Teach Me Dirty(70)

“Keep them spread…”

She murmured, and turned her face to the side and her breath turned ragged as he picked up the green candle.

“My beautiful, beautiful canvas… my beautiful wife…”

She groaned as he tipped up the candle, and wax splashed her thighs. It dribbled as she squirmed, and her toes curled.

“Ow…” she hissed. “Oh, Mark… ow…”

“More.”

It wasn’t a question, and she groaned again as he splashed her again. And he squeezed her, and pinched and smeared her, dribbling pretty rivers of wax all over her legs, over her stomach, and she wriggled and she gasped and sometimes she even flinched, and tensed up and dropped her legs until he’d order them back up again.

I felt dizzy, and the flutter between my legs wouldn’t stop, I sat forward in my seat and rocked a little, imagined it was me.

Different colours, bleeding together and snaking over her skin, and he directed it all like a man consumed, his canvas alive and breathing and hurting for him. She whimpered as he spiralled red wax around her breasts, closer and closer until big, hot drips splashed her nipples. And he pinched them, and scratched them, leaving jagged streaks in the pattern until he covered her up with more.

Her skin was marbled and splotched and pretty with wax, and she was smiling, moving towards the heat, towards his hands, towards his touch.

“So pretty…” he said, and kissed between her legs. “So pretty and soft… and vulnerable…”

She gasped as he pushed his fingers inside, and so did I, because he pushed in three and he wasn’t gentle, and she made a little squeak as he pushed in another. I felt heady and my mouth was dry.

“Oh yes, Mark, please… please… please f*ck me… Oh, Mark, f*ck me…”

I slipped my fingers between my legs, and it felt so wrong but I couldn’t stop.

She squealed and rocked her hips as he dripped wax onto her *, and it was so pretty, the pattern he was making, the beautiful marks on her skin.

And I wanted that. I wanted him to look at me the way he was looking at her.

I wanted him to push his fingers inside me, and cover me in wax until I squirmed… and use the C word… and make me feel so bad…

I wanted him to tie me up, and make me spread my legs for him… and make me feel so dirty… teach me to be so dirty…

“Fuck me, Mark… please…”

And he did.

Oh God, how he f*cked her. Not softly like he’d taken me, but hard and brutal, slamming into her. He pressed her knees to her breasts and his tummy slapped against her skin and she struggled in her bonds but moved nowhere.

I loved the noises he made, familiar yet alien, and the way he used her body and made her his.

“I love you like this, Mark… I love you… I love you so much it hurts…”

And so did I.

I came before the video was over, and the guilt hit me as soon as I was done. I wriggled in my seat as I caught my breath and in panic I closed out of the video.

No more.

But there were so many pictures to look at, of them together, of them kissing, and naked, and making love. Of him taking her. Of him loving her. Of him sweaty and ragged and collapsed on top of her body.

I closed out of the whole thing and I felt sick. I walked about the place and wondered if he’d be able to tell I’d looked. If he’d know I watched. Maybe even know I’d played with myself as I watched him f*ck his dead wife.

How could I ever explain that?

Maybe he’d even ask? Maybe he already knew? Maybe it was a test?

A test of what? Purity? A test to see whether I’m really as dirty as the pictures I showed him?

A test of trust. Of privacy.

And I’d failed. I’d snooped around his private memories and I’d soiled them and used them and felt jealous over them.

And that was disgusting.

I was disgusting.

Maybe he wouldn’t know?

But I’d know.

And that would never do, because I’d always feel weird and icky and bad. I’d always feel like I’d betrayed him and let him down.

I’d feel like a fraud.

I dropped on the sofa and pulled my knees to my chest and my heart was thumping and my mouth was dry.

And I waited for him.

***

Mark



“Helen?”

It felt so weird calling a woman’s name as I crossed over the threshold, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at all.

I kicked the door closed behind me and made my way through the house, elbowing some jars aside to clear space on the countertop for my shopping bags.

“Helen?” I fired up the hob, took down a pan from the wall and set it on the heat.

She appeared in the doorway and she looked pale and tired, just as I expected she might. I gestured to the bags and smiled.

“I hope you like a full English. We’ve got bacon, and sausage and eggs and mushrooms, all from the butchers up by the Top Cross.” I held up a loaf. “From the bakery. Smell. It’s so fresh.”

She took it from me and held it up to her nose, and I took the opportunity to pull her to me, and squeeze her tight and cover her neck in kisses as she giggled.

But she didn’t giggle. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her body to mine, but she didn’t giggle.