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I was prepared to do this, do anything to appease Kordin. During our eight-year marriage, I’ve never hesitated to fulfill his sexual urges. Whenever, wherever, however, I submitted to him, giving him what he needed, what he wanted.
And despite Reece’s outlandish instruction to stop, as well as his even more ludicrous belief I would, I had no real intention to. As long as he’s my husband, I would still fuck Kordin. I’ve always done what needed to be done, and usually, without complaint.
But sitting here, being forced yet again to face away from him, forhisaversion, forhiscomfort, forhisfucking pleasure, I…can’t. Physically, emotionally—I cannot make myself do it.
While lying in bed together, hot, sticky, and staring up at a ceiling I now wish had a skylight, Reece told me memories are like flowers. While their existence is inevitable, their cultivation is not. Depending on how much effort you put in, you can choose which ones die, survive, or thrive. He then told me that by propagating our sex together, reproducing the act as many times as he could in one night, he was raising the memory’s survival rate in his mind, and even though he didn’t say it, I’m assuming he meant mine as well.
I took the opposite approach, attempting to treat our night together like a weed, using eradication to rid myself of it. I’ve tried all week to forget about Reece’s midnight eyes, and how he refused to let them stray from mine the entire time his body worshipped mine.
Like a true weed, the memory is still here and it spread all on its own. Now it’s a whole meadow, obscuring all other memories.
We had sex so many times, and Reece kept eye contact with me through every one. That wasn’t because of his aversion, or comfort, or pleasure. It wasn’t about him at all. It was about me. Hemadeit about me and he did a damn good job ensuring I’d never forget it.
Kordin grabs me by my hair and twists my head to the side, so I’m half looking at him.
Normally having my hair pulled turns me on, but this isn’t for my benefit. It’s for his. Again.
“Kordin, I just did my hair.” I try to shake free to no avail.
It’s just shy of painful but only because I’m letting him move me. If I fight him at all, it will hurt.
“I give you everything you want, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I provide for you, treat you well, let you do whatever it is that pleases you.”
“Yes. Always.”
“Is it so unreasonable to get a little of that in return every now and then?”
I hate what I see in his eyes. It’s nothing like what Reece looks at me with.
“No. It’s not.”
“Then please, lift up your dress,” he repeats.
“What about a condom?” I ask, grasping at straws. I don’t want to fuck him, but…
I will.
“We don’t need one for what I have in mind.”
For a split second I feel a quiver in my belly, until he says, “It’s your fault for putting that visual in my head earlier,” reminding me he wouldn’t need a condom for anal.
I try to right my head again, but his hold at the crown tightens, keeping me bent at the unnatural angle and moving into painful territory. My cry drowns in my throat.It’s only temporary.
“We’ll need lube.”
“Allow me.”
Releasing my hair, he sticks his hand up my dress and jabs at my entrance, four fingers all at once. I’ve watched SWAT teams break into crack houses with more tact.
Unsurprisingly, my pussy remains as dry as the Atacama Desert, so even if he made it past the two barriers of undergarments currently playing my own personal gatekeepers, he wouldn’t get very far. And he definitely wouldn’t produce enough to lubricate an asshole.
“What is that?” Kordin continues poking around, huffing.
“Pantyhose.”
