A Rush of Blood to the Head Ch. 02

He followed me up the stairs and nearly ripped off my dress to fuck me.

The silver material was bunched at my waist; he'd pulled down the top so he could bite my nipples, and yanked up the bottom so he could thrust himself inside me. My body responded immediately; no one could deny there wasn't passion in my marriage. I loved sex, that was no surprise, but fucking my husband felt like some bizarre betrayal.

Mark definitely felt my reluctance, and as if it challenged him, he fucked me harder than he had in a long time.

"This pussy? Is mine," he swore, flicking my clit almost angrily.

It wasn't unusual for him to express possessiveness over my body, but it was the first time I resented those words.

We both were sweating and panting by the time we collapsed in each other's arms, spent and splintered.

I could go back to this, I told myself. I could go back to being a normal, bored, suburban housewife with a workaholic husband who made me come just fine. I didn't have many complaints before, and any problems I had were of the first-world variety. Loneliness came with the territory.

But there was no excitement. Nothing forbidden. One of the wives I knew was a klepto. Another lost herself in drugs. The others spent and gossiped and drank.

Perhaps my high, my flare of rebelliousness, was Luke and that's why I was so obsessed, so eager to lie and connive.

Mark snored next to me, but even in his sleep he held me close while my mind couldn't have been farther away.

***************

The next afternoon I snapped.

I put on a red dress Mark bought me months before, one he told me I was only allowed to wear on a very special occasion. I decided to forgo too much eye makeup, and focused instead on blending just the right shades of red to paint my lips. My hair was pinned up in a messy sort of bun, and I wore no jewelry.

I went to the office around lunchtime. Mark would be out with a client, he mentioned that morning. He whistled as he made his coffee.

So I waited in the staircase. I really had no reason to suspect Luke might come down it, or up it, or really anywhere near it. But something whispered to me—something evil and wicked—to wait there.

I called the office. The general secretary answered. I asked to be transferred to Luke.

She paused for a moment, and I wondered if she recognized my voice. How many times had I phoned when Mark left his cell home?

Regardless, she said nothing and put me through.

"Hello?"

My eyes shut with relief. What I would have done if he hadn't answered, I didn't know. "I'm in the staircase. Come now."

"Lucy? Lucy, what the hell are you doing?"

"Come now or I'll come to get you."

The phone clicked. I knew he was coming.

I felt like a lunatic. A reckless woman desperate for a man.

For those crazy minutes while I waited for him, I finally understood Marilyn Monroe's wounded desperation over the men who never could quite love her enough. The ache Cleopatra felt when she discovered Caesar was dead—or worse, that Marc Antony had married someone else—became clear to me. The dazzling grief Queen Victoria felt for Albert, so intense she swore to wear black forever, was a cold tremor in my chest.

All these women I'd probably viewed with scorn at some point in my life, even if the last two were supposedly strong creatures in their time, and I was no better than them. No better at all.

Then I realized how pretentious I was being and I laughed out loud. I was a woman of luxury, fucking someone other than her husband, and I was glorifying it. Romanticizing it. It repulsed me nearly as much as it amused me.

My laughter echoed in the staircase. I was unraveling and I could see it happening, like a speeding car heading straight for a brick wall, and it didn't matter.

Luke ran down the stairs and appeared before me. He was furious; his cheeks were red and his alien eyes burned blacker than I'd ever seen them.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I hiked up the red dress and leant against the tiled wall. "I want you to fuck me."

Luke stared at me as if he couldn't process the words. His dark eyes scanned my body and then my face.

"Are you kidding?" I shook my head. "Drunk?" Again, I shook my head. He peered closer at my eyes.

"I need you. I've needed you. Where have you been?"

"Busy," he said. He looked around uncomfortably. "I would have called you. This really wasn't a great way to get my attention, Lucy."

"But it got your attention, no?"

His eyes glittered. With lust or anger, I couldn't tell. "Go home."

"Not until you fuck me. My pussy is begging for it. I'm so wet and I need you. Fuck me with that cock until I'm screaming."

Something changed in his expression. "Stop."

I slipped my fingers into my panties and dropped the pink lace to my ankles. He watched the movement with unique fascination.

Then I deliberately licked two fingers, enjoying the warmth in my belly when his eyes glowed, and showed him how I could make them disappear inside me.

He must've decided the risk was worth it. Maybe he even enjoyed it as much as I did.

He silently pushed my hand away and replaced it with his own. My head smacked back against the wall painfully but I didn't care. He was touching me and it was amazing.

And so twisted. Illicit. How that got me off! It was still so astonishing.

I was close to coming when he stepped back and unzipped his pants. His cock pushed into my pelvis.

"Put me inside," he hissed.

I decided to fuck with him, as he'd been fucking with me. I dropped to my knees in my pretty little red dress and swallowed him into my throat. He rested his hands against the wall and bent his head to watch me. Sometimes I moved my mouth fast and my pussy would clench when I watched his eyes crinkle in that pleasurable pain. When I felt like being a bitch, I removed the wet heat of my mouth and flicked just the tip of my tongue against the head of his cock.

He grew tired of my torment, and since he was the more dominant of the two when it came right down to it, he hauled me back up, pushed the top of my dress down so hard I heard the back tore, and sucked my nipple into his mouth. His wet cock pushed against my thigh, blindly searching for my pussy.

That high went to my head. Here I was again, a woman who held something a man wanted. He was going to fuck me here, at his workplace. He was so dizzy with lust he didn't care, at least in this moment, and the power ignited inside my core.

I did as he asked before and placed the head just near my clit. A spasm of indescribable desire coursed through my body as the sponginess moved against the unbearable wetness.

Then he was inside me, and all rational thought evaporated. He fucked me so hard my hair fell out of its bun. His hands tugged and slapped and squeezed at my breasts, my clit, my ass. It was all his for the taking.

"I'm gonna come," he grunted and he wrapped his hands around locks of my hear to yank my head back. Tears came to my eyes.

"Me too."

I felt him swell and pulse, and then all of his cum was inside me and he was kissing me to keep my screams from echoing. He still shoved his cock in and out, riding us both through the best orgasm of my life. I felt him seep out, the warm cum coating the bottom of my dress, and I didn't even care.

He pulled away and there was red lipstick all over his mouth. His hand grasped my throat and he pushed his thumb down on the front. He tilted my head up more and panted into my face.

"Don't ever fucking do this again."

He peeked around, zipped up his pants and left me wanting More all over again.

Eventually it dawned on me I was half-naked in a considerably busy staircase, freshly fucked. I tried to put myself together, to tame my hair and the wild grin stretching across my face.

That's when I saw her. Patricia.

The wife who hated me most.

She was about two flights down, her head cocked around the corner.

She didn't look shocked, or horrified. She didn't even look gleeful that she caught me—and I knew by her eyes that she saw it all, or enough to indict me. She held a plastic bag with a local restaurant's name on it. She must have come see Bruce, though I knew both would rather be doing other things. It was a familiar ruse all the wives had, the meeting for lunch bit, and the husbands played along with it; and of course, it took up time in the yawning expanse of domesticity.

She stared at me. Her eyes catalogued my hair, my exposed and raw nipples. She even looked at the one heel that had fallen off me in the encounter. I stared back. She was emotionless and in that moment, so was I; she stared at me as if I were a semi-interesting book cover.

A door slammed somewhere upstairs. We unfroze. She turned her back on me and I pulled my dress up. By the time I made it out in the lobby, she was gone.

**************

The drive home was surreal. I passed the same streets I always did. The same schools released the same students, the same parking lots had the same cars honking, the same trees led me into the same neighborhood.

My body was thrumming but my mind was numb.

My cellphone beeped when I was inside. It was a voicemail, from who else but Patricia. I had anticipated it, really.

Normally I'd procrastinate listening and retreat into a fantasy world, but I pressed play. It was her voice, one I'd grown to loathe, and her message was succinct.

"Pool tomorrow at my house. Come at 10am. See you then."

I knew I would go. What I didn't know was whether or not she told her husband, or the other wives. Mark.

I ran into the bathroom and saw my lipstick smeared face, my crazy hair and my ruined dress. I looked like I'd been attacked in a dark alley, as if I'd suffered some immense trauma.

I puked into the sink until there was nothing left in my body but self-loathing and a familiar desire to destruct.

And still, I wanted More.