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The rush dissipates as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and unable to think straight.
Brock lifts himself into a kneeling position. I spread my legs wider, hoping he’ll take the bait.
Instead, he says, “That’s my good girl,” gets up, and heads for the door.
To say that Brock confuses me is an understatement.
We’re supposed to be making babies, but he refuses to do more than please me. Which he does often.
When I’m bold, I approach him, making my wants clear. He calls me a good girl, strips me down, and does things that make me scream.
But he never has sex with me.
Perhaps I’m misunderstanding things. I don’t know the first thing about relationships. I can’t even say whether my parents had a sex life after having me and my siblings. They were so frigid with physical affection.
I suppose that’s not fair. They were struggling to survive and couldn’t care for another child. They were being responsible.
Each night he sleeps with me curled in his arms. His cock is always hard, but he rarely lets me take care of it, and when I do, it’s always me using my mouth or hand.
Venus has gone silent. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. They said we had a year to conceive, but if Brock refuses to have sex with me, will they still give us the entire year?
I busy myself with chores, trying my best to play the role of old-timey wife as best I can, but it’s hard to do anything when despair is ever present, creeping around like a snake.
I go to the window and watch as Brock chops wood, which he always does after doing those sinful things to me. Perhaps the physical labor takes his mind away from his physical frustration.
Which he wouldn’t have to feel if he’d just do his job.
I still can’t believe how handsome he is, and that he’s so kind. My father was too, but with the way my mom talked, there weren’t many nice men left in the world.
Thinking back to when I accepted my role, sex was the last thing I wanted. Now it’s at the forefront of my mind. I think about it every night, not just because we have to do the deed in order to stay here.
I want Brock, body and soul.
But Brock only fucks whores.
My father used to say there’s always an answer to your problem, but you may not like the price. My problem used to be that I needed to get Caleb and Carrie to safety; the price—sex with Brock.
Now the problem is I need to get Brock to have sex with me; the price—heck, if I know.
I could keep going as we are, waiting for the day Venus finally comes to evict us. They can’t blame me for Brock’s disinterest.
But that could just be wistful thinking on my part. What if they think I should have enticed him more? Perhaps I shouldn’t rely on their goodwill. At some point, I need to take matters into my own hands, because if I don’t, there’s no telling what will happen to me and my brother and sister.
The thought of them cold, hungry, and sick is something I can hardly stomach. It’s not that I want to care for them. I don’t. It’s too great a responsibility.
But I can’t abide the thought of them suffering.
Which means I don’t have a choice. I have to confront Brock and figure out what is going on in his head and how we can work something out.
Because the alternative is too scary to risk.
A beep sounds, and I look over at the screen to see a new message from Venus.
* * *
LYRA
The door opens, and Brock comes storming in. I rush to get him a glass of lemonade.
