Filled
c.2001, Miriam M. Wynn
Marya came home one day with a video tape in a black box with no label. She gave Timothy her easy, full lipped, toothy smile, and let the box fall easily onto the hardwood coffee table before disappearing into the back of the apartment. He heard drawers opening, closing, the rustling of plastic, then the bathroom door shut. Water began to run. His eyes had only lifted once from his reading, to see her when she entered, cheeks ruddy from the cool air outside and the wisps of her short haircut flying every which way. She was usually disheveled like that, but it was one of the reasons he liked her.
He forgot about the video tape, drifting into the sea of financing columns and tiny newspaper print, the stock market rising and falling, his future riding upon how intuitive he was at a game of numbers. When he next looked up again, it was to the sound of Marya’s Asian slippers across the white tile floor, into the kitchen, to make tea.
“It’s dark, Timothy, turn on the light,” she prompted, passing him in one easy glide to set the tea in front of him, on her way to light candles on the opposite end of the long living room.
“Sorry, I didn’t notice.”
She paused, her brown eyebrow raising. “You didn’t notice it was too dark to read?”
“When it’s gradual like that, you adjust.”
“And that’s why you wear glasses,” she murmured, her mysterious smile sliding into place again. He pretended to be angry by giving her a direct, sarcastic stare, but she shrugged it off and finished with her candle lighting. She wore a light cotton tank top, with the words “spank me” on the front in small, plain black print. “bite me” was printed on the back. The shirt was reversible. She had worn it the other way around depending on her mood.
They had been together over two years now, living together for one. He had debated for a long time over whether to take the plunge and share his private hours with her, but her ease, her nonchalance, her unabashedly un-possessive air had been what convinced him that his being was not going to be swallowed up into her own. And it had been relatively pleasurable, sex always on hand when he reached out for it, the occasional unexpected tussle.
She did not coddle him, worship him, or walk all over him. Things were at a nice even keel. He preferred things equal, yet sometimes wondered if something were lacking. They were so easygoing together, so calm and unaffected that he felt, sometimes – well frankly, he thought they were boring. It wasn’t her, exactly, or even himself, it was just–they were so comfortable with each other, so aware of what the other was generically made of, that none could surprise the other. There was nothing new. And that made for a tame existence. He’d come to accept it, in his way. He never really brought it up. He wasn’t very good at verbally accosting touchy issues and knew that she didn’t usually have an interest in lingering on uncertainty. She liked action. Meandering debate didn’t suit her. You were either in or out. That was another thing he liked about her.
“Can you turn on the tv?” Her voice was mild, behind him, and he heard her approach. She held a steaming mug of tea. They did not own porcelain. She was too practical for that.
His hands finally set aside the newspaper and he absent-mindedly reached for the remote. The television turned on to reveal a gritty detective show. A man was beaten in an interrogation room, and a cop grabbed the growling detective to prevent him from further violence.
“Mmm, turn the volume up, will you?” She had set her cup of tea down and moved, again, off to do some errand behind him in the living room. “Could you pop the tape in? I’ll be right back.”
He wondered what she’d brought, then. They hadn’t watched a movie in a long while - long hours at work usually had one or both of them tired and there never seemed to be time to go to the theater. He actually considered telling her he didn’t even feel up to it tonight–he felt a yawn coming on.
He opened the box, and looked at the case and on the body of the tape for a label. There was none. Curious, he pushed the tape in, took up the remote, and moved back to his chair facing the television on the far side of the coffee table. She had not returned from wherever she’d gone - he thought, perhaps, the bathroom. He settled in.
Black screen rolled by for several seconds, and then, in sleek, angular script, the word “VIXEN” rose up on the screen. “Video” appeared in small print beside it, and the entire screen faded to black. Music began. It was unobtrusive and mildly suspenseful, and he turned up the volume.
“M, it’s started, hurry up.” No answer. He didn’t pause the tape, but continued to watch the screen. He had just lifted his thumb to press the fast forward button when a scene unfolded.
An olive-skinned young woman, full bosomed and curvy, smiled at a person off-camera. She spoke, but she spoke in French, a language he had very little knowledge of, and of which Marya had only slightly more. The camera pulled back to reveal more of her and her figure - she had riotous brown curls and a slightly middle eastern look about her, a long, slightly hooked nose, and lips even fuller than Marya’s. Her voice was inviting, but light; into the camera moved a man, who murmured to her, lifted a few of her long locks in his hand, before casually sliding that same hand over to cup one of her breasts. They were covered in a tight black jacket, which was buttoned but had a plunging neckline; it was clear that beneath it she wore only her black lace bra, which peeked through as she leaned into him.
They continued to speak, but it was obvious by now what Timothy was watching. He raised an eyebrow and looked back, again, for Marya, but she had not emerged. He turned back to the video.
The woman led the man to the bed, and sat down. She wore a flaring skirt, which he easily lifted; beneath it, crotchless panties. She unbuttoned her jacket and her breasts spilled out - they looked deliciously real, rather than bulbous and false, like those of most porn actresses he had seen. It was a matter of moments before the man’s fingers and tongue were at her, and she moaned, sighed, her red fingernails digging into his scalp. Then, a man cleared his throat. The woman gasped, looking up just as her lover plunged his tongue into her, but her eyes were caught on a new arrival - another man, as averagely handsome as her first.
The man approached, undid his zipper and belt, and presented the woman with a flaming penis. She sucked upon him immediately, and the man lapping at her petalled pussy finally undressed. The video didn’t waste any time and cut to him sliding into her slowly, as she moaned, mouth full of cock, eyes sleepy, breasts bouncing with the rhythm of the bed as they rocked.
Timothy’s breathing had slowed to the drugged, sleepy state of arousal, his own cock hard in his khakis. He slid down in the chair, setting the remote to the side of his leg and placing a hand on each knee. He waited, watching through his narrowed lids as the woman was placed on her knees and filled from behind by the second lover, while the first took his place kneeling before her on the bed, moaning at her skilled fellatio.
Minutes of moaning past, and then, something slightly unexpected. The first lover slid down onto the bed, his penis jutting upward, pushing against the woman’s cheek, breast, belly. The second lover slipped out of her gaping sex, his flesh slick with her juices, and they all moved closer to one another. Poised, she eased the first lover into her cunt, moaning, and eventually exploding into a shriek as the second lover began to push into her asshole, gripping her hips firmly. They moved, pumping against one another, the woman filled with cock, and Timothy, breath held tight, felt a hand ease toward his crotch. Marya had not arrived. He wondered what, specifically, she wanted tonight.
The camera had closed in upon the three gushing, crushing genitals, the scrotum sacs swinging slowly as the men worked as best they could in a shared space. It was then that the woman leaned forward, senseless with her pleasure - a quite believable pleasure, not as staged as Timothy was used to seeing - and said something guttural to the lover beneath her. The man moaned, opened his eyes, and looked up at the other man, who leaned close, the woman sandwiched between them, near upright. And then, they kissed.
It took a moment to register. Male tongues, wet, slid against one another, the men panting, the woman vicious in her screwing and suddenly, she reared up and came, shaking, her eyes feral on the two men whose tongues still tangled, wetly, while they pumped within her. This was where Timothy expected the men to pull out of her and spray themselves all over her face and chest, but they didn’t. They apparently had not come yet, and they pulled out slowly, cocks still hard.
The woman smiled wickedly at them, and left the room. The men were alone. They lay on the bed, speaking casually, waiting for her to return. She came back dangling toys from her hand. She commanded, and they obeyed, one man standing back and the other sitting on the bed, his penis at attention. The woman bared her teeth, but it was not a smile. She tossed her toys onto the bed and plucked out a set of anal beads. She set to easing them into him, his legs splayed, and he moaned, helpless, as she licked lightly at his sex, leaning over him while he reached for her breasts, squeezing. When all the beads were in, she smiled, and called for the other lover. He advanced.
She had him kneel on the bed. She spread his ass cheeks and spilled several drops of lubrication down the crack, rubbing in the slick liquid so that he moaned, pressing himself outward. Her laugh was low, and excited - she looked to the remaining lover, who watched. She nodded. Slowly, he moved forward, his penis still hard and raging. She took hold of it, and guided it slowly in. He sighed, watching in amazement as he pushed in to his waiting male victim.
The invaded man gasped in shock, and seemed to tense, but the woman slapped him on the ass and he remained silent, allowing the other to go further. The standing lover, when all the way in, gave a low breath of relief. It was obvious what the woman wanted him to do. He began to fuck him.
Timothy’s hand remained still, near his cock, which had not wilted at all but grown, curiously, harder, tenting his pants almost painfully. He shifted in his chair and began to look around again to call Marya, but her voice stopped him.
“Keep watching.” There was a command to it he had not heard from her before. Not like this, anyway. He stilled, torn between looking back at her anyway and obeying. But he obeyed. He heard her moving closer behind him.
On the screen, one man bent forward on all fours, fucked deeply and soundly from behind by another. Timothy had not expected this. The men had apparently not done this before, or were good actors, for their shock and pleasure at the experience played across their faces - they seemed to have not had sex with other men before. Watching, the woman donned a black strap-on dildo, but neither was aware of her, lost in their low grunts in rhythm with one another. The man on his knees had lifted a hand to touch himself, and now masturbated while filled with another man’s cock.
The woman stood behind the standing lover, and with a brush of her fingertips, slowed him. He eased his legs apart, moving toward the bed so that he could half kneel. The other man walked forward on his knees and hands to accommodate. The woman took hold of the string for the anal beads and began to slowly pull. The man shuddered and moaned, speaking aloud violently, but his hands gripped the man in front of him, and began a slow pump. Every few minutes, the woman would pull out another bead, so that he sighed, and pumped deeper, the two male bodies rolling as they groaned.
The woman stood ready, her dildo slick with lubrication, and just as the last bead popped out, she used her fingers to part his rear as with the other she began to ease herself into him. He cried out, frantic, and slowed, but his body shook, and his penis, caught by the camera as it pulled out, flamed thick and red just before plunging into his male lover again, their noises echoing off the walls. The woman fucked him, as firmly as he had fucked her some time before, her hips pumping, her hands grabbing him by the waist, tossing her hair back over her shoulder with a look of brutal determination on her face.
When the men came, it was like this: one clasping his penis as he spurted onto the bed, his belly, his hand, the camera watching as he clutched himself, rubbing, his face disbelieving. Behind him, the man had shuddered to his own climax, and eased his penis out, dribbling semen down into the tight hole he had just left, his right hand working his flesh of the last bits of liquid.
Behind them, the woman stood, her dildo standing proudly, her eyes smoky and satisfied. Her hand distractedly stroked the black cock, teasing it as if it were real. She said something else to the men, who looked back at her, exhausted and sheepish, before the scene faded to black.
The music continued and he had the sense that more would come but Marya leaned over him from behind, took up the remote, and cut everything off. She leaned down behind him, her mouth pressed to his ear.
“I want that,” she said, low, soft, and then she walked away, leaving him hard and wanting in the darkness of flickering candlelight.
Of course she had left him in a state. He was confused, but knew that at the moment relief was necessary. Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes had passed, his cock going through various stages of arousal and relaxation, but the last half hour had determined that he was, after all, turned on.
Timothy stood, and moved through the shadows and into the bedroom, to find her lying on her side, face turned into the pillow. He did not turn on the light. Instead, he moved to the bed, took off his clothes, and standing with his cock hovering in the air before her, leaned just low enough to touch the tip of his penis to her lips. Her lips parted, and her eyes glittered up at him in the darkness.
“Suck me,” he said. She opened her mouth wider, and leaned forward. He straddled her, as she pulled her arms from under the sheet to guide him into her mouth. His sex found her mouth wet, and hot, and he sighed, easing in and out deeply into the throat that was so good at taking all of him. He wasn’t unnaturally large but had a girth that usually choked a woman. But Marya knew the art of relaxing herself so that she didn’t choke and he had the pleasure of pressing himself to the very back of her throat. When he wanted quick, sure release, this was how he usually claimed it.
Through her gulping, sucking sounds, he heard her breathing, quick and excited, and pulled away. His penis hovered, and she looked up at him, panting.
“Another man?” He said, voice low, as if he didn’t want to disturb the graphic moment he’d just interrupted.
“Yes,” she said, just as softly. Her breast were pale in the moonlight that slid across the bed through the sheer curtains, and her nipples were hard, pushing against the air.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I ... want to be filled. We never even use toys. I want more.”
“Did you always?”
“Yes.”
“And you never said anything.” His cock still hovered, and her tongue eased out, licked the tip. She lingered before answering.
“I didn’t know if you’d understand.”
“What if I don’t?”
A long silence. He watched her. She wriggled up and claimed his cock suddenly, fiercely, and he cried out, trapped in her mouth as she worked him. She slobbered on him, pumped him tightly with her lips, and he tensed, trying to fight the flood, wanting an answer. But he couldn’t hold out. Her nails suddenly gripped the sides of his naked hips and the shock of it made him surrender, and he came, exclaiming as the semen spurted, down deep into her, sucked down greedily by her skilled throat.
When Marya finally released him he made a slight whimpering sound, and beneath it he heard her reply.
“You will.”
The next morning began like any other. Timothy was wary, watching and wondering when she would next introduce something so alien to him as her secret fantasies, ones she’d always had, unbeknownst to him. He felt slightly cheated, as if he had been denied full access to her before and now knowing it, felt obstinate. He didn’t know whether to be glad she’d finally chosen to reveal things or not. He didn’t know if he should assert his anger at this betrayal and break off their relationship. He didn’t know if he could do the things she seemed to want and felt that he’d been given a whole new set of rules. Was he capable of playing?
The question stuck with him, but she gave him no advice, no hint, no quarter. She continued on as if they had never had the discussion, and days turned into weeks. It was as if she had let it go, perhaps forgiven him for his conservatism. Should he be relieved? Or offended that she thought him incapable of being enough of a lover to satisfy her?
Three months later, Timothy returned home from a game of tennis with an old friend from college. Marya stood in her robe, fresh from the shower, pouring herself a glass of orange juice in the kitchen. The apartment had an open floorplan.
She took up the glass of juice, greeted him as usual, and as she walked away, said, “We have a party tonight. Casual dress.”
She hadn’t warned him about it before but it apparently had something to do with a client of hers. The client had invited her to a get-together that included under fifty people, but more than thirty. That was his best estimate, as they entered the townhouse foyer, released their coats to a coat check girl, and eased into mingling. He took up a glass of red wine, and she of white. She moved easily knowing that he would follow, but otherwise spoke very little to him.
It was nearly half past midnight when she murmured, “I’ll be right back.”
He watched her walk away, and stood holding his glass of wine. He took an hors-d’oeuvres or two, and realized that fifteen minutes had passed and she hadn’t returned. He’d been ready to go home for a while and felt they’d put in enough of an appearance. He went looking for her.
He found her laughing in a back corridor with a group of gentlemen - there were no other women, and the group looked ... he could think of only one phrase. Up to something. It was a servant’s corridor with a back set of stairs, and her left high heeled foot was on the second step, her right on the ground. The man behind her was murmuring into her ear. He leaned very close. She tipped her head back as she listened, her eyes wide as she smiled up at the ceiling. Another man sat on the step next to her foot and his hand loosely circled her ankle. His thumb lightly stroked the delicate joint, the bump of bone. He took turns admiring her leg and her face. A third man leaned against the balustrade across from her, gesturing freely with a drink in his hand. They all laughed as he spoke.
Her skirt was flared enough to allow the give in her stance, but it still looked extremely suggestive. As if any minute one of them would stand up, unbuckle his pants, and fill her. As she laughed, or moved, the black cloth at her thighs swished easily. The sliding fabric seemed so close to revealing what Timothy sensed would be practically nothing underneath. He stood back in the shadows of the hall, and watched her. Her hair was done up, so that her nape was exposed. The man behind her leaned into her, encircled her with his left arm. She let him. She ceased laughing, listening to the man sitting on the stairs as he spoke. She nodded, smiled, and the man behind her casually let his right hand brush her right thigh. She let him.
Timothy watched as the man leaning against the balustrade sipped the last of his drink, and set the glass down. The man had quieted. The man on the stairs was still talking. The man who stood behind his partner had slid his fingers beneath Marya’s skirt and Marya behaved as if he were standing ten feet away from her, doing nothing.
Just then, her eyes moved, touching the darkness. She saw him. Timothy did not move. Her brown eyes were dilated, and her lips, a dark lipsticked mauve that parted, murmuring to the man sitting on the stairs. The man nodded, and continued to stroke her ankle. The man standing behind her dipped, and she drew in her breath. The men were all suddenly silent. It was clear that the man had slid his fingers inside of her. She lowered her lashes. Her hips moved slightly. The man’s arm moved in the tell-tale motion: in, out, in, out.
Timothy made his foot scrape against the wood floor, and as he stepped forward, eyes on them all, the man holding Marya easily let go. But Timothy saw the glistening of his fingertips.
Marya’s smile was easy and wide; she bid the men good night, and they stood together, waving, lifting their glasses, eyes knowing. She took Timothy’s arm, and led him away. As they moved down the corridor, Timothy looked back. The men murmured, and the man who had touched her held his fingers to his nostrils, watching them go.
Inside the party he said nothing. When they were inside the car, driving away, he looked at her, once. She looked straight ahead as if nothing had happened.
“What–“
”Tim,” she said kindly, “I’m tired. Wake me when we get home.”
At the apartment, she walked beyond the door, into the bedroom, and after the scuffle, toss, and shuffle, he heard her climb into the bed and saw her cut out the light. He stood, still holding the front doorknob, and stared into the shadows of the apartment. He felt like he was losing his mind.
He lay next to her in the darkness. She was still, her body rising and falling easily. He knew she was asleep. He was aroused. He remembered the man’s fingers, hand, arm, easing in an out of her, and how she had looked. Her lips had been parted and she had had her tongue to her teeth. As if concentrating. And she had stared out, as if at a generic world, at both Timothy and the men ... taken, as if that was what she was meant for. As if it was perfectly okay to give herself to strangers - were they strangers? - at a party.
He turned to her, reached beneath the sheets, and found her in just a t-shirt. Timothy worked his hands against her. She didn’t fight him. He heard her breathing stop and knew she was awake. His fingers slid in and found her wet. He worked his fingers in, and out, two of them. She took him. She raised her knee and turned into the bed, and against it, fucked his fingers. He added one. She sighed, her sex slick, and he smelled her filling the room, her odor sweet and cloying. He rose up, knelt between her bent knees, undid the button of his boxers, and pushed in.
He fucked her deeply and rather briefly, his semen spurting inside of her in the shadows, and he knew she had not come. He rubbed his half-mast cock tip against her sex, the wetness of both their juices making a puddle of sex between them. She pushed back against him, and his fingers found her. He pushed inside her, and finger fucked her, watching her body arch in her t-shirt, her breasts peeking out, until she came, softly, shuddering against his dripping hand.
“What are you up to?” He whispered it into her ear, leaning over her back in her last round of shaking as she pressed to the bed.
She said nothing, only eased into relaxation. When he had pulled away and lay on his back, she rose, to the bathroom, to clean up. She returned with a towel, cleaned him and the bed, returned her head to the pillow, and fell to sleep.
Two weeks later while on his lunch break, he saw the friend he played tennis with sitting with Marya at a café. The café was located across from where he worked. He knew that it was not a coincidence.
He watched from across the street, uneaten sandwich in hand, as Marya laughed at the table, nodding wholesomely, while David leaned close, flirting. It was clear that he wasn’t comfortable enough to touch her intimately; he didn’t move too close. Timothy knew that David knew there were lines he was toeing - it was clear in how he hesitated, how his smile would lose some of his luster as he listened to things she said. It was also clear that he was infatuated.
Timothy set his sandwich aside. He watched as Marya leaned her head back so that her full-throated laughter could enrapture her victim more. He didn’t even have to hear a word they said; he only had to see her movements, her easy smiles, her hands that rested inches away from David’s on the table, creating a magnetic field around and between the two of them without a single direct word, or open acknowledgment that she intended to seduce him. She simply did.
He said nothing when he got home. He pretended he hadn’t seen her. But his eyes narrowed as he watched her enter the bathroom and spend an hour, instead of thirty minutes, for a night out with girlfriends.
He left ten minutes before he sensed she would leave. “I’m going to the store for some ice cream, I need a hit,” he joked, smiling at her as she passed by him, putting on earrings.
“Okay - save me some,” she replied, leaning into him for a light kiss. Her lipstick was dark and dramatic.
He walked out, went to their car, drove off, and idled around the block where he could see her leave. A car drove up. She entered it. He followed.
The car went to a residence, which was large and it was clear there definitely was a party. But she wasn’t with her girlfriends. She emerged from the vehicle and was paired by David. Timothy was not surprised.
The pair entered the party. He waited for five minutes, then followed. Inside, the crush of people was punctuated by dimmed lights, smoke, and the scent of alcohol and sweat. He saw David’s hair, which had streaks of dark honey in light brown and was easy to spot. He kept his eyes on it, watching from behind a plant and a grinding set of partygoers as David fetched Marya drinks. They laughed, danced, drank. Their hips met. David grew bolder. His fingertips lingered on her arm, his face stayed close when he spoke. She smiled up at him, encouraging.
Timothy was tired, but patient. The pair spent hours dancing, chatting, and dancing. But eventually, they pulled away. They moved upstairs. Timothy did the same.
The upper floor was unlit, but there were partygoers up there as well, drinking, talking, some making out. Doors were closed, but light shone from underneath. It was a nice house, and well decorated. Mirrors reflected smoke, plants, vases, and brass door handles. He saw Marya’s legs move around a corner. He heard a door open but did not hear it shut.
Around the corner, he waited a beat. Then he stepped around it. More hallway. But only one door. Light shown, dim, through it. He braved it.
Through the crack he saw her moving deeper into the room. It was not a bedroom, but something like a den. The pair passed a couch and moved out of sight. He waited until he couldn’t hear anything anymore, then pushed the door open. This was apparently a master suite - there was a fireplace, a television and reading area, a secretary desk. And a short hallway, down which more light shone. He moved toward it.
He heard breathing, laughter. A few more steps down the shadowed hallway - he passed the gaping door to the master bath, which had a huge tub and windows looking out onto a dark night of stars and tree limbs. Then a set of double doors. One of them was halfway open. He stood in it, and watched.
Marya knelt on the bed, her ass in the air. She wore garters, and no panties. Her sex was trimmed, dark red and spread, gaping. She glistened, and Timothy could smell her. So could David, who knelt, licking at her, his fingers eager, sliding around against her folds as he snuffled, lapping like a puppy. She laughed, pushed her sex against his face, and spoke.
“Fuck it, honey, stop wasting time, I want your cock inside of me!”
“You sure?” David panted, pausing to look at her as she looked back at him from around her round, firm behind.
“Mmmhmm,” she promised, nodding, smiling, her eyes sparkling. She looked as if she were in a high class porn flick. She parted her legs a few more inches. “Fill me,” she commanded.
David stood. He undid his pants. She was in a dark red cocktail dress that once again had a flaring skirt and a fitted body. She was already ready. David, released, was easily as big as Timothy was, and held himself poised at her eager pussy.
“I don’t have any–“
”Fuck me, David, fill my pussy, she’s hungry, and she can’t wait!” The last lines were said with an exultant growl. David shut up and planted himself behind her. The sound of him sliding into her echoed in all their ears, and Timothy listened to how wet she was, and how readily she accommodated his old friend.
He watched, able to only see her feet, still in their seductive black shoes, to either side of David’s pumping hips. Marya moaned, enjoying herself, greedily moving with him as he thrust. The pair went on, and Timothy lasted, watching with them, well aware that his own sex was hard, and that if he said a word, interrupted anything, that Marya would not be pleased.
David and Marya began to come eventually, grunting, and David scrambled up onto the bed, pulling Marya back toward him and the two nearly toppled as he worked himself into her from behind. She laughed, her hair sweaty around her ears, and looked at the door. When she saw Timothy standing there, she laughed again, louder, and grabbed her breasts, bringing herself to orgasm. Timothy watched her nipples bursting between her beautiful fingers, her dark red nails punctuating her pale skin.
The two slumped then, and after a brief rest, she rose, and began to straighten up. Then she paused, as if hearing something.
“David!” She whispered, and he moaned back, obviously half out of it. “I think I hear something, I’ll be right back.” She stood and walked easily to the door, slipped out, and stood in the hallway face to face with Timothy.
In the darkness, she reached out. Her hand rested squarely on his hardened cock. He could hear her smile. She unzipped him quickly, knelt, and in a moment had him in her mouth. She sucked hard, for a few moments, and his hand pushed the back of her head. She burned him, mouth scalding, her teeth scraping him but exciting him all the same. But there wasn’t time for her full attention.
“Marya?” David’s voice called from in the room.
Her lips released Timothy’s cock, and she called back. “Coming, there was someone at the door, get dressed.”
She then stood, zipped her partner back up again, and in the silence, gave him a straight-on look. She cocked her head. He stared at her, at her lush, delicate beauty, her full lips, her unashamed eyes. He nodded, once.
Timothy turned, and left the room, the hall, the house.
The next weekend he played tennis with David. David behaved as genially as ever, with only a slight hint of reservation. He was game for cuckolding his old friend. Timothy only smiled at him, and allowed himself to appear ignorant.
At home he would forget what he was doing, in the morning, in the shower. He would look down at his live penis, perpetually aroused, and stare at it in confusion. He would touch it, and whimper. He would stroke it, hand slick with soap, and come quickly, without preamble. He was filled with a need, with a desire, wanted to speak, to discuss, to ask - but one word and he might never get what he wanted.
What did he want?
Two weekends after, Marya’s behavior was slightly more tense and wired, as if she were ready to pop. Over breakfast on Sunday, he looked at her across their small dining table and raised his eyebrows.
“Why so bouncy?”
She grinned and saluted him with her glass of orange juice. He smiled at her lack of an answer, and drank his coffee.
filled part 2