Husband Sit (Husband #1)

by Louise Cusack

  More fembot than smurf now, which was hopefully sexier.

  Then while Simon was still fussing in the shower, I scampered back to his room and put a condom on the dildo, posing beside the mirrored door of his wardrobe so he could see me front and back when he came in. Not long afterwards, the bedroom door opened and he entered, naked and with his hair slicked back wet.

  “Hey sexy,” I drawled, and he tried to smile, but I could see he was tense.

  He nodded at my get-up. “Retro. Cool.” The costume seemed to distract him.

  “So bring that cute ass over here where I can touch it.”

  He nodded, but I saw his Adam’s apple bob. “What about the tying-up part?”

  I’d forgotten about that, but was happy to improvise. “Stand here.” I pointed at the juncture of mirrored doors on the wardrobe, and when he was in position, I tied his wrists together. Then I opened the doors and looped the other end through the thick beam that supported the shelving above his head. When the rope snaked down, I pulled on it, and he didn’t resist his arms rising above his head. I tied a few knots to secure it.

  “Will that hold?” I asked.

  He nodded, still saying nothing, maybe mentally preparing himself. I closed the mirrored doors on the rope so he was facing his own reflection, and in that moment—strangely—I felt a surge of power, along with a completely inappropriate urge to hurt him, maybe smack his ass.

  “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 wa
nt 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.

  I’d just come off a marathon. The last thing I needed was more sex.

  Four whiskies later, my curiosity about the practicalities of pole dancing in high heels was appeased and my anxiety was a thing of the past. I got out my phone and looked at the time—impossible to guess in nightclubs. They’re perpetually dark.

  Six forty-five am. A respectable hour to ring Frith.

  She answered in two rings, “J,” just as the next song came on overloud—Robert Palmer’s Simply Irresistible.

  I raised my voice to be heard over it. “You sound perky.” The snappy line I’d formulated in my head came out slurred.

  “Dawn yoga on the veranda. Salute to the Sun.”

  I raised my glass. “Saluté.” Then I noticed it was empty. Again.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m drinking.” There was an important distinction there.

  “J. Where are you?” I knew that wary tone. She was about to go freak-out on me.

  “I’m fine. All good. Spiffing,” I added, and spittle rained out across my fingers. I put my glass down with a clunk. Shit. I was pissed already.

  My glance wavered over to the bar. Or…someone had laced my drink. I picked up my glass and sniffed in it but couldn’t tell anything past the melancholy scent of whisky. “What does Rohypnol feel like, Frith?”

  I heard a clattering from her end, then a bang, like the screen door slamming. “Where are you, honey?” More scrabbling. “Go slow. I’m writing it down.”

  The music got louder then and I had to say, “What?”

  “Where are you!” she shouted.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Fuck.” Then I put it back. “Sydney. The Cross.” I waited and heard nothing down the line.

  Then, “King’s fucking Cross? What are you doing there? Fucking hell, Jill. It’s seven in the morning. Have you been there all night?”
/>
  “I feel weird.” The room was starting to spin.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.” She sounded frightened then and I wanted to reassure her, but the sensible part of me knew she was right to be scared. We’d grown up in Dakaroo, a tiny outback town. Sydney was the big scary city, and its seediest corner was the Cross. To be here alone and vulnerable…

  I shuddered, realizing how dangerous my situation was.

  The music stopped and the room seemed suddenly darker. A middle-aged waiter loomed over me.

  “Another?” he asked and smiled, all yellowed teeth and nicotine breath in my face.

  “No.”

  I heard Fritha then. “Who are you talking to?”

  “The waiter.”

  “Put him on.”

  “What?”

  He was turning away.

  “Put the fucking waiter on, Jill!”

  “Excuse me!” I said way too loudly in the silent club.

  He turned back and smiled his yellow smile.

  “My friend wants…word.” I thrust the phone toward him, wondering belatedly if that was smart. What if he didn’t give it back? What if I was alone here with no way to contact anyone?

  My hand flopped back to my side, empty, and it was suddenly difficult to raise my head.

  I heard the waiter say, “Allergy? What…? Anaphylactic what?”

  Then I heard Fritha shouting from where I sat.

  “Ring an ambulance!”

  “All right!”

  He slapped the phone back onto the table in front of me but the sound was watery and far away. There was no sense of movement, only a dull thud when my head hit the floor, then nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Not Dead, Just Wished I Was

  An angel was speaking so I knew I’d gone to heaven.

  Her voice was high-pitched and imperious. “…cover the costs. I gave you a Gold Amex. And I want Doctor…” The voice faded as a warm bliss slid through my veins and I sighed. Then my bones—which had been achy and sore—melted like chocolate in a fondue, and the world was warm and sweet and delicious.