“The formula of masochism is the humiliated father. Is it not precisely the father-image in [the masochist] that is beaten, ridiculed, and humiliated?”
(Coldness and Cruelty. Gilles Deleuze, 1967)
“My love is part hate, part fear. In such a relation only one can be hammer and the other anvil. I wish to be the anvil.”
(Venus in Furs. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, 1870)
Fic Summary: Roger offers you a joint laced with ayahuasca and a desire to rekindle the passion in your marriage. He soon discovers he's the only man who needs any more kindling around you. What follows is a week of paranoia, transatlantic flights booked in secret, and the slow, excruciating quest to discover who's the most dangerous person in his marriage. Set in the gilded rot of 1980s Los Angeles — between Olympic pools and dog shit on marble floors, Spago lunches and unnamed nannies, designer dresses held up in bathroom stalls and a husband jerking off to the thought of losing you.
Words: about 8k
A/N: hello! i needed a break from my longer fic and this insanity came out as i watched a video essay about eyes wide shut and venus in furs. story is perhaps not as kinky as the references lol but i tried serving california gothic psychologically hotwifed roger. not sure anyone needs this but me. also deleuze didnt die for this but im sure hed appreciate it ! lol
With cold eyes, you gazed at him in hate, a sliver of cruelty seemingly about to slip out of your mouth. Your body was hidden by a heavy fur coat, untouchable. He waited and waited for you to speak, fearing the moment you would open your full lips to ruin him; he wasn't aware of what you'd say, but he knew, in the dream, that he should dread it, waiting anxiously for the release of your anger, the end of his suspense.
But your quiet, resting expression was what he found when looking around your dark bedroom. In the middle of the night, the warm summer breeze slipped through a crack in the window; Los Angeles had been your main home for a couple of years, now, though he felt ambivalent about the way American school seemed to affect your children, their wavering accents and pampered behaviors of kids sure that they were at the very center of the universe.
In any case, he decided to go back to sleep. He'd be catching a flight to New York in a couple of hours, probably leaving before you'd risen out of bed; it was probably nothing. He was never into interpreting dreams, something he always took as seriously as zodiac signs; laughable matters for crooks and charlatans. But the dream came back to him after a few months.
It was a rare moment of romantic youthfulness in your married life; he had just returned from a couple of weeks in Japan and Australia for promo, and his assistant had found a guy who, allegedly, managed to mix pot with ayahuasca into an odd strain of weed. After a few days of looking, the assistant got hold of the guy in Joshua Tree and managed to bring a tiny Ziploc to your shared mansion. Roger considered calling a few musician friends over to enjoy it together, but he missed when you would – oh, maybe ten years ago? – roll joints together and spend many hours late into the evening just talking, thoughts reeling out of your mouths.
So he decided to go upstairs, watching from afar as you put the kids to bed, your own private language with each of them, and followed you back into your shared room. You made small talk with him, at first. His replies made you notice you had his attention, so you shared a bit of the troubles the kids were having at school, the youngest picking too many fights and the eldest being the target of their classmates’ teasing, and he nodded, offering some vague advice when asked. You could see he had other plans in mind. When pressed, he offered you a fat joint; the pale rolling paper reflected in his golden wedding band.
He seemed oddly vulnerable, a tiny crack in his perfect facade so meticulously manicured in the last, what, fifteen years? It seemed to reach a part of you also long forgotten, carefree and restless, and you nodded a yes as you massaged some Crème de la Mer into your face. As he reached for his old S.T. Dupont lighter – too close by, the thought flashed across your mind, considering he technically stopped smoking last year – you settled next to him in bed, a bit of excitement rushing up your stomach, increased by the fact it'd been a few weeks since you last shared your bed.
The smoke swirled around you, enclosing you in bed as you took the first puff; Roger took the vision in, already feeling a familiar, pleasant weight over his limbs and a slight rush in his loins, briefly reminded of why he was so obsessed with you all those years ago, pleading that you'd take him in, giving you the leash to his neck, almost begging to be locked with you for life. Time sometimes took that perspective from the two of you, he thought.
As the conversation rolled out with the exhaled smoke, circles of hazed fog around your figures, he mentioned how he felt connected to himself all those years ago in that moment, and you cocked your head to the side. You had a hard time connecting with your older version, he heard you say, because she felt so haunted by the possibility of him leaving; the shadow of other women seemed to tower over you constantly, you shared. He let out a puff and asked what made it so different, now – did he prove himself trustworthy, after all this time?
But you shook your head no; it had nothing to do with trust. It was just time. If he hadn't left you yet, you argued, you felt a degree of security, based on present data, that he wouldn't anymore. Something inside Roger felt hurt, although your words seemed generally more complimentary than pejorative. He tried to shake the feeling by agreeing that he also felt so safe in his relationship with you that he felt he could really trust you, the only mother of his children; how your motherhood made him less paranoid, less jealous, and now sure that you'd be linked together forever.
You let out a chuckle; he gave you a confused look. You asked if he felt less jealous now that you were a mother, older, not the young thing he plucked from under your parents' roof. His brows knotted in a frown; no, of course that's not what he meant. The look in your eyes instantly reminded him of the dream he had months ago, the suggestion of cruelty, the pit in his stomach in response; the dread of your next words. He felt like you were somehow nearing, stepping closer and feeling around for the words that could annihilate him. He shook the thought again; this pot was making him paranoid.
And you, aggressive. Your sharp voice demanded him to answer: did he feel jealous of you? And he searched for the right words, trying to coax you back toward the girl he had in mind when he proposed this experiment: no, not at all, he trusted you too much. You kept an inquisitive gaze on him, quiet. Why, he probed, and you shook your head. He inquired again, looking for the reason why the conversation took that strange route. You shook your head again and said you didn't know. He said he felt like he owed you a lot, how you put trust in him even in moments he didn't earn it; how he felt bad for all the moving around, for his constant travelling, and how he was grateful you were such a saint, how he had no reason to fear anything from you, how he was sure that anyone could see the devotion you had to your marriage.
Suddenly, a cold laugh cut through the sea breeze and smoke that clouded the room. He looked in fear as your face contorted with castrating gaiety. When you opened your mouth to speak, his heart seemed to pump lead into his veins, cold and paralyzing. Why were you laughing, he demanded to know with a small voice he barely recognized, and you tried to restrain your face and voice. What, he almost begged to know, bracing himself for an admission like the ones that had slipped from his own lips, less often than they should have, and waited for impact. But your voice became soft and slippery like butter when you spoke again.
You told of a party, not long after you had your first child, where you finally felt the baby weight had shed enough and found a dress that could better accommodate your new, nursing breasts, where he was called into conversation with a couple of friends and seemed to slip away from you. Forced to be with the loneliness that felt so compounded in those first twelve months after birth, you sipped on champagne and tried to make small talk with another woman, someone's girlfriend, before she excused herself and you found yourself alone, gazing at a swimming pool full of young women and men and considering going home early.
A colleague of his, someone who frequented your home quite often, at the time, came to check on you, to say how much he missed having you around, how beautiful you looked. Roger swallowed hard, but stayed quiet, arms wrapped around himself, pupils wide. You continued, saying how pleased you were to have someone to talk to that already knew you, and how surprised you were when you noticed how he avoided asking about the baby, how his eyes discreetly slipped down your figure, how he complimented your hair and nails, your voice, the only suggestions of hormonal changes he seemed to comment on, while another more obvious one seemed to catch his gaze.
He talked and talked, and you sipped on more and more glasses of champagne. His hands were always busy with a sequence of drinks, whiskeys and bourbons, and you wondered if Roger even remembered you were at the party, seemingly long gone into other circles, other floors of the house. As hours slipped by, the man took a breath in and admitted with an urgent tone that he was in love with you, that he had been for over two years, and that he missed you in those last reclusive months. You were shocked at the admission, though not surprised, as you were already familiar with the way couples seemed to exchange parts, as well as the way some men seemed to gawk more frequently over you once they found out who you were married to, children trying to steal each other's toys.
Roger broke the silence, whispering a question: what did you do? He closed his eyes. You replied with an offended sigh: nothing, of course. You told his friend you were flattered, but that you were sure this was only a passing fancy, and you'd be as kind as a good friend of your husband deserved, forgetting this interaction the next time you met. The man seemed distressed, trying to go after you when you slipped away gracefully while looking for your husband, but soon giving up on his drunken quest as he found you with arms wrapped around your husband's biceps.
Your husband demanded to know, voice more self-possessed, who the man was. You said it was another musician, one he was closer with a few years back, one you never liked. He asked for a name, voice thick with anger, and you frowned: no. You wondered out loud why he was getting angry when you didn't do anything wrong, and added that the man continued trying to reach you whenever he'd get the chance, but you always refused. Roger asked for his name again, and said that if you were so sure it was nothing, why did you refuse to share the name with him, and why didn't you tell him about it then?
It was your turn to be exasperated: how did he, of all people, dare to question your faithfulness in this marriage? And he looked down, sighing, saying he didn't mean that, and you snorted: sure. He asked, demanded and begged for the name, promising he wouldn't do anything, he wouldn't tell anyone, he wouldn't confront the man, but you wouldn't budge. You sighed and said that his disproportionate reaction was exactly the reason you hadn't told him after all this time, and that it almost offended you that he didn't expect this to be a common occurrence; since he chose you for your looks, why was he surprised that they caught the eye of other men, his social equals?
Roger's eyes bulged, and he asked how many other times had men flirted with you, and you had to roll your eyes. How many times did other women flirt with him, you probed, and he sighed, lifting his hands in defeat. Okay, he said, I'm sorry, but please let me know who's trying to fuck my wife behind my back, he asked, and you said you would do so when he returned the favor. Understanding that the conversation had come to an end, you turned your back on him and wished him good night. So much for returning to the marriage of their youth.
The following day found the two of you hungover from pot, paranoia and pride. The two kissed each other good morning, agreed that last night's conversation was unnecessarily aggressive and that you were happy to be in a marriage where you could trust each other; you also swore off any weird, mixed strains of weed. You kissed the kids goodbye after breakfast, his ham and eggs and your black coffee and grapefruit, and he watched as you got ready for the day. He pretended to read the newspaper as you picked a black, classic bathing suit to swim for an hour in the Olympic pool – built last summer after the eldest qualified for Junior Olympics in the 100m Individual Medley.
Roger watched from his office's balcony as your toned arms powerfully cut through the water with precision, as your sunkissed legs propelled you from one side of the pool to the other, definitely faster than he could. He admired as you pulled yourself out of the water, drops clinging to your body, and lay on a pool chair to sunbathe, his Wayfarer stolen and used to protect your eyes from the sun. He caught the scent of your perfume as you got dressed after showering, and listened to the clicks of glass on wood as you put on makeup, to the sound of the hair dryer blowing your strands. He had just called his assistant to inform him he'd be late for his afternoon session at the studio when he heard the click of your heels on the travertine marble as you crossed the corridor.
Roger quickly pretended to go back to reading a letter opened in front of him when you opened the door with a smile, informing him that you'd be meeting friends for lunch at Spago and probably go shopping for gifts afterwards – in case your oldest managed to win next month's competition. You kissed him goodbye, a stain of mink-colored lipstick left on his lips, and he smiled and nodded as you left. But Roger's mind was already ablaze with suspicion: were you really just meeting friends?
He spent a restless and unproductive afternoon in the studio, treating every session musician with impatience and every fellow artist who passed by to greet him with a tinge of anger. He decided to end the session early and rushed recklessly back home, curiosity biting, fear eating at him; he needed to make sure you were home already. As he parked his car behind yours, Roger felt his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. He met you and the youngest for dinner – the older one was at a sleepover, it seemed. On a whim, he decided you should go out to eat, the three of you, and you quickly arranged for the nanny to dress the child appropriately, then touched up your look so it would be more appropriate for whatever restaurant he had in mind.
Roger hadn't decided, really, and would probably only decide in the car, since he took his time watching you touch up your eyeshadow, pick out a dress, put on heels, trying out different purses. Dinner was spent with his eyes drifting between you and whatever men that spoke to you; though his lips maintained playful conversation with your kid, who ended up as a cushion between him and the world he suddenly feared would take you from him..
As he watched you shower with an intensity you hadn't felt in his gaze in years, you warned you had a headache from the drinks at dinner and would take some Tylenol and go to bed. He stifled a groan and wished you a good night's sleep with a possessive kiss. Roger watched silently as your breaths became spaced out as you drifted off to sleep. Then, he crossed your shared walk-in closet, hard steps muffled by the thick carpet, and jerked off furiously, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking for release from the hard-on that had been haunting him all day as he thought of other men's hands on you, each move violent with the thought of every other hand that had done the same thinking of you, every mind that had used the sight of you in the same way he was now.
He woke up to an empty bed the following morning, and the housekeeper reminded him of your tennis class at the country club every Thursday as he moodily ate breakfast. Another session at the bathroom followed, paranoia slipping out with cum as he feared that your tennis instructor watched as the breeze lifted your white pleated skirt, one he watched you get into so many times, resentful of how rarely he had the pleasure of taking you out of it, always busy with schedules and touring dates and promo, losing track of what should actually matter, intensely conscious – now – of how many others might have tried to take advantage of his stupid absences.
He was unpleasantly reminded of another one – some stupid game show filmed in Birmingham he agreed to do three months ago – when he was met by his assistant in the living room, talking to the maid to have his luggage ready before lunch. Dreading himself, he asked the housekeeper to call the Country Club and get you on the phone so he could talk to you before the car arrived. When the call was transferred to the phone beside the bed, he was surprised by his own whiny tone as he explained he was leaving in a few hours, and you spoke in a winsome voice as you explained you were practicing with a friend – Lucy, from PTA, remember? – until noon, and you remembered he'd be gone for half a week for a shoot, but you were glad he called to say goodbye.
He asked if you could meet him in London right after the shoot, fly in on Sunday so you could spend a few days together, alone, like a proper romantic getaway. You said you had to take the youngest to a friend's birthday party on Sunday, but you could catch the red-eye Sunday night and meet him on Monday. He considered arguing, but knew it would make him look worse, so he agreed, thanked you, and kissed you goodbye over the phone.
The following days were torture. He developed a habit of calling you in the strangest hours, first waking you up in the middle of the night to make a call as he arrived at the hotel, early morning for him and 1 a.m. for you; then, he called late afternoon with an exhausted voice, and you made a point to ask why he was calling in the middle of the night. He said he was jet-lagged and missed you terribly. You chuckled, said he was cute and that you'd see each other in a few days. He sighed, anxious, as you wished him good night and a good shoot the next morning.
But Roger couldn't sleep, rest, eat, or do anything but feel his heart filled with dread as images of you flashed before his eyes: your smile to a valet who might carry the memory of you back home with him; the sight of your cleavage to a school teacher as he got up first to open the door on your way out of a meeting, fully aware of whose name you and your child carried, as well as how often Roger seemed to be away; the feeling of your hips stretched out by the physiotherapist's hands on a house call after a stressful day, still healing from the sequential births that split your abdominal muscles apart, and the way the groan that left your lips as the tension was released could be misinterpreted as a moan by a desiring mind.
The morning of the shoot, he was spiteful with himself for bringing this situation upon him, having to wake up early from the few hours of closed eyes he could manage, not really asleep as dread gnawed at him, be driven out for hours and prepared for a stupid game where he'd guess a song to win points against other artists. He got all of his wrong. Roger's mood was not improved as he said his goodbyes and decided to spend the afternoon drinking at a hotel bar, and was sure he would have to do the same on Sunday and early Monday until you arrived.
As he followed his plan through a lunch of cold cuts and old-fashioneds, he met a few friends and decided to play a round of poker with them to kill time. On a losing streak, he decided to hit the bar again to rest his heavy heart and pounding headache. To his dismay, the voice that called his name – and was ignored at first, before repeating the call until he was forced to acknowledge it with a turn and an uncomfortable smile – was the one he'd been picturing whispering those sweet nothings in your ear, all those years ago.
You never said a name, true, but his mind was quick then, even through the stoned haze, to map out which of his fellow colleagues was a musician that he drifted apart from in the last few years and that you never quite liked; the list could be a bit extensive, sure, but his gut always pointed straight to this fucking guy, one he always felt in competition with. Of course he'd be the first to sense Roger's stupid carelessness, having watched some not-as-faithful moments from him that he could surely weaponize against your relationship, but whatever. This man was a fucking sex pest. Of course he'd try to fuck his wife.
So, cold smile stamped to his face, Roger made small talk with the man, who inquired about his latest projects, wavering chart dominance, setbacks with MTV… A tiny prick of a precise, almost surgical needle in every word. Roger, always easy to bleed, took every blow straight to the chest, barely finding the wits to reply in the same playfully mocking tone. Something started eating at him, an itchy feeling crawling over the back of his thighs, cold and slimy. Could it be possible that he did, actually, succeed? That you decided to withhold more information when you saw the reaction on his face, locking away your truthful tongue, carelessly loosened by the funky weed? It wouldn't be out of hand, he argued with himself, as you'd already kept that encounter from him for so many years, another pregnancy, another child already born.
He did the math in his head, as quickly as the old fashioneds let him, and noticed he was still quite close to the man in front of him after you gave birth to the youngest. And he was willing to bet he had been as mindlessly careless about you as he'd been after the first, though he did make note how fast you bounced back, almost instantly, always such a fast learner, always better at the second turn, quicker and more precise at everything. Something he deeply valued in you, proud to see it reflected in your eldest. But oh, and his stomach churned at the realization: what if this ability to dominate anything you set your mind to turned against him? What if your bounce back had someone else's eyes in mind instead of his? What if they were the ones evaluating you right now?
Roger finished his millionth drink and excused himself, saying he had to look for a phone. His colleague started saying what a pity, since he needed to speak to him, and this piqued Roger's curiosity enough to show on his face. But the man was already looking for someone else to speak to, seemingly running away at the possibility of going home, not unlike men with guilty consciences often do – Roger knew that well enough. So, in a rushed tone, the man asked Roger to give his regards to the kids and wife, you, and even dared to ask him how you were!
Blood running cold, your husband replied with a quick “good, why?” And the guy nodded, looking away. Oh, nothing, the guy said, just thought of her. Is she alright? A cold shiver ran up Roger's spine as he nodded a “yes” again, and then excused himself before he did something unthinkable, accusatory, violent, or pathetic; his clenched fists demanded skin and blood, but his bloodshot eyes pricked with tears behind his sunglasses. He walked to the front desk and asked to use the phone privately; a known patron, accommodations were quickly made so he could use the manager's office in peace and quiet.
With every step to the office, Roger was reminded of another man who could've gotten easy access to you, the neighbourhood filled with geometric mansions and varied British accents, men he knew, men he competed with on a day-to-day basis and that he usually took pride in winning, even though it was all play, of course; except maybe it wasn't. And perhaps they knew how to play better than him, blindsided by his out-of-home wins, starstruck with his own success, oblivious to how it was pulling the two of you apart. But he was sure, now, he was the only one blindfolded to it.
Even now, Roger could sense competition with every turn of his finger on the phone dial, every number he pushed to reach; he could list at least three other men, his peers and equals, that could be taking you out for lunch, then dinner, maybe to a concert – he'd been so careless, couldn't even remember the last time he took you out dancing. Anger and panic threatened to boil out of his throat, but he kept his cool as he called his assistant and announced he needed to go home on the next flight straight to LA with absolute secrecy. The assistant, barely holding a sigh, asked him to hold for a moment as he would book the flight, and told him to go to his apartment; he'd get someone to pack for him.
Roger said there was no time for packing, and that he was already about to go to the airport. He asked to be informed of the departure time of his next flight on the phone car as soon as possible and slapped the phone back on the hook. He only had a dinner of salted peanuts and a Coke to try to sober up enough as he hit the road, completely silent behind the driver; only in the airport lounge did he remember to get some chewing gum and some cologne to spritz away the odor of horror and alcohol. If he was about to find you in bed with one of his mates, he at least wanted the dignity of looking as proper as possible while doing it.
But soon other images started to mix in with the memories of that night. He remembered your dress, long and black, French lace on the top and silk all the way down, how it floated around you like ink, dark and sultry. He was willing to bet many eyes took their time running over your figure. A face he hadn't thought about for years crossed his mind: Maureen Starr. He thought of his absences, of your social life, of the friends you had made in town while he was skipping around the world. He thought of a dark bathroom, dress skirt lifted up as it was in your bathroom, but strong, masculine hands held them up; long sunkissed legs wrapped around masculine hips; open, full lips moaning a name he couldn't make out.
He wasn't sure who the man was now; the face seemed to slip away from him in the disturbing vision. His suspect from the bar, by now a couple of hours behind him, was the most constant, of course, but others could fit the picture perfectly. American musicians, other admired drummers, executives, even bandmates; Elton John, David Bowie, George Harrison, Henry VIII. Men, women, old boyfriends of yours, old girlfriends of his; his assistant and his roadie and his driver. The nanny, the gameshow presenter, a marble Venus statue and Pygmalion himself; any and everyone had, for a moment, your legs wrapped around them, a multitude of names leaving your lips with a breathy sigh; and he could only watch, frozen. He watched, he watched, he watched. It was impossible to know how long this exercise took, the sun frozen above the horizon, always one step ahead of him, nearing you before he could, too. He wasn't sure he had been dreaming until the rough landing jolted him awake. Embarrassed, he noticed he had a hard-on, and shifted his pants before taking his seatbelt off.
Sleepy in the car on the way to the mansion, he asked the driver to turn on the radio. “I've been running through these promises to you / That I made and I could not keep…” a masculine drawl echoed around him, tinted windows obscuring the view of the moon. It was almost midnight. If there was a time to catch two lovers under the sheets, this was it. He waited patiently as the driver opened the gate with the remote control. As he parked behind your champagne Mercedes, the car radio rasped: “Or I'd crawl to you baby / And I'd fall at your feet / And I'd howl at your beauty / Like a dog in heat.”
Roger took silent steps across the immaculate living room, taking his shoes off before going up the stairs, muted steps of cotton socks on polished wood. The corridor was chiaroscuro; he slowly approached the bedroom door, opened by just a crack, a soft, feminine sound slipping out of it. He froze, his heart sinking down his body and through the floor, opening a crater in the same living room floor he skipped over dogshit in the night he regretted the most in his life. His heart was still beating as it fell through the crater, rushing down the San Andreas fault lines beneath the house, finally burning to ashes in the earth's core; he was sure crucifixion was less painful. Suspicion brought him here, sure, but he didn't really, up until that point, believe that his nightmarish visions could be true.
Ashen-hearted, he found strength within himself to cross the doorway and walk to your bed, able to recognize the throaty sounds your voice made when strained anywhere, anytime. But as he pulled the sheets from you, he only found your lonely body under it, silvery under the moonlight, cheeks stained with streaks of tears, eyes still closed. You were having a nightmare. He looked to the side of the bed and found a half-made suitcase, pretty dresses and heels. You were completely alone.
“And I'd claw at your heart
And I'd tear at your sheet
I'd say please (Please)
I'm your man”
“Darling?” He called, sorrow drooling out of his drunken, paranoid mouth. You shifted in your sleep, restless, disturbed. Roger climbed onto the bed with you, minced muscles under alcohol and jetlag, and delicately shook your shoulder to wake you up. You did, confused, but relieved to see him; as you sat, you pulled him into a tight, bear-like hug. He was pleased to be locked in place with you, all the knots in his back and sore legs and heartburned stomach undoing themselves under your touch. He let out a pleased sigh and wrapped his arms around you, breathing in your perfume, memorizing the feel of your silky slip on, the pressure of your skin against his. Relief. Finally.
But not from you, yet, at least not completely. Tears soaking his shirt, you cried onto his shoulders. “What happened, my love? Why are you crying?” Roger asked, guilty; could you sense his distrust? “I was having a nightmare,” you shook your head against his chest, then looked up to see him. “There was a scandal; you cheated, and everyone knew this time: journalists and my parents and comedians,” you explained, breathless, and your husband cooed you. “No, no, that's not real, it's not true,” he tried to soothe you like a baby, but a whimper left your lips, and you shoved your head back into his chest; he caressed your head, nails slightly scratching your scalp as he knew you liked. “I had to take the kids to school and swimming lessons and ballet, and everyone knew, everyone laughed behind my back. I could hear them as soon as I turned around and stopped facing them. Oh, God, I'd rather die than go through this, God, please,” you begged, almost a prayer, and Roger felt an ache on his chest. This was his fault. This was on him. “It's not real, it's okay. I'm here. I'm here for you,” he promised.
“What are you doing here?" you asked, surprised, meeting his gaze, as if you were now finally waking up. “I needed to see you,” he justified. “But I was about to go see you in a few hours,” you pushed, and he shrugged his shoulders with a smile on his lips. “I know. I know. I just… I missed you too much to wait,” he tried to glue an excuse together, and it seemed to work, a smile slowly taking over your expression. You were so eager to have him, he noticed, heart still in his chest, guilt pumping through every vein and filling his cells like oxygen. “I love you,” he professed, embarrassed when he realized he couldn't recall the last time he said it to you. “And I missed the kids, too. I needed to be with you three,” he admitted, and the truth seemed to resonate through his body.
You nodded, pleased, pupils wide. “I have to be honest, too,” he heard himself say. You looked up again, now worried. “I couldn't stop thinking about what you said last week. About the man that tried to fuck you,” he confessed, and you let out a soft breath. “Oh, baby, forget about it,” you said, “I shouldn't have told you. I knew you'd take it to heart, it would eat at you.” But he disagreed. “No, I'd rather know. It's torture to not know. To guess. Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry for everything. There's nothing I can do to make up for it all. I can't believe I had to fear losing you to remember why that would be the worst thing that happened to me,” he cried out, and it was your turn to comfort him against your chest.
“Sure it's not just because of our pre-nup?” you quipped, and he let out a nasal laugh, shaking his head. “Cause I got you under my iron grip, boy,” you joked, and he laughed. “I'd just let you take it all, if only you'd come back,” he almost whined, and it was your turn to laugh. “I'll keep that in mind,” you retorted playfully, and he looked up to stare into your eyes. “Oh, don't joke about that now, please, please,” he asked, and you apologized as he pressed his head back into your cleavage.
“Or maybe I'd have the pleasure of working harder just to fatten your alimony by the month,” he smirked against your breasts after a few moments, and you let out a throaty laugh. Clarity suddenly crossed your body like lightning. “I know what you can do to make up for it,” you announced, and he looked up again, curious. “Something we need to do as soon as possible,” you raised your brows and watched as his pupils widened with anticipation. “What is that?” Roger inquired, and you beamed. “Fuck.”
A grin took over his face. Before you could react, he crashed into you with the violence of the waves against the cliffside just outside your window, sea breeze spraying saltwater on your skin as Roger's lips pressed against yours with enough violence to bruise, his spit filling your mouth when he pushed his tongue between your lips, cracking them with a pleased groan. You felt the languid air reach into your slip dress, a whiff of wind that cleared the path for your husband's strong, deliberate grip.
You let out a gasp when he slid both hands under the silk and squeezed your ass, pulling you against his overdressed figure, sitting you on his lap, lips never leaving yours, refusing to come up for air. A whimper left your lips as he pressed you against his cock, trouser zipper scratching the inside of your thigh, and an almost masochistic grunt came out of him to match your moaning as you rolled your hips on top of his, ecstatic. He seemed to recover some sense of self-control and was taken over by a distorted-mirror version of your discipline. He pushed you back into the mountain of milky pillows.
Still dressed, he focused his efforts on ripping every thread of fabric from your body, and you could swear you heard the fragile lace of your underwear cry as he tore it off you. You watched, admiring the vision of this man-beast; not even in the glorious first years of your marriage had he seemed so eager to devour you. And devouring seemed to be the goal; he pushed the silk slip up so he could see your breasts and swallowed at the view, mouth watering. He sucked and bit with an almost efficient rhythm, watching as the lovebites developed, skin red; when he was sure he left a mark, a satisfied, smug look took over his beautiful face.
Brushing his nose down your navel line, he breathed in, a hound before a feast, and you squirmed, tickled. He looked up to meet your gaze and smiled, pleased, before repeating the movement and eliciting the same reaction from before. Toes curled, you fidgeted under his touch with anticipation. Seeming to sense it, somehow, his gaze got heavy with lust, and he deliberately pressed the tip of his nose above your lower abdomen, nibbling on his way down to the side of your hips, where he opened his lips and pressed a wet kiss over the skin before sinking his teeth into it, making sure to leave another mark, before lapping his tongue over the reddened skin to soothe it.
Your head rolled back with pleasure, the teasing making you as impatient as a teenager, and you tangled your fingers around his pale strands, pulling them as you pushed his head down. He laughed, relishing the effect he could still have over your body. The puff of breath that left his lips gave you goosebumps just above your womb, and you pushed him down again with a dissatisfied whimper. He obliged, a dextrous hand spreading your thighs as the other snaked up your sternum to keep you in place. The second move made you sure there was more teasing to come; you were elated.
He rubbed his nose against your labia, humming blissfully as he breathed in deeply. The vibrations from his throat made you purr, rolling your hips against him in search of more friction; he hooked both your legs over his shoulders and slid a hand up to hold your hips, specifically on the side he hadn't bitten. Though, by the sheer pressure of his grip, you were sure he meant to leave a mark there, too. He slid his nose between your folds until he reached your core, getting a cry from you. He glided his nose from your entrance to your most sensitive point; pleased to earn a loud moan with that, he settled there, rubbing circles in an ever-evolving pace before slipping his tongue between you, painting languid lines back and forth before pushing it into your entrance slowly, enjoying every moment of your desperate tilts and sways in an attempt to gain more contact against his lips.
He deliberately developed a pace of his own that seemed to fit with your unruly movements, delivering waves of ever-increasing pleasure as you rubbed yourself against his face, desperate to fuck whatever part of him you could. His grip was still tight, holding you in place, the pressure of it only making you enjoy pushing it even more. He then slid both hands to the sides of your hips, but no longer trying to stop you from swaying against him, now giving support so your tired hips could roll with less effort. You moaned louder than you had ever since you moved into this house, closer to release, tension contracting your muscles and locking Roger between your thighs, where he seemed happy to stay.
As lust crowded your thoughts, you only felt his humming moans of satisfaction in response to your desperate pleas for him to go faster; sure of himself, he did no such thing, delaying your release until desperation pulled a please from your lips that seemed to reach him. Then, looking up to stare deeply into your eyes, he slid two fingers inside you as he plunged his tongue against the bundle of nerves that seemed on fire. In that same moment, overstimulated into exhaustion, you came as you never had before, his many years of experience all laser focused on you, ripples of pleasure leaving your sensitive skin exposed and your mind hazed with ecstasy.
Roger suddenly towered above you before you even realized he moved; you decided to help him out of his strained trousers and boxers, salivating, but he pressed his palm against your ribcage to keep you in place. You took the opportunity to rip the slip off and throw it across the room. He undressed with efficiency, again, barely containing his desire, and as he positioned himself against your entrance, he smirked the same smirk he gave you so many years ago at a pub, convincing you to follow him into hell if necessary just to make him yours. With one swift thrust, he penetrated you all at once, leaving you gasping for air out of pleasure and pain, and stayed put for a moment so you could adjust to his size.
It didn't take long to adapt to what was already yours, so in a blink you pushed yourself against him, making sure he penetrated you all the way to the hilt, disappearing inside of you. Any facade of control dissolved, replaced by a triumphant expression, and he pounded into you at an unforgiving pace, sliding in with violence, seeming to claim every inch of you from whatever invader he imagined; God, thank God he imagined them. You needed this, his possessive touch, his invasive takeover, his conquering thrusts.
You soon neared your second high and he drove into you mercilessly as you reached it, screaming his name. Something seemed to shift at that sound; instead of towering over you, he brought himself closer to you, sliding your ankles to his shoulders and gluing himself to you, chest to chest. As he melted over you, you felt his pounding heartbeat synchronize with yours, and cried as the new angle of your legs gave him access to even deeper within you; you felt out of breath, and were sure that, if you could look down, you'd see a mound on your lower abdomen out of the sheer upward pressure against your cervix.
As you got closer to reaching your third orgasm, he tilted your chin up to face him. “Look at me,” he commanded, still thrusting, and it seemed like a herculean effort to do anything but come; yet, you did as he said. “Who do you belong to?” he groaned, struggling to keep his focus. “You,” you moaned instantly. “Louder,” he charged, and you did exactly so. “Come for me,” he sighed, exultant, eyelids heavy. And you did just so.
Once you opened your eyes again, he seemed satisfied, willing to finally let himself go. Instinct taking over, you pushed yourself up, earning a confused groan from him, but you pressed both hands to his chest until he was under you. Slipping out of him, he started to complain as you turned around, but lost his words again as you started riding him relentlessly; through the closet door mirror, you could see his elated profile as he admired your ass, eyes closing as he finally let himself go. Mid-orgasm, you called his name with a clear voice. “Roger,” you demanded, and his body immediately responded, darkened pupils meeting your gaze. “Hm?” was all he could manage. “What are you?” you cut through his moans with a clear voice. He let out a weak smile as he stated, simply: “I am your man.”
A smirk on your lips, you turned around and rode him implacably, about to meet your climax one last time as you felt Roger spurting inside of you. A final act of devotion, Roger sat up to help you, thrusting his pelvis in perfect synchronicity to yours, his strong hands grabbing your hips and letting you release their weight onto him as he guided your movements until you came on top of him, softening inside you. Exhausted, he let his body fall back onto the bed; you leaned forward, gripping his shins. Roger admired the cascade of hair draped behind you, decorating your elegant curved back, a sinuous ionic column. As you rose and looked back again, he realized he, for once, didn't fear the words about to leave your lips.
ok opened my ask box again… so many good requests! ill go over at least one of them this weekend promise
need to remember what its like to write a self contained story so my brain doesnt forget what its like to write something that isnt a 15k words long fic chapter lolll
ok opened my ask box again… so many good requests! ill go over at least one of them this weekend promise
need to remember what its like to write a self contained story so my brain doesnt forget what its like to write something that isnt a 15k words long fic chapter lolll
Forever reblog mom and dad taking the kids out for the evening during their summer holiday but giving up on trying to get them to dress up for a nice dinner
areudirty
jbbartram-illu
kianamaiart
