Hey there, Void. This title is misleading. It makes it sound like I’m going to put my own sex life on blast, which I’m not. No offense, but we barely know each other, and my mom reads these. Annyyywayyyyy… So I’m working on some preliminary stuff for another novel, and I had some music playing in the background, and I got inspired. I’m not ready to write this thing quite yet, but I typed out this little drabble. I can’t give you any background info or any sort of set up because I don’t have it yet. This is just a fleeting little scene. Let me know what you think! 🙂
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I have these times when I’m alone in the house (face it, girl, you’re alone in the house more than there is company over) where I wander the halls aimlessly. It’s never-ending. For the life of me, I haven’t the faintest idea why he chose this place to call home. It’s far too big for two people, let alone one person. Did he live here alone before he brought me along? I think he must have been. I don’t think this reclusive thing he has going on started with me. I think it’s been a thing for a long time. Call it a hunch.
I travel up and down the halls, through the maze of rooms, wandering while blasting music from the speakers in the living room. It used to be rock music, but lately, I’ve taken up classical. I’m not that kind of girl, even though I’m sure he’d want me to be, but it fits the aesthetic he has going on so much better. It makes my time alone whimsical.
I’m always expecting to find something bad, like a dead body. The music shifted to something low and creepy. Instead of one dead body, I imagine hundreds, all spilling out from the floorboards. A guy in a mask has to have some skeletons in his closet, you know?
It always turns out that the more I look, the less frightened I am and the more excited I become. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t expect to find anything sinister lurking in the shadows or if it’s because if there were something, it would make sense. It would end this nagging feeling in the back of my mind.
It’s his house, but it’s my house, too, and if I want to go body hunting, well fuck, it’s my right to do so.
I never travel too far, though. Let’s not get overzealous here. This house is like a castle, and while it’s huge enough on the outside, it’s even bigger on the inside. I have this reoccurring fear of getting lost on my way to the kitchen and starving to death before anyone can find me. It’s stupid, I know. It’s big, but it’s not that big. It’s just a feeling, I guess.
Is it that weird to be afraid of a house?
Is it weirder to be afraid of my husband?
He’s never done a thing to me, and yet…
I don’t know. I’m being paranoid. Too much time alone in this Mall of America-sized living space has got me on edge.
This just isn’t at all what I had envisioned my life to be like, you know? I thought there would be way more glitz and glamor than there is. I stay home while he goes and makes women hot for him on stage. I know for a fact I’m not the only one who stared at his hands and wondered what they could do on someone like me. There’s a whole reddit group dedicated to the man’s fucking hands, for gods sake. He can do things beyond your wildest dreams, and still, he will not touch me.
Is it me?
Is he repulsed by me?
I can remember one time a few years back, it must have been a few days after we got married, and I was on his bed waiting for him. We hadn’t had sex yet. I thought he was trying to build up the sexual tension, and I got tired of waiting, so I took matters into my own hands. I sprawled out in lingerie and waited for him to come home. It was a look that won me a lot of favors with other men, lesser men than him, and when he walked in, I thought he’d take me right then and there.
Instead, laid on the bed next to me, watching behind that mask of his, lips parted just enough. I reached out to kiss him, and he recoiled. Not a lot. He didn’t cause a scene, he just moved, just out of reach, and so I didn’t pursue. Since he wouldn’t let me touch him, I touched myself. He reached his hand out toward me, gloved, as always, and floated just above my skin. He never touched me once, but I could almost feel him all the same.
I rolled onto my back, really getting into it, and he scooted in closer to me. Never touching, but almost. His hand ghosted over my body, and I think he was hard, but I was too focused on me to take much notice. Now, of course, I wish I had looked. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this to myself.
“Vivian,” he purred in that deep voice of his. I love it when he says my name. “Come.”
And I did. I gave it my all and came harder than I had in my entire sexual existence. You would probably think I was lying or overselling it, but I swear to you that I’m not. In two words, he made me come, and I reached out to him to cling on for dear life, to ride that final high, and—
He moved out of reach faster than I could grab, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. I clutched a pillow instead, rocking into it in time with my heartbeat, wiping my hand on the fabric and in one blissful moment not giving a single fuck about any of it.
I laid there, satisfied but empty, hollow. He bid me goodnight and turned away, closing the door behind him.
I wonder if he heard me cry?
I haven’t tried anything like that since.
Not with him, at least.
Manda Kay Writes 