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The dancers take the stage at the same time her nails scrape against my chest, my name catching on her lips. “Kallum.”
“Yes,” I hiss, my balls drawing up, threatening to follow her lead as her juices flood my dick. “Ah, fuck, I’m coming. Gonna fill this perfect pussy right up, reward my wife for being such a good little slut.”
She squeals, a second wave racking through her, spasming violently around me. Then my vision’s blurring, my own release crashing over me in a tidal wave of ecstasy, unloading stream after stream of hot, sticky semen into her until it’s dripping out while I’m still inside.
Letting out a low groan as the music around us seems to explode in volume, I slump against her, trying to steady my eyesight.
“Get off me,” she snaps, pushing at my shoulders.
I brace my hands on the chair and move to stand on wobbly knees, glancing down at the cum-and-blood-stained beauty before me, admiring the new scar on her thigh and my fingerprints on her neck.
She’s my magnum opus. An oil painting I want hanging on my wall for the rest of eternity.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter, not sure if she can hear me.
I reach to help clean her up, but she bats my hands away, righting her dress as much as possible. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Clenching my jaw, I take a step back, nodding, even though that same uneasy feeling flares up again in my stomach, a warning sign if ever there was one. I take my seat, tucking myself back into my pants, and wait while she disappears through the curtain.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
After a while, the unease morphs into something deeper, something sadder.
Something more permanent.
And when I leave the ballet early, sneaking into every single restroom available to the public, looking beneath every stall, I’m not surprised when all I find is her phone, abandoned on the back of a toilet.
A scrap piece of paper is tucked beneath the device, and my heart lodges deep in my throat, bringing with it a wave of nausea.
I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.
I stand in that stall far longer than I should, reading and rereading John Clare’s words, unable to shake the irony of how we seem to have come full circle.
I wonder if it felt this crippling for her, when I was the one who left.
