Why is that so hot?
It shouldn’t be. Fresh off a divorce, it should have me shredding the contract and heading down to the Waffle House to beg for an application. Yet somehow, Shane’s mind fuckery is pushing all my buttons in the best—and worst—way. Sliding into bed, I will my body to calm down. Even the cool sheets don’t ease the heat coursing through me. The end of my marriage was sexless. I’d started to think that maybe I could live without orgasms that include another person. I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Think about unsexy things.
Right now, I could make tax filing sexy. I’ve never experimented with orgasm deprivation before. Already I suspect it might not be for me. Simplicity is beautiful. Consenting parties are turned on, and those who want to come, come. Why complicate things when they could be straightforward? Philosophizing about edging is not helping, but there’s an aphorism here if I can just find it. Maybe Everything’s a hammer because I wish I were being nailed?
Not great.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark. Is Sydney throwing me a lifeline? A distraction from my horny misery? I’m overeager, snatching it up, which makes seeing Cheating Piece of Shit on the screen even more frustrating. Hitting the button on the side, I send the call to voicemail since I can’t send it to hell.
The last year of our marriage, I didn’t exist. The incredible invisible woman—nothing I did caught Keith’s attention. Even during the divorce proceedings, he contacted me as minimally as possible. But now that the ink on the certificate has aged six months, he’s been reaching out. A text every couple of days, and this is the fourth call.
I had answered the first call on reflex, foolishly assuming an emergency, as if he might have mistakenly dialed me instead of 911. Nope. It was a how are you doing, let’s try to be friends even though I fucked you over call. I told him my friend roster was full and hung up. Since then, his communication efforts go ignored and unanswered. We’re divorced. We’re done.
The little voice in my head is an asshole. It tries to convince me that if I’d been sexier, smarter, younger, some sort of “er,” the affair never would have happened. I know it’s bullshit, no matter how loud it is. If Keith wasn’t happy, he should have fucking said something. It might have hurt my feelings, but we would have figured it out. I can’t meet a need I don’t know exists.
About five years into our marriage, Keith wanted more variety in our sex life. I’d been as vanilla as could be—not even one sprinkle—but was game to experiment. Primal play, specifically predator-and-prey games, clicked in a way I didn’t anticipate.
My whole life, I’ve been sweet. A people pleaser who comes when called and rolls over when someone shows their teeth. Always taking the high road but never the bait, doing a good job but not so good that other people—men—feel bad. I’ve spent decades caging the part of me that wants to prove my teeth are sharper. The part that wants to bite the bait, and the hand of whoever’s dangling it. The woods are where that part gets to be as feral as it wants.
A text pops up on my phone above the missed call and voicemail notifications.
Cheating Piece of Shit: I miss you.
Swiping away the notification, I’m grateful that at least Keith’s call, and now text, are dousing my horniness.
A second text appears.
Cheating Piece of Shit: I’ve been thinking about us.
And I’ve been thinking about fucking your boss.
The thought shouldn’t be so satisfying, but it is. Maybe I’m not that sweet.
FOUR Shane
It’s three in the morning, and I’m still awake, staring at a ceiling I can’t see in the dark. My cock is aching and rock hard, even though I’ve jerked off twice since I left Claire on the lawn. She’s right down the hall, a fantasy made flesh. I can’t stop thinking about her. Ever since the work Christmas party two years ago, when her jackass of an ex-husband bragged about how they spent their holidays on erotic hunting trips, I’ve wanted this.
Wanted her.
Keith had been trying to impress the other partners and me. As if we’d find out he was married to a gorgeous brunette who likes getting rutted in the woods and give him a promotion. That didn’t happen. If anything, his lack of discretion solidified my belief that he is not partner material. He’d been “secretly” fucking a paralegal for months at that point too. I hate cheaters, but after hearing his story and meeting Claire, I realized Keith wasn’t just a cheater. He was also a fool.
Claire had been radiant that night, all smiles, sipping white wine while wearing what had to be the most hideous Christmas sweater ever created, though I liked the pun. Meowy Christmas. Brilliant. Even the garish green-and-red-striped sweatshirt emblazoned with an iron-on patch of a cat in a Santa suit couldn’t hide how stunning she was. If anything, the absurdity of the sweater made her more attractive.
A beautiful woman with a sense of humor who wants to be run down like a deer? My mind was blown.
His X-rated story sparked an interest I hadn’t known I had. I’d immediately wondered what hunting Claire would be like, what fucking Claire would be like. As I lurked at the edges of every conversation she had that night, I realized she was clearly wasted on Keith.
I’d tried to flirt with her—the cat sweater was a perfect conversation starter—to see if she dabbled outside the marriage the same way her husband did. For a brief moment, I even hoped they had an open marriage. No luck on either front. She was oblivious to my attempts at flirtation, polite and pleasant, ignoring every slightly provocative thing I’d said. When I’d run out of feline double entendres, I hadn’t known where to go from there. Couldn’t figure out how to say it without actually saying it. I’d gone home and jerked off, picturing another man’s wife running from me, being pinned beneath me, taking my cock.
The next day, I’d begun my search for a woman who would let me hunt her. I tried hiring professional sex workers, but it was too depressing. They were willing, but they didn’t want it. Not the way I’d imagined Claire wanting it when I fantasized.
Fucking the first woman had felt like sacrilege, the most difficult orgasm of my life. I knew it was nothing like how it was supposed to be, how it would be if I were fucking Claire. After I couldn’t get hard with the second woman I hired, I accepted Margot’s offer, wondering if familiarity would make the experience more enjoyable. It didn’t. I’d been relieved when she used the safe word almost immediately, saving me from having to end the hunt early. That was the wake-up call I needed to quit trying to force other women to fit my Claire-sized fantasy. I decided that I’d wait for Keith’s affair to come to light, then I’d strike. Live out this fantasy and be able to move on from my obsession.
By the next Christmas party, Keith and Naomi, the paralegal, were officially together. The divorce was underway. Once it was finalized, I began researching Claire. Finding out she—like nearly every other local educator—frequented the Green Bean made it easy to be near her. Beyond a smile and polite hello, she never seemed to question my presence. Hearing her vent to friends that she was worried about money gave me the perfect in. I wouldn’t have to woo her, fumble through an obligatory getting-to-know-each-other phase, and try to be charming on dates. I could come right out with it. Make it a business arrangement. Claire gets the money she needs; I get this urge out of my system once and for all. Scratch the itch. A true win-win.
