Chapter 6: Two Months of Submission
The flannel smelled like him—sawdust and cheap detergent and sweat. It hung to my mid-thigh, the only thing between my skin and the cool morning air in the kitchen. My own skin, a canvas of ink and metal. I felt the weight of my breasts, the subtle, aching jiggle as I shifted my weight, the familiar pull of the piercings through my nipples. A constant, low-grade reminder. I was pouring coffee, watching the dark stream fill the mug, when his footsteps padded in behind me.
His hands were warm and rough as they slid under the hem of the shirt, palms skimming up my ribs to cup the soft, heavy weight of my tits. His thumbs brushed over the raised metal bars. I shuddered. It wasn’t disgust anymore. It was a complicated, shameful spark that traveled straight down my spine to between my legs, where I was already sore, already wet. My body kept its own time now.
“Good morning, wife,” he murmured into my hair, his morning erection a firm pressure against the curve of my ass through the flannel.
I leaned back. It was automatic. My head fit perfectly against his shoulder. “Morning.” My voice was still sleep-rough, but higher than anything I’d known for thirty-six years. It felt like a ventriloquist’s trick.
He turned me, his hands firm on my hips, and lifted me onto the edge of the butcher-block counter like I weighed nothing. I was used to that, too. The shocking ease with which he moved this body. My bare thighs met the cool stone. He pushed the flannel apart, letting it fall open. The air raised goosebumps on my tattooed stomach, over the jewel in my navel. He stepped between my spread knees, his hands on my inner thighs, pushing them wider.
I didn’t look at his face. I looked past his shoulder, at the wedding photo on the fridge. Sabrina, in this body, beaming up at Mark. Me, in my own body—Justin’s body—standing stiffly beside him as his best man. My own grinning face looked alien to me now.
He didn’t bother with preamble. He guided himself in, a blunt, stretching pressure that made me suck in a sharp breath. He was thick, and my body, for all its daily use, still needed a second to adjust. The full, deep slide was a sensation that short-circuited my brain every time. A filling, a claiming. The metal of my clit piercing shifted, a tiny, internal click.
“There you go,” he breathed, his forehead against mine. He started to move, a steady, practiced rhythm. His hands gripped my hips, his callouses catching on my skin.
My body responded. It always did. A flush spread across my chest, up my neck. My nipples tightened, aching against the cold air. The wetness made obscene, slick sounds with each of his thrusts. I wrapped my fishnet-clad legs around his waist, the boots heavy around his back. My arms went around his shoulders, my fingers tracing the familiar tattoos on my own arms—skulls, roses, intricate patterns I now knew by heart. I made the sounds he expected: soft moans, a hitched gasp when he drove particularly deep.
My mind floated. It went to Chloe. My wife. Was she having her coffee right now, wondering why her husband had become so distant, so mechanically affectionate? Did she touch my—his—face and feel a stranger looking back? The guilt was a cold stone in my gut, a stark contrast to the building heat in my pelvis.
And Sabrina. Where was she? Was she in my old apartment, in my slack, skinny body, staring at my computer screen? Was she enduring Chloe’s confused kisses? The thought was a bizarre agony.
Mark’s pace increased, becoming harder, less rhythmic. His breath came in harsh gusts against my neck. “Come on, baby,” he grunted. “Come for me.”
It was a command my body had learned to obey. The orgasm built not as a wave of pleasure, but as a physiological inevitability—a tightening, a fluttering deep inside, then a release that washed through me, leaving my limbs weak. I cried out, a high, feminine sound that echoed in the bright kitchen. My nails dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, surely leaving half-moon marks.
He followed with a guttural groan, hips stuttering, pulsing deep within me. I felt the hot rush, another claim. He stayed there for a moment, buried, his weight against me. Then he pulled out, the sudden emptiness always a shock. A trickle traced a warm path down my inner thigh.
He kissed my shoulder, a casual peck. “Gotta shower. Big pour today.” He zipped his jeans and walked out, leaving me on the counter, the flannel hanging open, my body humming and spent and utterly foreign.
I slowly slid off. My legs trembled. I felt the evidence of him on my thigh. I walked, the boots clicking on the hardwood, to the sink. I wet a paper towel, the water lukewarm. I cleaned myself with clinical motions, the touch of my own fingers on that sensitive, pierced flesh still feeling like an intrusion. I tied the flannel shut.
The phone on the counter buzzed. Not my phone—Sabrina’s phone. Justin’s number flashed on the screen.
My heart seized. In two months, she’d never called. We’d had an unspoken pact: figure this out silently, don’t rock the boats we were trapped in.
I picked it up. My hand—small, with painted nails—shook. I swiped to answer, brought it to my ear. I didn’t speak.
The voice that came through was my own. My old, steady baritone. But it was frayed, panicked.