Chapter 24: They Discuss Options
The terrace tiles held the day’s heat like a memory. They ate late, picking at figs, feta, and crusty bread, the salty tang of the sea on the breeze. Sandi, showered but naked, sat curled on the wicker sofa in the dappled shade of a sprawling bougainvillea. Her mind was not on the food. One hand rested idly on her belly, then drifted lower. Her fingers, tipped with chipped peach varnish, traced slow, absent circles on her shaven mons.
Caleb watched, transfixed. The casual ownership she had over her own body now was a new language. A fingertip parted her lips, dipped into the slickness he knew was already there, then circled her clit with a soft, rhythmless pressure. She wasn’t inviting him; she was thinking, exploring the map of her own need. The sight flooded him with a hard, urgent lust, but beneath it swam a colder current of dread. This hunger in her was a living thing they’d uncaged. How did you feed a beast like that in a suburban semi on a Tuesday night?
“I’ll be able to fuck you three times a day,” he said, the words sounding hollow even to him. “More, if I restrict my orgasms. Save my strength.”
Her finger stilled. She looked at him, her hazel eyes clear and focused. “The director’s job is out. I don’t want a corner office overlooking the Thames. I want you at the heart of everything. Our everything.”
“Board meetings in New York, though,” he countered, grasping at a fantasy. “First-class flights. Think of the sex you could have eight miles high.”
“We need to make new friends in our own area, Caleb. Not in New York. Here. At home.”
“Male friends for you, Sandi,” he clarified, his voice firm. “Not wife-swapping. I don’t want another woman. You’re the only one.”
“I’ll be discreet,” she said, her finger resuming its lazy journey, sliding inside herself now, a shallow in-and-out that glistened in the afternoon light. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll never deceive you. Not even by omission.”
“We’ve already alienated the twins,” he said, the reality a stone in his gut. “What about our neighbours? Friends? Family? Colleagues in your case, business partners in mine?”
“We won’t flaunt it. My… promiscuity.” She said the word cleanly, testing its weight. “But I’ll be wanting to give expression to my sexuality. And if I put that before my children’s feelings, then everyone else will just have to suck it up.”
His laugh was short, pained. “What about my friends? What do I tell them?”
“Tell them something magical happened on our holiday. That we’ve completely reset our marriage. I won’t want us to be hiding it from those of them I think will understand.” Her gaze was unflinching. “Do you want to have sex with any of them?”
“Yes.”
“And at work?”
“Yes.”
“And on the odd occasion when you have to stay overnight in a hotel?”
“Yes.”
“And when you go out with your girlfriends on a Friday night?”
“Yes.” The admission was a whisper, a release of pressure.
“So basically, you’ll be on the lookout for sex twenty-four seven?”
“Yes.” She pulled her finger from her pussy, slick and shining, and met his eyes. “So you will have to be my best friend, rather than my husband. You will have to be there when I call at 2 a.m. needing a lift home. You might have to take me to the man. Or men.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “You should fuck me before I leave. As a matter of course. And when I get home… even if I’m crying, even if I’m a mess… you must never weaken. Always fuck me. To prove you love me. To comfort me. To cheer me up. To remind me who I belong to.”
The directive was both a demand and a surrender. The air between them crackled, all intellectual scaffolding burned away, leaving only the raw, electric wire of need.
He stood up. His movements were deliberate. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down, letting them pool around his ankles. His erection sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip, a visceral answer to her obscene, languid display.
When she saw it, a small, satisfied sigh escaped her. She didn’t move towards him. She simply sank back into the cushions and opened her legs wide, planting her feet on the sofa. The invitation was blatant, animalistic. No affection. No foreplay. Just use.
He moved over her, bracing one hand on the sofa back. She guided him to her entrance, her hand wet from herself. He pushed in, a single, deep, conquering thrust that buried him to the root. She was so ready, so impossibly open, that he slid in with a smooth, wet sound that made him groan. She wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him in, her eyes fixed on his.
“Fuck,” he grunted, beginning to move, a hard, driving rhythm that shook the wicker frame.
She pulled his head down, her lips against his ear. Her whisper was hot, frantic. “Yours. However you want. Whenever you want. A hole for you to use. Your cunt. Your ass. Your slut. However you need me. However you want to ruin me. It’s all yours, Caleb. It always will be.”
Her words were the final trigger. He fucked her with a brutal, focused intensity, his balls slapping against her ass, his world narrowing to the hot, clutching silk of her and the filthy promise in her ear. She came first, a silent, convulsing climax that squeezed him like a fist. The rhythm of her pulsing cunt tore his own orgasm from him. He drove deep and held, roaring hoarsely into the crook of her neck as he emptied himself in hot, searing jets.
They collapsed, spent, a tangle of slick limbs on the sun-warmed cushions. He slipped out of her, and immediately she felt empty. The silence returned, filled now with the rushing of blood in their ears and the distant, indifferent crash of waves.
After a long while, she dared herself to speak. The question had been forming all day, a shadow behind every practical arrangement. She turned her head on the cushion to look at his profile.
“What would you do,” she asked, her voice small but clear, “if I fell in love with one of them? I mean really in love. Because I’m intent on giving all of myself… not just my body.”
Caleb went utterly still. The breath left his lungs as if he’d been punched. He stared at the magenta bougainvillea blossoms vibrating in the breeze, but he didn’t see them. A profound, icy coldness spread through his chest. He’d thought about the sex, the jealousy, the logistics. He had not let himself think about this.
Seeing his shock, the pallor of his skin, she moved quickly. She shifted, curling herself around him, pressing her naked body against his side, kissing his shoulder, his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m here. I love you. Only you. It’s just a question.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He disentangled himself gently and sat up, turning to face her. He composed his features with visible effort, his eyes hunting hers, holding them prisoner.
“If you were no longer interested in sex,” he said, each word measured, chiselled from stone, “like you are now, and you chose love instead… then I wouldn’t be interested in you.”
The cruelty of his honesty landed between them like a physical object. Her face crumpled, hurt flashing in her eyes before she masked it.
“And if I wanted both?” she challenged, her voice trembling slightly. “Love and sex?”
“Then he’d only be a danger to me if he granted you all the freedom that I do.”
Her breath hitched. “And if he did?”
“Then he’d be happy to share you with me.”
The logical conclusion of their madness, laid bare. “And would you?” she pressed, needing to hear it. “Would you be happy to share me with him?”
He didn’t look away. “Yes.”
A strange, choked sound escaped her—half laugh, half sob. “It’s scary, isn’t it?” she said. “Laying it bare like that. Us both wanting me to sacrifice myself to sex… even at the expense of the love we’ve shared for twenty years.”
“It’s the ultimate end-game,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Stop now if you aren’t prepared to go the whole way.”
“But…” She swallowed. “Every man I go with could be the one. The one who steals me from you. Or, at the very least, the one you have to share me with.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a grim smile touching his lips. “The stakes are high, aren’t they?”
She reached for his hand, lacing her dirty, sticky fingers with his. “But you are me, and I am you. It’s the only foundation I can go forward with.”
He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Well, that’s the contradiction, isn’t it?” he murmured. “We can only strengthen what we have by putting it at risk.”
The silence after his words stretched, filled only by the buzz of a lone beetle against the hot glass of a lantern. Sandi’s expression shifted, the philosophical dread melting into something more immediate, a sharp-edged resolve. She sat up, pushing her sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “We only have three days left,” she said, her voice newly pragmatic. “I want to put all I’ve learnt, all the ways I’ve changed, into practice.”
Caleb watched her, the gears of her mind almost audible. “I don’t know what you mean,” he admitted, though a part of him dreaded the specifics.
“Your transformation is the most important thing we’re taking away from this holiday.”
“I want to settle into it,” she continued, standing and stretching, her body a pale arc against the darkening sky. “This new persona. In preparation for back home. I want to embed it so deep that I don’t slip back.”
“So what do you have in mind?” he asked, his own arousal simmering again, fueled by her intent.
She turned to him, a flicker of ancient frustration in her eyes. “I’m sick of walking that fucking path to the village.” She gestured towards the steep, stony trail. “I’d like them to come to us. Really see if they’re interested enough to make the effort.”
Understanding dawned, audacious and perfect. A slow grin spread across Caleb’s face. “How about an open house,” he proposed, the concept taking shape as he spoke. “For the time we have left.” He stood, grabbing his shorts and pulling out his phone from the pocket. “I’ll phone Nikolas. Put the idea to him.”
Sandi nodded, a wicked, guilty smile playing on her lips as she padded, still naked, into the cottage. Caleb heard the shower start. He dialled, the ringtone foreign in the twilight.
The conversation was brief, conducted in a mixture of broken Greek and blunt English. Nikolas understood instantly; there was a long pause on the line, then a low, appreciative laugh. Caleb hung up. An hour later, headlights carved through the indigo night, a small van grinding to a halt outside the cottage gate.
Nikolas jumped from the driver’s seat. The back doors swung open, revealing crates and cardboard boxes. “Supplies,” he announced, already lifting a case of beer. Caleb joined him, carrying in armfuls: bottles of ouzo and retsina, lamb wrapped in bloody paper, onions, tomatoes, garlic. Bread, olives, houmous, tzatziki, taramasalata. The kitchen table groaned under the feast.
Nikolas set down the final crate, his eyes scanning the room for her. Caleb handed him a thick bundle of euro notes, payment for the provisions. Nikolas took it without counting. “I’ve told them all,” he said, his voice quiet. “All of Sandi’s ‘friends’. Open house. Seventy-two hours of partying with the woman of the moment.”
Caleb pocketed his wallet, his smile one of pure, approving complicity. He gestured towards the bedroom door. “Assistant, please leave it with her.”
Nikolas turned. Sandi stood leaning against the door frame of the bedroom, a clean white towel wrapped loosely around her hips. Her hair was damp, her skin flushed from the shower, her smile both wicked and guiltily eager. Nikolas crossed the room and placed the bundle of notes carefully in her open palm. Her fingers closed around the cash, the paper crisp against her skin.
“The perfect hostess,” Caleb said from behind Nikolas, his voice rich with promise. “Nothing too much trouble when it comes to her guests’ needs and wants. Whatever they are.”
Nikolas’s dark eyes hadn’t left Sandi’s face. A current, palpable and fierce, jumped between them. He took a half-step closer, his voice a rough murmur. “Do I still need to ask?” The question was directed at Caleb, but his gaze devoured Sandi.
Caleb’s laugh was a short, happy bark in the dim room. “No,” he said. “And tell them all that there’s no need to ask. Not me, not her.” He moved to stand beside his wife, his hand coming to rest on the small of her bare back. “The food and drink are only for sustenance. The whole point of the exercise is for everyone, you included Nikolas, to take their fill of her.”
Sandi’s breath hitched, her eyes glazing slightly.
“Fucking her round the clock,” Caleb continued, the instructions clean and explicit. “Even in her sleep. Until we have to leave.”
Nikolas nodded once, the formalities dissolved. He closed the final distance, his hands rising to frame Sandi’s face. The towel slipped from her hips, puddling at her feet. His kiss was not the tender one from the taverna bedroom; it was a claiming of this new agreement, deep and probing and wet. She melted into it, her hands grasping his forearms, the money still crumpled in her fist.
Caleb watched, his own cock hardening painfully against his zipper. He saw Nikolas’s hands slide from her face, down the column of her throat, over her collarbones, to cup her breasts. His thumbs scraped over her nipples, making them peak instantly. A low moan vibrated from Sandi’s throat into Nikolas’s mouth.
Nikolas broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck. He glanced at Caleb, a silent question in the look. Caleb simply leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms, his expression one of rapt concentration. Permission granted.
In one fluid motion, Nikolas turned Sandi around, bending her forward over the foot of the wrought-iron bed. The cool metal pressed against her stomach. He knelt behind her, his hands spreading her ass cheeks wide. He didn’t pause to kiss or lick. He spat, a glob of silvery saliva landing directly on her puckered hole. He rubbed it in with his thumb, a crude lubricant, before positioning the thick, purple head of his cock there.
Sandi pushed back against him, a wordless plea. He entered her ass in one slow, inexorable thrust. The stretch was brutal, magnificent. Her cry was muffled by the bedsheets. He sheathed himself fully, his balls tight against her, and let out a guttural groan. For a moment, he didn’t move, just let her feel the overwhelming intrusion.
Then he pulled back and slammed home. The raw, wet sound of it filled the room. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, each drive lifting her onto her toes. The bed shrieked in protest against the stone floor. Caleb watched, mesmerized, as Nikolas used his wife, as her body yielded and accepted each brutal stroke. Her fingers twisted in the white linen, her face turned to the side, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry.
“You like this, malaka?” Nikolas gritted out, his hips a piston. “This is what you wanted?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, the word torn from her. “Fuck me! Ruin me!”
He obliged. The slapping of flesh grew louder, faster. His hand came down hard on her ass cheek, a sharp crack that left a red handprint. She yelped, then pushed back harder. He fucked her with a focused, animalistic rage, as if trying to obliterate the last of her old self through this single, violent act. Caleb could see Nikolas’s abdominal muscles clench, could see the moment his control shattered.
With a roar that seemed to shake the walls, Nikolas buried himself to the root and came, his body seizing, pulsing jet after jet of hot spend deep into her rectum. He collapsed over her, his weight driving her into the mattress, both of them slick with sweat and breathing in ragged, shattered gasps.
Slowly, he pulled out. A trickle of white immediately leaked from her used hole. Sandi stayed on her knees, forehead pressed to the bed, utterly spent, utterly satisfied. Nikolas stood, tucking himself away. He looked at Caleb, his chest heaving. No triumph, just the blunt acknowledgment of a task begun.
“They will start arriving after midnight,” Nikolas said, his voice hoarse. He picked up his van keys from the floor where they’d fallen. Without another word, he left, the cottage door closing softly behind him.
Caleb walked to the bed. He looked down at his wife’s ravished form, at the seed already staining her thighs. He felt a love so violent it stole his breath. He placed a hand on the small of her back, feeling the heat there. She turned her head, her hazel eyes meeting his. They held a depth of peace he hadn’t seen in twenty years.
“Seventy-two hours,” he whispered.
She smiled, a tired, glorious thing. “The party’s started.”