Besmirched

As dusk settled over the house, there was a curious calm in the air. He’d been waiting for her for what felt like hours, and the more time that passed, the less intensely the rage pulsed within him. This, in itself, was an irritation. When he first realized, earlier in the day, that she’d lied about being at work (something he’d only discovered because he dropped in to take her to lunch and, since she wasn’t answering her cell, he figured he’d surprise her), he was immediately confused. But it took only scant moments for confusion to give way to lividity. Some surprise! Brandy (one of the shift nurses she always belittled for being overweight) notified him in an aggravatingly cool and overly-articulated manner that surely he must know that his own fiancée had taken the week off (the entire fucking week?!). It didn’t take a genius to realize what was really going on…again.

Walking out of the hospital, he could feel the eyes of her nosy co-workers bore into his back, and his own expression lit up like a fierce blaze doused with gasoline. He could hear the disgusting smacks of their mouths as they gossiped in hushed tones about what improprieties must be taking place right under his own unassuming nose. That bitch has made a fool of me for the last time, he thought.

As the shadows across the length of the long, dark, empty bedroom faded into the rest of the grey, he realized if he was to deal with her as he should, he needed to get up, move around, get some blood coursing back into those lethargic, bored veins of his. He moved slowly off the bed and, without even thinking about it, smoothed out the heavy, ridiculously overpriced silk bedspread. She hated it when he sat on the bedspread. “It’s for show, not for using,” she’d always admonish him. Who the fuck buys a bedspread you’re not allowed to sit on, anyhow? In a defining moment for himself—a victory of function over form—he pulled the spread off the bed, bunched it up in a pile, and began to stomp on it. He ran in place on it for at least a minute, with an exaggerated gait of victory, but decided better of it when the silk gave way and he almost lost his footing.

A better idea, then. He marched over to the front-facing window, cranked it open, knocked the screen out and heard it drop and break on the pavement four stories below. He then hulked the heavy silk Chinoiserie-print Piece of Crap out to join it. It was an ugly bedspread, anyhow.

He peered out the window, to see if he could figure out where, exactly, the screen and duvet had actually landed. When he realized an old woman was talking to another tenant and pointing up to his window, most likely in an attempt to ascertain the source of the discarded items, he jumped back quickly into the dark and cranked the window closed.

Though his unit was one of only few without any ambient hint of life glowing from within, he felt it only right to persist in darkness. He just didn’t want her to know he was home, really. When she drove into the parking lot, she’d surely look and, if she knew he was already there, she’d know something was up. And she’d be ready. He wanted her to be surprised….just like he was when he finally realized what a cheating whore he was four months away from marrying—the only woman he’d stuck in eight years. Eight fucking years of nothing, he whispered to himself.

He began to do some half-hearted pushups, then went into the bathroom and splashed his face. In the dark, he could barely make out the form of her expensive, hand embroidered towels oh-so-neatly hung on the bronze designer towel bar. Of course, they matched the duvet. WRONG. “They don’t MATCH, dummy. They coordinate!” he remembered her chiding him condescendingly. Do they dry your ass? He now mocked aloud to no one. I’d never fucking know, because they’re just for show, aren’t they?

He remembered once, when he’d grabbed one to bring her for cleaning up after they made love. It was a sweet, sentimental gesture, borne of respect and consideration, and even of the understanding that no one wants to lie around for the rest of the night with cum pooling in their belly button. “Not that one! Fuck!” she’d shrieked and, for a moment, he’d been paralyzed to move–partly out of confusion, and partly of disbelief. How could a stupid towel create that kind of reaction? It should have been telling. “Those are twenty five dollar hand towels, you idiot,” she hissed at him as he stood like stone in front of her. “Limited edition. You DON’T use those. EVER.”

He had some thinking to do. He began to ponder what she’d say when he confronted her. Would she lie? Would she cry? Would she beg him to forgive her? Would she be an obstinate bitch and somehow turn it all around so, like everything else every other time, it was all his fault? He slipped over to the bedroom mirror and peered into it, trying desperately to make out the lines of his own tired face. He could just barely see the faint glow of eyes, the tussle of black hair, and a hand as it drew across his grimace. This is appropriate. I can’t see myself. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

He was starting to get impatient, and considered trying her cell again, but before he had a chance to fish his own phone out of his gym bag, he heard the rattle of keys in the foyer below.

This is it.

“Steven? Are you home?!” she yelled out impatiently, and he could hear her straining to get through the door. She sounded like she was carrying something large; her voice was slightly muffled. “Steven? Why the hell is our duvet out on the ground? What the fuck is going on?”

He appeared at the top of the steps, wearing only his gym shorts and a look of knowing. “How was your day?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t had a care in the world.

“Nevermind that. This IS our duvet, right? Do you know how much I paid for this?! What the hell did you do?” she snapped as she slammed the front door closed with her foot. As she tried to flick on the light switch, she dropped her keys, and they hit the cold tile floor with an icy clank. “Helloooooo?! Help me here?!” she demanded.

Steven didn’t, though. Instead, he took only one step down. He figured she’d assume he was acquiescing to her demand so he hesitated, then sat on the step above it. “So how was work?” he asked again.

“Hard! Like always! Same bullshit as yesterday, STEE-VEN. Now, are you going to help me, or what?!” she hissed. Still, he didn’t move. Finally, she threw the duvet down, and started into The Lecture. “All I try to do is work my ass off to make a nice home for us, to have nice things, and you get, well, I don’t even know what you get! What, a wild hair up your ass?! Tell me why the fuck is my duvet in the dirt outside, Steven? I had to go to four different stores to find this fucking thing!” Steven simply smiled. “Say something, you fuck! And what the fuck are YOU smiling for, anyhow? What the fuck do YOU have to smile about?!” she hurled with a mocking tone.

“I came to take you to lunch today. To surprise you,” he said almost flatly. He’d managed to keep his voice even through most of the sentence, but it cracked at the end and gave him away. “Your favorite girl Brandy told me you’ve been off all week, A-MEE,” he spat, mimicking the same tone she used with him. Surprisingly, it felt good.

Her hand loosed its grip on her purse strap, and it fell to the floor. With this, he knew he had her attention. That purse, she would always boast, cost over eight hundred dollars. She wouldn’t even put it on the ground when they went out to eat; it always had to sit on a chair next to her. Its contents spilled out across the tiles; he knew she knew she was caught. But she was quiet for a few moments.

“Look, yeah, I guess we need to talk,” she finally sighed, and he knew this was That Moment. That moment was the moment where she would force herself to cry, collapse in front of him and, somehow in the end, it would be all his fault. “I have been keeping some things from you, I know, I…I just didn’t know when to tell you. How to tell you…”she gasped, and…yep. There they were. The Tears. She breathed in deeply through her nose, an effort to enhance the fact that it was becoming stuffy with emotion.

Steven stood up and wiped his hand down his face, brow to lower lip. “Who?” he simply asked. “Who with?”

“You don’t know—can we please go sit down if we’re going to have this discussion, Steven?” She wiggled out of her jacket, and Steven noticed she was wearing her scrubs. She paid attention to every detail, didn’t she?

“Right now, I don’t want to talk. I want you to go upstairs with me, and fuck me.” He replied slowly, with an air of resignation. Maybe this was the best he could do.

“What?! What the hell are you talking about, Steven?!” she snapped. The tears instantly ceased; she was….she was shocked, is what she was. She never expected that to come out of his mouth.

“Look, I don’t give a shit anymore. It’s not like this is the first time. We’re supposed to get married in four months. Four fucking months!” he exclaimed, and took two steps closer to her, then sat down again. “You can explain this time later. Just come upstairs and fuck me. Right now, I just need that.” His voice trailed to a whisper, and he held his head in his hand, elbow propped delicately upon his knee.

Amee rushed to him. “Oh, Steven. Yes, come on. I need this too! Let’s go!” she climbed three steps, grabbed his hand, and as she pushed past him, she pulled him behind after her. It was at this moment that something occurred to him. This is how it’s always been. Me behind her. It pissed him off, but suddenly, with that notion, it all became clear.

By the time they made it to the room, she was down to her bra and underwear, and he quickly tossed off his athletic shorts. He was about to plow the same cunt that some guy he didn’t even know had been plowing all day, he was sure. “Lay down,” he commanded, and she began to protest, but he pointed to the bed and she understood it was an order. “Get that shit off.” He motioned dismissively to her bra and panties, and she quickly obliged.

“Steven, you know I love only you, right? Tell me you know that?!” she begged and, as he approached her, she tried to caress his face, but he pulled away before she could reach it.

“Turn over.” He demanded. She began to question him, but he grabbed her hips and flipped her over.

“Oooh, Steven, THIS is EXACTLY what I’ve been wanting! THIS is what I’ve been needing, but you’re always too gentle with me.” she cooed excitedly.

He wasn’t hearing any of it. Instead, he bent over her, put his mouth near her ear, grabbed her chin, and yanked her head toward him so she couldn’t miss a word. “You couldn’t stand that I was a gentleman? Is that what you’re saying, Amee?” As he barked into her ear, he felt her legs spreading beneath him, and it made sense. She wanted to be used. She didn’t want Prince Charming; she wanted the Sexy Villain.

“Oh, give it to me!” she cried out. And he did. He reached an arm around her waist, pulled her body toward him, and tunneled himself as deeply into her as he could manage. This moment was about him, though, not her. “Oh, Fuck, Steven! Yes!” she squealed, and, to his chagrin, it turned him on to hear her that vocal. Up until now, their sex had been very vanilla. Where the hell was this girl every other time? Hell, where the hell had HE been?

“You little slut, Amee!” he yelled out, and thrust back into her with a violence he’d never experienced during sex before. He could feel himself bottom out just as she groaned. It was a groan of pain, but the deep undercurrent of it was clearly laden with desire.

“I want to be your slut, Steven! Fuck! This is who I need to marry!” she cried out as she pushed her body against him, meeting his determination with a fervor that surprised even her. “Grab my hair!” she commanded, and he did. He continued to punish her for all she’d ever done to him, and she loved it. “Fuck yes, Steven, fuck! Yes! Please! I’m going to cum, baby! Please, yes, make me cum!”

Steven wiped back the sweat from his brow, pulled her hair tighter, and centered his hand on the arch of Amee’s back. “Like this?! This gonna do it?” he cried out as he slammed into her with all he had.

“Yes, baby! Yes!” she begged, and prepared herself for the holy apex–that cusp of ecstasy–but suddenly….there was nothing.

NOTHING.

By the time she’d realized that he’d pulled out and stood up, she turned to see Steven’s own hand working furiously against his shaft. “What the fuck are you doing? You asshole, I was about to cum!”

“I know,” he gasped as he continued to work himself further into frenzy.

She sat up and tried to knock his hand away, but he simply smiled, closed his eyes, and groaned satisfyingly as he began to unleash his essence all over her. All over her knees, her stomach, even onto her precious designer rug.

“You fucking asshole! What is your fucking problem?!” she screamed and tried to move out of the line of fire, but he put his other hand on her shoulder and held her still until he was done. 

And, then, there was only silence.

Steven let go of her shoulder, wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned. “You want to know what my problem is?” he smirked, and shook his head with disgust. “ Not YOU anymore,” he declared, “because that’s a problem I’m fucking done with!”