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This is her Thursday.
“Later,” she purrs, making my dick twitch.
How she still has this power over me, I don’t know, but I’ll never tire of it.
“Later,” I growl back at her, fire in my soul as I release her finger with a pop.
She shivers a touch, but I break our eye contact so she can carry on with what she’s doing, pausing only to go wash her hands again while I find a Band-Aid.
I can’t resent today, not when the gathering brings her so much pleasure, despite our fuck against the kitchen counter being impeded upon by it.
The house is back to being ours again, and though I hate that it’s empty as much as she does, that I can fuck her against the wall without worrying about anyone walking in on us, that I can eat her out on the sofa—the freedom is delicious. We never really had a slump in that regard, but now I feel like a horny teenager around her.
Just last night, I spanked her on the kitchen table. Bursts of nine, like always…
Nine is only fitting, after all.
Nine being the perfectly imperfect number.
Lacking of ten, it’s mortal and flawed.
But, there are nine choirs of angels… and that fits both of us.
She’s the angel and I’m imperfect.
When a knock sounds, I hand her the Band-Aid. She shivers as our fingers brush, and I grab my dick, adjusting it in front of her. I hide a smirk when her lips part again and her pupils turn to pinpricks.
Making my way to the door, I open it and smile at the woman hovering there like a frightened mouse.
I’ve been watching her as much as Andrea has, and I figure it’s fate that we both noticed the signs of abuse.
Nancy, a British expat, greets me with a small smile. There are shadows in her eyes, ones that only someone who has been mistreated will recognize.
It isn’t the first time I’ve noticed them, but it’s the first time I wonder if I should act.
It’s been decades since we felt the hand of God guide us, and I’m not sure if this is it or if it’s just a prompt to get her some help.
I should have known He’d never leave things to chance.
“Come in,” I greet, stepping back and making sure I’m not in her path.
I’m a big man, and she’s a little thing. I don’t want to scare her further.
She walks into the foyer, shoulders hunching as she tries to pass me, and I murmur, “Andrea’s in the kitchen. Would you like to take a seat or go to her?”
She blinks up at me like a frightened rabbit, and I’m unsure how to appease her fear.
“Nancy, come and help me with the vol-au-vents,” Andrea calls from the kitchen doorway, her eyes on us.
Thinking she’s doing as Andrea bid, Nancy moves toward my wife just as I reach for the front door, but for some reason, she sees me as a threat. She almost jumps at my approach then shifts back into the unit we have there for trinkets. It rattles so hard I’m surprised the antique dresser doesn’t crumble at the sudden weight, but she twists to avoid it, almost succeeds, then catches the corner.
One second, she’s standing.
The next, she’s on the floor, cradling her side.
Surprise and anxiety lining her face, Andrea rushes over, and I drop down to my knees just as she skids to a halt beside us.
“Nancy! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Are you okay?” I demand, knowing she must be hiding bruises under the baggy dress she wears. I curse myself for having scared her, for making her jittery, and for causing her pain. “Can we help you?”
Her eyes brim with tears as she gasps through the discomfort of whatever’s hiding beneath her clothes, and then she utters six fateful words.
Six words that have Andrea and me sharing a look.
Yet again, I feel the pressure of His fingers digging into my shoulder as He steers us down the path He wants…
“Only God can help me now…”