2. Olivia #3
The next morning, he told her flatly to throw it away. She nodded, but of course she never did. Instead, she wrapped it in a towel and buried it in the bottom drawer of her nightstand, where he never looked.
If only he knew how many times she had replaced the batteries in the past four years.
She held it in her hand for a long moment, staring at the smooth shape gleaming in the dim light of her bedside lamp. Her chest tightened with something that felt halfway between guilt and defiance.
Mark’s voice still echoed in her head, sharp and judgmental, but she pushed it aside. Tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was about her.
Sliding back against the pillows, she let the cool sheets brush against her bare legs. The silence of the house wrapped around her like a cocoon, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. For once, she didn’t have to pretend. She didn’t have to play the part of the dutiful wife.
This was hers. Her secret.
She kept turning the pages of her novel, though after a while she realized she was paying less attention to the words and more to the fire they stirred inside her.
Her fingers drifted restlessly, first tracing idle patterns along her breast, gently squeezing her nipples, then her stomach, then slipping to her lower lips as the story’s passion bled into her own imagination.
Each page seemed to draw her deeper until reading and touching became one seamless rhythm.
Finally, she couldn’t resist any longer. She set the book aside and concentrated on her secret companion lying next to her. The quiet hum filled the room as she pressed the button, the sound alone sending a shiver of anticipation through her.
She let the vibration tease her, slow and delicate at first, before pressing closer against her moist, sweet spot, surrendering fully to the sensation.
Her body responded instantly, her breath quickening, her heart racing.
Every nerve came alive in a way Mark had never reached, not even in their best days.
There was no fumbling, no impatience, no five-minute routine disguised as intimacy. Just Olivia—free to take her time, free to explore, free to actually feel. Her thoughts swirled between shame and liberation, guilt mixing with the undeniable relief of finally being satisfied.
She closed her eyes and let her mind conjure him—the perfect man her heart craved, the one her husband wasn't. She imagined his firm hands sliding across her skin, his lips whispering devotion against her ear, his body moving with a hunger that matched her own.
The fantasy grew sharper, more urgent, until her body arched and she cried out.
She held the vibrator against her folds as the second wave came, sending her over the edge into the release she had been denied for too long.
By the time it was over, her body trembled with release, and a warm calm spread through her, loosening every knot of tension she had carried all day. She reached for a hand towel she had next to her to absorb the moisture of her ecstasy.
She then reached for her pajamas, slipping them on. Then she turned off the lamp and lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in a long time, she drifted toward sleep with a small, secret smile tugging at her lips. Mark would never know. And maybe that was the saddest truth of all—that the most intimate part of her marriage no longer involved her husband.
Sometime after ten, the faint rumble of the garage door startled her awake.
Her heart skipped, and for a fleeting second she panicked, afraid she hadn’t hidden her secret well enough.
But then she reminded herself it was tucked away safely in the bottom drawer, batteries cooling, her pajamas on like armor.
She listened as Mark’s footsteps echoed on the tile floor downstairs, heavier than usual, uneven.
The bedroom door creaked open, and light from the hallway spilled in, washing over the room in a pale stripe.
The smell of whiskey hit her even before he walked into the bedroom—thick and sharp, clinging to him like a second skin.
She pulled the covers higher, feigning sleep.
He stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, as if deciding whether to wake her. Then, without a word, he stumbled into the bathroom, the sound of running water and the clang of his belt buckle filling the silence.
When he finally crawled into bed, the mattress dipped under his weight. His arm flopped across her, heavy and careless, the sour scent of alcohol filling her nose. She stayed still, keeping her breathing slow and even, pretending to sleep. It was easier that way. Safer.
He muttered something incoherent before rolling onto his back with a groan. Within minutes, his snores rattled through the room. She lay wide awake beside him, staring into the darkness, her body still humming from earlier, her mind a storm of thoughts she couldn’t quiet.
In that moment, Olivia knew with aching clarity: whatever this was—this marriage, this charade—it was slowly suffocating her.