Chapter 1: Mercy Strokes and True Crime
Arthur got home from work as usual noticing his beautiful wife lounging by their pool outside in her bikini. Knowing better than to interrupt her private time, Arthur changed out of his work clothes into some blue jeans, put on an apron, and started straightening up the messy house.
The house was a chaotic mess from Vivian's day at home. Her dirty clothes were strewn across the floor, the bed wasn't made, and the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes.
Arthur scurried from room to room, cleaning up the house as he went. He tried hard to be a supportive husband, and he was hoping to relieve some sexual tension tonight.
Arthur and Vivian had been married for seven years, but she had lost interest in him sexually almost immediately after they got married. To be fair, Arthur not a strong physical specimen. He was 5'8" tall, skinny, and poorly endowed.
Arthur had been blown away when he met Vivian. She was a statuesque red headed beauty with long legs and full heavy breasts. She was outgoing and vivacious, flirting with everyone.
They were introduced by Lisa, one of Arthur's work colleagues. Normally, Arthur would have thought Vivian was way out of his league, but she was a struggling single mom with a teenage daughter. Arthur was well established in his career with his own home and provided a level of stability.
Initially, the sex was amazing. Arthur was relatively inexperienced and Vivian blew his mind. Arthur fell head over heels for her and proposed a month after they met. Vivian agreed but insisted on a prenup that took care of her if they later divorced.
Arthur signed it without complaint. The sex slowed down almost immediately after the wedding. Within a few months, it had stopped entirely. Vivian would get out of bed, put on a silk robe, and leave Arthur to his own devices.
At first, Arthur thought it was normal. Maybe the honeymoon period was over. Maybe they were just too busy. Maybe it was stress from work. But the months turned into years and the excuses piled up. Arthur started noticing the way Vivian’s eyes lingered on other men, how she laughed a little too loudly at their jokes, how she always seemed to be out when he came home from work.
She began dressing in tighter, more revealing clothes, flashing him a smirk when he glanced at her legs or the curve of her ass. He knew she was trying to provoke him, to make him jealous. But Arthur wasn’t the jealous type—just the desperate type.
And Arthur was desperately horny. He initially complained about the lack of sex, but Vivian always got upset with him. She claimed he was selfish and didn't care about her and it always resulted in a fight. Eventually their sex life had devolved to a point where he got an occasional hand job if he did everything possible to keep her happy.
Arthur prepared dinner and carried a tray into the living room, where Vivian was sprawled on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke—she must have had one outside while sunbathing. She had turned on the TV and was watching a true crime show, her guilty pleasure.
He set the tray down on the coffee table, avoiding her gaze. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.
He didn’t want to startle her.
Vivian didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, where a shaky camera panned over a crime scene—yellow tape fluttering in the wind. Arthur waited, hands clasped behind his back, wondering if she’d even acknowledge him.
“It’s steak,” he added, then winced internally. Why did he feel the need to describe it? As if she couldn’t see it.
Finally, she blinked and turned toward him, her lips curling into something between a smile and a smirk. “You remembered how I like it.”
Arthur exhaled, relieved. That was high praise.
Vivian rarely acknowledged Arthur’s efforts. He tried to hide his pleasure, but he could feel his cheeks warming. He sat down on the couch beside her, careful not to get too close. The last time he had sat too close, she had rolled her eyes and told him to stop crowding her.
“How was work?” she asked, her voice flat but not unkind. She took a sip of her wine, the red liquid staining her lips.
“Fine,” Arthur said, picking up his own fork. “Just numbers. You know how it is.”
Vivian hummed, her attention already drifting back to the screen. A detective was interviewing a suspect, her face twisted in guilt.
Vivian leaned forward, her eyes glued to the screen.
“You think she did it?” Arthur asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Of course she did it,” Vivian said, not looking away. “Her husband was such a loser. She offed him for the life insurance.”
Vivian swirled her wine, ice cubes clinking. “Some people just know how to play the game.”
Arthur chewed his steak slowly, watching the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass. The lace of her thigh-highs peeked beneath the hem of her robe—black, sheer, the kind she only wore when she had somewhere to be later.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said, finally glancing at him. Her gaze dropped to his plate, then back to his face. “Not complaining or anything. Just an observation.”
Arthur swallowed. “You look so beautiful tonight. I just want you.”
Arthur’s voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. He hated the way his hands trembled, the way his throat tightened. He hated that he was begging again, that he was always begging.
Vivian exhaled through her nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. She didn’t look away from the screen. The detective was now questioning a neighbor, a woman with a tight perm and a suspicious glint in her eye. Vivian’s fingers tapped against the arm of the couch, her nails clicking like a metronome counting down to something.
"Is that right? You want me, or do you just want to get off. Tell the truth, Arthur. Do you want to get off right now?" She asked with a sly smile.
One that made Arthur's stomach turn."
"It's not about that," Arthur said, his fork trembling as he set it down. "I just miss you. I miss—"
"Spare me," Vivian cut in, her voice sharp as broken glass. She finally turned to him, the wine forgotten in her hand. "You miss *me*? When’s the last time you really looked at me, Arthur? Really *looked*?" She gestured vaguely at herself, her robe slipping open just enough to reveal her cleavage and a hint of her nipple. "Or are you just staring at my tits?"
Arthur’s gaze flicked to the floor, heat flooding his face.
"I do look at you. All the time."
Vivian let out a sharp laugh, tossing her head like she’d expected nothing less. "Sure you do. Like a creep in a parking garage." She took another sip of wine, her blue eyes cold. "Except you’re not some creep. You’re *my husband*. And I’m supposed to be enough for you, right? That’s what marriage is, isn’t it? A guarantee of sex on demand?"
Arthur’s fingers twisted in his lap. "I never said that."
"No," she agreed, leaning back into the couch cushions. "You didn’t have to.
It was just *understood*." Vivian swirled her wine. "But you know what’s funny? I think you actually like it this way. The pretending, the begging—it’s like some kind of twisted foreplay for you. You get off on the humiliation."
Arthur’s breath hitched. "That’s not—"
"Then what is it?" She cut him off. "Because I’m not buying it anymore. You don’t even fight back. You just take it. Like you’re *grateful* for the scraps."
The silence stretched between them, thick with the kind of tension that made Arthur’s skin prickle.
The silence stretched between them, thick with the kind of tension that made Arthur’s skin prickle.
Vivian drained her glass, the final gulp loud in the quiet room. She set it down on the table with a decisive clink. Her eyes, flat and appraising, swept over him from head to toe, as if evaluating livestock. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“You’re pathetic,” she said, but her voice had lost its sharp edge. It was just a statement of fact now, weary and definitive. “All that whining. All that wanting. It’s disgusting.”
Arthur felt something hot and brittle crack inside his chest. It wasn’t anger. It was worse—a final, quiet acceptance of the verdict.
She sighed, a long, exasperated sound, and reached for the bottle of hand lotion on the side table. She squeezed a generous amount into her palm, rubbing her hands together slowly. The synthetic scent of tropical flowers invaded the space, clashing with the musk of cologne that still lingered.
“Fine,” she said, not looking at him. She leaned back, resting her lotioned hand on her thigh, palm up. Her attention snapped back to the television, where a reenactment was playing. “Just get it over with.”
Arthur blinked. “What?”
She laughed then—a short, harsh bark that held no humor. “Don’t be stupider than you are, Arthur. You want to get off? Get on with it. Drop your pants and do what you came here to do.”
The words hung in the air, so much cruder than any begging he’d ever done. His face burned. His hands trembled as they went to his belt buckle, the motion mechanical. The clink of the metal, the zip of his fly, they were deafeningly loud. He pushed his jeans and boxers down to his knees, the air cool on his exposed skin. He was already half-hard, a traitorous, eager response to the sheer degradation of the moment.
He shifted awkwardly on the couch, his movements constrained by the fabric around his legs. He knelt on the cushions beside her, his body angled toward her indifferent form. He guided himself into her waiting hand.
Her skin was slippery, cool from the lotion. She didn’t grip him. She just let her hand lie there, a passive, damp channel. He had to do all the work.
He began to move, a slow, shameful rocking of his hips. The only sound was the soft, wet friction and the droning voice of the TV narrator. “The neighbor reported hearing raised voices earlier that evening, a common occurrence in the troubled household…”
Arthur’s eyes were glued to Vivian’s profile. She watched the screen intently, her expression one of mild interest. A commercial for a luxury car came on. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. Her hand was just a thing, a tool he was using, disconnected from the rest of her.
His rhythm grew more frantic. He was chasing it, chasing a release that felt tangled up with the acid burning in his throat. Humiliation coiled hot in his gut, but it was somehow fueling him, mixing with the physical sensation until he couldn’t separate one from the other. He was a machine. A needy, pathetic machine.
On screen, a knife was shown in evidence bag. Vivian’s fingers twitched, minutely, adjusting the angle. It wasn’t for his pleasure. It was to stop him from staining her robe.
The climax, when it came, was a silent, shuddering contraction. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a physical spasm of defeat. He slumped forward, catching himself on the arm of the couch, breathing hard.
Vivian pulled her hand away. She wiped it meticulously on a tissue from the box beside her, examining her nails after, as if checking for damage. She didn’t look at him.
“Pull your pants up,” she said, her voice bored. “You’re dripping on the cushion.”
Arthur fumbled with his clothing, his fingers numb and clumsy. He managed to get himself decent, the damp chill of the lotion and his own release already turning cold and sticky against his skin. He sat back, a hollowed-out shell.
Vivian picked up the remote and raised the volume. The true crime theme music swelled, dramatic and final.
He sat in the darkening room, the ghost of her perfume in his nose, the taste of copper and shame in his mouth, and understood, with perfect, terrible clarity, that he was utterly alone.