The Husband Sitter
By: Jessa KaneMy overloaded brain takes mercy on me and the room fades in and out. The last thing I remember is Mr. Black tucking me into my huge, four-poster bed upstairs, Mrs. Black watching anxiously behind him.
“She feels…everything,” he breathes. “And amplifies it.”
“Yes.” Her hand slides over his shoulder and he twines their fingers together, kissing her wrist tenderly. “She’s going to be good for all of us.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Blue
When I wake up the next morning, I’m treated like a queen.
I’m escorted by a maid to the en suite bathroom, where a giant tub of steaming, scented hot water is waiting for me, rose petals floating on the surface. After I’ve soaked for an hour, a smiling masseuse arrives and sets up her table in my room. After some coaxing, I agree to my first ever massage and I am not disappointed. By the time she’s finished, my body is the consistency of gelatin and I’m floating around with a drowsy smile.
I’m just about to dress and go explore the house when another maid enters my room and hands me a note from Mrs. Black.
Dearest, you are truly a wonder. I’ve never felt less anxious on a business trip and Mr. Black is back to the being the man I fell in love with.
I’m light as a feather, all thanks to you.
Alas, I must share you. That was part of the deal. Mrs. Blue is sending a car at five o’clock to bring you to her home. She doesn’t live far and will take exemplary care of you, as will Mr. Blue. From there, you will be going to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Red, so please be sure to pack enough clothing.
Don’t hesitate to call me and ask for anything your heart desires. If it is within my power, you shall have it.
All my love, Mrs. Black
I press my face to the fragrant stationary and inhale her happiness. It travels down my throat and winds in my tummy like bubble gum around a finger. Between the proof that I’ve been helpful and the massage, I could float up to the ceiling if I put my mind to it. On second glance at the letter, my eyes rest on the name Mr. Black. My nipples tighten into beads and delicious warmth gathers between my legs.
Intercourse is how I referred to sex before. After experiencing the physical and emotional roller coaster for myself, I know that word is far too dull and scientific. Sex is fire. Mystery. Animalistic. I like it. A lot.
I’m not sure how I’ve gotten this far in my life without picking up on the emotion of lust in other people. Maybe detecting lust and having it burgeon inside me was the final layer of my gift, lying dormant and waiting for me to become a woman. I’m definitely one now. And I want to have sex again not only to gratify those around me—the wives and husbands who brought me here. No, I want it for myself. Now that I know what to expect, I want to revel in the act next time.
Thinking about how hard Mr. Black thrust into me on the floor of the gymnasium yesterday, I rub agitated palms down my thighs and cross to the window, pulling back the gauzy curtain. Down in the landscaped backyard, Mr. Black paces along the edge of the pool shirtless. A bored Adonis.
He wasn’t bored yesterday. No, he was starved for sexual exertion. And something happened while Mr. Black was nearing his peak yesterday. When his desperation grew, along with his excitement, a new part of my empathy was unlocked. Not only did I feel his energy as if the emotions were my own, I was able to reflect them back like a mirror and drive those urges higher within Mr. Black. Make them louder. I had no idea I was capable of such a thing.
As if sensing my perusal, Mr. Black head lifts and we make blistering eye contact through the window. Heat thrums in my belly. If I went downstairs now, would Mr. Black use my body for his afternoon relief on one of the many lounge chairs?
No. No, I can sense his resoluteness from here. It heightens my own. We both plan to be faithful to Mrs. Black, and that means waiting for permission. I’ll never approach him unless I’ve been given leave to do so. Her trust is more important to me than my awakened needs.
I turn away from the window and pack a few outfits in my suitcase, leaving my remaining clothes behind. Twenty minutes later, I leave the room and go downstairs. A maid waits for me at the front door with a polite smile to escort me outside to the waiting black limousine that idles in the driveway. I’ve never seen one up close and I don’t expect the luxury when I climb inside. The cool, smooth leather feels so divine against the bare backs of my thighs, I stretch out on the seat and rub every inch of my exposed skin on it, purring in my throat.
