Where's he taking you? Beth's voice echoes in my mind on the ride home. I get out of the car and freeze at the long entrance way to the glass house. "Home," on the iPhone he gave me, has been changed from my parents' address to the glass house's. The Uber app uses the "Home" address. I didn't change the location designation. Did he? Where's my Android phone? I rush into the glass house, rummaging through the bedroom drawers.
The iPhone buzzes, displaying Jason's message: "Landing. He's coming straight to you." I have forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, to get ready. I order food for delivery, then jump into the shower. After slathering myself with my moisturizing oil mixture, I apply rose oil perfume to my neck, breasts, and inner thighs. Mr. Silence doesn't like strong, layered scents, preferring natural ones that blend well with my own.
The red pumps go perfectly with the two inches of red lace lingerie that barely covers my breasts, my hardened nipples protruding. Another two inches of lace hugs the round curves of my butt, just barely concealing my most intimate parts front and back, while another delicate two inches of lace traces over the roundest part of my butt. The diamond teardrops on my thong and between my breasts dance as I sway my hips and chest.
I part my hair to the right and finger-comb it to add volume, letting the chestnut layers cascade to my left. The contrast between my light skin, the red lipstick, and the red lace and pumps screams sexy in the mirror, especially when I smirk with these lighter applied smoky eyes makeup.
The doorbell announces the arrival of the food, left beside the door. I hurry to set the table for an early dinner, in case he's hungry—although I'm certain he'll be hungry for something else first. I light the candles and place them around me on the floor when the camera shows the black Aston Martin pulling into the driveway. Throwing the phone away, unsure how to stand, I strike a powerful pose, as if I'm on one of Beth's runways. My legs are shoulder-width apart, my back straight, shoulders back, one hand in my hair, the other on my hip.
With each beep of the keypad, my heart beats faster until he opens the door. As the door closes, his eyes lock onto my body, and his mouth opens slightly. My skin tingles as his brown eyes crawl down the length of my body. He lets go of his luggage as he steps forward.
His left index finger touches the diamond that hangs in the middle of my chest, then slides straight down to the diamond on my thong. They sparkle under the candlelight. His hand cups the back of my neck while the other circles around my back and his lips caress against mine.
"Hello, love. Welcome–," I murmur, the words unfinished before his hand seizes my waist. I'm spun toward the sofa. With one firm motion, he pushes me down over the armrest, my body bending to his command.
My legs part as he presses me lower, my back arching to meet him. The sharp rasp of his zipper cuts through the silence, followed by the soft thud of his pants on the floor. His fingers sweep my lace aside with a swift, practiced motion. I gasp as he shoves in, hard and unrelenting, his grip on my hips firm, almost bruising, as he pulls me into his rhythm. In his lustful savage state, he's rough and fast, leaving no room for thought, no time to catch my breath. His breathing turns shallow, ragged, each thrust driving him closer to release. With a guttural moan, he surges forward, his fingers digging into my skin as he explodes.
It's fascinating. His lust crashes over me like a storm—wild and consuming. But when he's angry, every touch is sharp and precise, like a blade honed for a single purpose. Except his purpose isn't to inflict pain—it's to drown me in the addictive pleasure that makes me crave his anger in the screaming moans he approves of.
There's a dangerous thrill in the chaos of his desire and an irresistible heat in the control of his fury. I remain still, savoring the sensation of hot lava dripping out, warm streaks creeping down my thigh. His stomach rumbles.
"Are you hungry, my love?" I ask, biting my lip at how much he's overfilled me.
His breathing steadies as he pulls out, and the spillage stains his pants. He frowns down at it, and I chuckle—he doesn't like his clothes dirty. I help him out of them while his hands trace lines over the borders of the lace roaming my body, admiring the lingerie.
"Do you like it?" I ask, and he nods. "I'd hope so. It cost a fortune, and I was going to return it, but–" I tease, glancing down at my panties. The crimson lace darkens to a deep, wine-like shade, sticking to my skin with a slight sheen. The soak areas appear heavier, more saturated, the once airy fabric now damp and warm. Its bold color is muted by the slickness that glistens against it.
"Don't return it. Wash it tonight, then wear it tomorrow," he demands.
Naked, he sits at the dining table and places me, clad in my lingerie, onto his left thigh. His hands continue to explore my body, his eyes fixed on it with unrelenting focus. Yet, when his gaze finally meets mine, there's something buried deep within—an unease, an uncomfortable flicker of emotion lurking in the shadows. The kind of feelings that surface only when he loses control to his lust.
The corners of his mouth pull back, his jaw tightens, his eyes dart away from mine, and for a fleeting moment, a frown crosses his face before disappearing too quickly for me to catch the other times. Guilt. For what?
Using me or treating me like a hooker? And? Deep down, I think men want their woman to embody every role in their life: hooker, slut, lady, wife, mother, the mother of their children, best friend, lover, and more. But because of the biases programmed into these roles—because of the shame attached to some of them—many men can't reconcile the idea that they might want their wife or girlfriend to be like a prostitute. Worse, they risk accidentally treating her like one.
I've seen this often in my time working various sex industry jobs. Men would confess things like, "I wish my wife was more like you," or, "I wish my girlfriend liked sex as much as you do," or even, "How did I not meet you before my wife?"
It's not just about the frequency of sex. For some men, it's because they don't know how to reveal the savage, untamed part of themselves to their wives. The same goes for women—some will never be able to reconcile the different roles in their relationship, never able to fully embrace the man they married in every way. They struggle to shift between being the mother of his children and being the object of his deepest lust—the one he fantasizes about and shares his fetishes with.
So they compartmentalize, live separate lives, and often keep secrets. He was living a life filled with casual sex, prostitutes, and perhaps even a girlfriend somewhere. Maybe... even a wife? I shake off the thought. I don't want that for him. Or maybe it's because he already keeps so many secrets from me. I want to be his every woman because I'm not a woman, I'm every woman.
Cupping his face, I lock eyes with him and smile. "My love, when I say I love you, I mean that I want to love every part of you. I mean that I will, and already do, accept all the many facets of who you are—even the parts I don't yet understand, and the ones you're not ready to reveal. I mean that I want you, no matter who you are or what you become. I mean that I'll love even the parts of you that you struggle to accept yourself."
A blink, then another. His lips press together before releasing, a tight swallow following. His nose crinkles faintly, and then his eyes turn watery. He looks away, unable to meet my gaze.
Letting go of his face, I rub my nose along the side of his cheek and whisper, "I get turned on when you're savage like that."
He turns and captures my lips in a searing kiss that leaves my knees weak. His mouth moves down my neck with a fevered desperation, his grip on my waist tightening. Then, he buries his face in my shoulder again, clinging to me like he's afraid to let go.
"Eat something, my love. The food's getting cold," I urge, massaging his scalp and twirling my fingers through his hair.
A worrying thought crosses my mind: he needs a woman who can fulfill all the roles for him. If she can't, his life will remain fractured. His best chances are likely with women in sex work. If he continues to have casual encounters and see prostitutes, maybe he'll find her. I shouldn't be his every woman. But it's ok because he doesn't love me. Isn't it?