Chapter Three: Lured
A hand runs over my stomach, a hand that I don't recognize as my own. I would be disgusted by such a lewd act, especially involving a distended torso like mine. A low groan tears from my throat, cracking halfway through. The hand, rather than recoiling, delights in this action and tweaks one of my nipples in response. I gasp at the shock, blindly trying to grab at the naughty digits. Something is happening to my genitals. Sometime warm… wet… a tongue..?-
BZZZT
David heard only the alarm, like a siren piercing his eardrum. It hadn't woken him in weeks and he'd nearly forgotten the sound. He fumbled to turn it off and seek comfort in the warm sheets. Jane's side of the bed was already cold.
I slept through the night, he thought, a trickle of cheerful optimism slowly filling him up. But why? Because I had sex with my wife?
The optimism froze to ice and his sheets couldn't control his shiver. Physically, he'd had sex with his wife. But in his thoughts, his desires, and every repressed muscle in his body that sang so sweetly as he climaxed, someone else was to thank.
no no no no-
The door opened a crack and a familiar face, framed with curly hair, peered into the room with a smile. "Good morning, dear." She stepped in, her full figure concealed by an offwhite cotton towel. "Sleep well?"
Without waiting for an answer, she leaned against the doorframe and the towel that wrapped artfully around her body slid down a little. "The kids have gone to school. Maybe you could repeat your performance last night."
He gulped audibly. Whatever had sparked his behavior the night before was long gone, evaporating from his body like the liquor he used in certain luscious desserts. "I don't know Jane, I'm still worn out… I don't think I'm up for it, so to speak."
A shadow of irritation crossed her face, but left fleetingly. She sashayed over to him, knees brushing against each other as she glided over the old carpet. "Then let me take control." The towel crumpled to the floor.
Looking at her body in the full, harsh light of the morning, David was struck by how much it had changed. He expected her to have aged-he himself wasn't the fit and trim husband from ten years ago-but didn't think that her body would look so different. Her breasts sagged, her stomach puckered with stretch marks from multiple pregnancies, and her complexion was dotted with new freckles. He pulled the sheets down and gently swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up with more effort than usual, as if a great weight was attempting to push him back down.
They looked at each other's naked bodies, twenty-four inches apart. His flaccid penis was aligned with her public hair, peppered with grey.
"Jane…" he sighed, unable to find anything else to say.
She gave him a cold stare, a change that was akin to flinging a pot of boiling water outside on a frigid January morning. Without a word, she yanked the towel off the ground and stormed out, a rebuffed wife.
David quietly stepped into navy pants and pulled a sweater over his head. He would need to explain his behavior eventually, if he was ever able to think of an explanation. Too many tiny excuses-exhaustion, stress, lack of foreplay. No build up. No seduction. He thought that after so many years, they'd be past that phase of their marriage. He crept down the hall, away from the closed bathroom door, down the stairs and out to the garage. The house suddenly felt very stifling.
The next couple of weeks passed with minor awkwardness. It was difficult for David to look his wife in the eyes and the only words they exchanged were brief confirmations about their children. At the dinner table, Arthur and D.W. supplied most of the conversation. David liked it that way, though he always felt a little ripple zigzag up his spine when Arthur mentioned his teacher. His heart would pound in his chest and he would open his mouth to change the conversation, but something would cause him to immediately close it. It was conversation that he didn't want to stifle.
One Tuesday dinner, Arthur surprised him by directly addressing him with a request. "Dad, can you make a dessert for my class? For Friday?"
"You really want me to? You were always so ashamed of my cooking." He said it lightheartedly, intending it as a joke. Arthur shrugged.
"I know you'll make something good."
David was delighted. "What kind of dessert do you have in mind, son?"
"Buster's mom is making cookies, Francine is bringing brownies, the Brain said he wanted to make cupcakes with his mom's frosting… so probably a cake?"
"A cake, huh? I think I could do that. What's the occasion?"
"It's Mr. Ratburn's birthday and we know he has a huge sweet tooth. We thought we would surprise him with some desserts."
"That's a nice thing to do for your teacher," Jane chimed in. "I thought you didn't like him."
"No way! Well, he gives us a lot of homework and tests. But he's fair and we're probably the smartest third grade class in the state."
"Yeah, but you're bringing down the curve," D.W. smiled, reaching for her milk. Jane shot her a warning look.
Make a dessert for Mr. Ratburn, David thought. So many possibilities for a cake.
He would be forced to think of his client for the next three days. Every step in baking would make him re-evaluate his strategy, like a game of chess he was playing with himself.
He found this thought even more fortuitous than the request.