lower abdomen in hopes that it will help Silas’s dick touch something sensitive.
But he shoots me an annoyed look when I accidentally dig my nails into his stomach.
I abandon the effort, returning to the memory of my twenty-fifth birthday instead.
He brought me a bouquet of twenty-five roses, dark red like blood from a deep wound instead of the usual pale pink.
He would never give me the pale pink ones ever again, but I didn’t know that yet.
He had told me beforehand that he was taking me to a high-class restaurant all the way in Manchester and gave me a dress to wear.
Very different in style from all the fair-coloured frilly frocks he typically favoured.
This dress was midnight blue, with a deep cleavage and a slit.
When he saw me in it for the first time, with my hair up and my makeup done to match the style, he said to me in a choked voice, “You’ve matured into such an elegant woman. ”
It is the memory of the way he said the word ‘matured’ that makes my insides roll with undefined dread to this day. I don’t want to dwell on that, not even now. No distraction at all is better than that distraction.
More sweat raindrops land on my tits and forehead. More constipated grunts echo throughout the bedroom as Silas soldiers on. I suppress the urge to yawn.
What if it’s me? He is well-equipped, after all, objectively speaking.
What if my cunt got stretched out with use, like a piece of elastic clothing that’s been washed and worn too often?
What a repulsive, terrifying thought that is.
But did it? Should I take up Kegels or something?
Or ... now that he’s in his mid-forties, does Silas’s cock not get as hard as it used to?
Is it a blood-flow-related thing? Come to think of it, it could be due to my own diminishing vascularity.
After all, there’s a big difference between nineteen and twenty-nine, as Silas likes to remind me.
“You look so different from when we first met.” I just ignore him these days, but when he told me for the first time, with a pointed, vaguely displeased look, I cried in the bathroom for an hour after studying the first fine lines that had begun appearing on my forehead and around my eyes when I smiled.
I have tried to avoid smiling ever since.
“Can I put my legs on your shoulders?” I ask Silas, nearly adding, “Please, Daddy,” wondering how he’d feel about that now.
My request earns me another displeased look.
“Just for a bit. I’m so close,” I lie, unsure whether he cares enough to let that argument convince him anyway.
He huffs in a vexed sort of way, but straightens and hoists my legs up, propping my ankles on each side of his collarbone. He leans over me. The tendons in my calves and thighs stretch, but no matter, because there it is, ladies and gentlemen, we have friction!
I gasp and moan as his pubic hair grazes my clit with each of his thrusts, the tip of his dick sliding languidly up the front wall of my pussy, jostling my nerve endings, making me spasm around him.
My toes curl, and I fist the dark bed cover underneath me, the satin slick between my fingers. Fucking nirvana!
“That’s so good, just like that,” I mewl, closing my eyes so that I don’t have to look at his actual expression and can imagine instead the one he wore ten years ago. “Oooh, yes, right there.”
Suddenly, the wet slapping sounds become an orchestra and my skin tingles as he slides one of his hands down my thigh. Heat floods the base of my spine, and I’m arching my back and tearing my fingers through my hair, my moans turning to cries and coming from deep within my chest.
Wait! Am I going to ...? Could I actually ... oh god ... the bliss is blinding, I’m right at the edge, I just need to tip over it, just ...
And it’s gone.
Opening my eyes, I let out a low, mutinous lament. Silas’s dick rests limp in between my cooling folds like a gelatinous cacao pod in a freshly cracked husk.
The room has gone fully dark, bar the faint glow of the streetlights, and so I can’t see his expression.
But his voice sounds flustered and apologetic when he says, “Sorry, Roxie. You know I’m not a fan of this position.
I tried, but I’m going to need a change of direction here if we want me to finish. ”
If we want him to finish. And I suppose we should want that, given my approaching ovulation and the fact that after that horrific incident two months ago, I finally succumbed to my mother’s nagging and pressured Silas to start trying for a baby.
A thing I never imagined myself doing, a thing that never once seemed remotely appealing to me, bar the guarantee of regular attentions of my distant husband.
To my surprise, he was keen on the idea.
He said it would be good for me to have something besides writing to occupy my time.
He said the word ‘writing’ in a dismissive, disdainful tone of voice.
Which is fair enough I suppose, seeing as so far it’s been more of a costly hobby than an endeavour that would generate any income.
I myself use the same tone of voice when talking about what I do.
Still, I hate it when Silas does. It was to marry him that I dropped out of my university course.
And it is because of his tenure that we live here, too far from anywhere for me to get a more conventional job.
Silas starts stroking his dick with an expression of intense concentration, the same one I’ve seen on his face when studying rare historical tomes. I reach out my hand and cup his sack, rolling his balls between my fingers, occasionally chancing a careful tug or a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah, that’s good,” he rasps, his head falling back, his cock hardening steadily in his hand.
He is a fetching sight, half-shrouded in shadows. A head full of hair, his dark, well-kept beard, broad shoulders, bulky chest heaving with monumental breaths, the hard, veiny length in his grasp perfectly straight and threatening.
I bite my lip.
Silas leans over me and breaches my entrance, and we’re back to laborious grunting and salty rainfall. I let out a big sigh, not even bothering to stop myself, but I don’t think he notices.
“Just like that, baby, that’s so good,” he groans, picking up his pace.
“If you say so,” I want to reply, but bite back the remark.
My thoughts stray to the shopping I did today. I made a trip of it and drove all the way to Keswick. I think of aisles and aisles of dairy products, cartons of milk and soft, oozing French cheeses. I think of loaves of bread, sliced and packaged with precision. I think of colourful packets of nuts.
And when Silas slides his arm underneath me and flips me over, I think of the butcher’s counter and the sirloin cut I bought for Sunday roast. I think of the way the butcher held it in his palm before slapping it down onto the prepared wrapper.
Buried in the pillow, my face is hot with my own breath. But I keep it there in the suffocating heat as I contemplate my options.
From behind and with me lying flat on my stomach has become Silas’s favourite finale position lately, and so I know I don’t have long to salvage something out of this. In an act of rebellion, I brace my knees, press my hips hard into his, straining as if trying to carry his weight on my back.
“What, you want to be on all fours, baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The weight lifts, his hands encircle my waist, and he hoists me up.
I assume my position, resting low on my elbows and knees, the curve of my ass hard and sharp against his crotch.
Silas drives into me, bottoming out, his pubic hair coarse on my intimate area.
He rolls his hips around, and I exhale loudly with mounting ecstasy.
Pleasure coils through me tighter and tighter with each of his thrusts, bliss collecting in my cells and so very near ready to overflow.
The problem is that the steadily increasing tempo of Silas’s pumping tells me that he’s going to finish fast, and almost certainly before I’ll manage it. Damn it, no! Not when I’m so close.
He’s moaning now, and I glance behind my shoulder to discern his closed eyes and parted lips even in the darkness of the room. He’s started throbbing inside of me, the sensation sending jolts through my spasming, needy walls.
Fuck this. If I’m not getting anything out of this, I may as well ruin it for him, too.
“Hey, Daddy,” I address him softly with my head still turned around to see his eyes snap open in surprise. “Daddy, I don’t suppose you’d fancy sticking a finger up my ass, would you?”