95
Jocelyn
I wake up and look at the clock. It’s already 7:30 am. I yawn and get up, wondering what fresh source of sexual frustration today is going to bring.
Don’t look at me like that. If you tell me you’re sexually frustrated too, hun, I’m just going to roll my eyes. I swear.
Sure, maybe your husband or boyfriend isn’t as active as he used to be. And if you’re single or widowed now, I truly am sorry.
But I’m not. I’m married to a man. A very powerful man who should be exuding confidence and control due to his position as mayor of the greatest city in the world. But he doesn’t touch me. Not once. Not ever.
My fingers can only do so much. A vibrator can only do so much. Do you remember that phrase we used to toss around when we were girls and used to be silly? I say we, as in collectively, this generation of women, by the way. What was that phrase – oh yeah. ‘Dildos are great, and vibrators are fun…but nothing can beat the almighty tongue’.
Remember that one? I think when I was in college my friend was the one who quoted that to me—Joyce Walker—and I used to live by it. Why use something battery operated or made of plastic when you could get guys to get you to paradise?
At least until I got married. That’s when Michael came into my life and completely erased any notion that my husband would be my sexual partner in life.
Maybe I could have walked that road by myself, but one of the first things Michael ever did after I moved in was to take my drawer of dildos, vibrators, and bullets, and throw them out.
“They have no place in this house, Jocelyn,” he told me harshly. “If the staff ever discover them or word gets out that my wife is using toys to pleasure herself, then the scandal could be disastrous.”
“Then why don’t you pleasure me?” I remember asking him, taking a step closer. I used the cute pouty face that had worked wonders for me in the past—everything from getting me out of having to watch football with a boyfriend, to an A+ from a professor in Comparative Literature in college.
“Because, quite frankly, I have more interesting things to do with my life,” Michael said as I stopped and realized my come hither look wasn’t working. “You’ll just have to go take a cold shower. I’m late for a meeting anyways.”
That’s been my life for the last six months. Sexual drought.
I’ve gotten very good at running and exercising—although it gets me horny at times looking at other people’s bodies. I’ve tried to take up sewing. I’ve done a lot more cooking. Hell, there are some afternoons I just self-medicate and drink a bottle of wine by myself, trying to forget.#p#分页标题#e#
Everything seems to make me hornier.
So, anyways, that’s what I mean when I say I wonder what frustration is going to happen to me today. Because as bad as it was before, it’s honestly only gotten worse.
Since he moved in.
Who? Come on, babe.
Who do you think.
Mr. Apollo himself. Lance Anders, with the body of a god and the face of an angel. An angel of lust that is.
I put on my robe over my teddy and head down the stairs. Michael has already left for work and against my better judgment I’m curious to see what Lance is up to.
He’s not on the first floor when I get downstairs, and that’s when I hear a thud.
He’s in the gym.
I know I shouldn’t go down there. The gym and pool are in the basement of the townhouse—it’s a New York thing for people who don’t have backyards—and Lance working out is guaranteed to get my hormones raging.
But maybe, that’ll be a good thing. Maybe I can use that to go for a run, or something.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I race up the stairs, wash my face, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra and put my hair back in a ponytail.
I pause to put some color on my face before heading downstairs.
What? I’m just looking a bit presentable. If I’m going out for a run through Central Park, I might as well look the part too.
Besides, if Lance notices, maybe he’ll….
He’ll what? Take you in his arms? Take his new stepmom and wrap his arms around her? Fuck her? Please. I’m behaving like a silly girl.
Nevertheless, the butterflies in my stomach are in full force as I head to the lower level.
The basement at the townhouse doesn’t look much like any other basement—it’s well lit and looks like the hallway of a hotel. I hear music playing from the gym and I walk to it and open the door.
There he is. He’s on a bench, shirtless, lying on a towel. He’s got a pair of basketball shorts on and some sneakers, but that’s all the clothes he’s wearing. I watch as he lifts a barbell loaded with weights and benches it. I watch as his muscles strain, his pecs flex and his abs contract.