In the dreamhouse

by Anya

Tom didn’t know about this. Mainly, you told yourself, because there wasn’t a ‘this’ to discuss. When he was out of town, when the kids were in bed, it wasn’t as if you consciously thought of her when you dug your vibrator out of the nightstand. When your fingers grazed your nipples, when you cupped your breasts, you usually began by thinking about your husband.

But that could get boring. So as you slid your hand lower, running a finger between your warm folds, you thought about the cute guy at the supermarket checkout. He was a college student, you think, probably on the football team, with arms that bulged when he bagged groceries. When you circled your clit, you thought about Mr. Holland, six doors down, who liked to run through the neighborhood in tiny, tight shorts. When you turned on the vibrator, nudging it against your opening, you thought about Greg, your old personal assistant, who always turned heads on casual Fridays. As the tension began to build, though, Bree would inevitably show up in your fantasies.

Sometimes, she was gentle and tentative. You could feel her mouth on your breasts, her fingers between your legs. She’d whisper in your ear about how she’s never done this before and did that feel okay and god you’re so beautiful. You could visualize her head, with that bright red hair, moving lower, her tongue probing you carefully.

Other times, she was rough, forceful. After all, you knew there had to be unbelievable passion behind that cool exterior. She’d throw you down, maybe tie you up, growling, “I’ll fucking show you domesticated.”

Either way, you’d always manage to come, hard, the contractions of your inner muscles pushing the vibrator out of your body, onto the bed. You’d pinch your clit one last time for good measure, and then relax back onto the bed.

It wasn’t a crush, though, or even an attraction, really. There wasn’t anything to tell Tom. Really.

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