Yes, Coldly

You hasten closer to the bedside. Michelle has a glazed look in her eyes, vacant and empty. She looks like she’s been petrified, and her rhythmic bouncing almost gives the impression that her soul has abandoned her body. The directionless movements of her sultry body discourage you briefly. You find it hard to believe that she can feel the **** she’s receiving, let alone your pleading voice. Yet, you steel yourself. You have to try, even if just to negate the creeping sensation of self-loathing.

“Michelle? Baby? Can you talk to me?” You feel nauseous, your voice adopting the tonality of a pouting child. “Baby please, talk to me.” The gaggle of men share a quick snigger, amused at the inadequacy of your begging. “Please baby...” you trail off meekly. Michelle’s vacant expression is stalwart, unchanging no matter how lowly you plead.

The cocky man with his cock in her throat suddenly pulls free, and in a commanding tone says “Talk to your ‘man’.” A fresh wave of embarrassment flushes over you, and your cheeks quickly rise to a rosy red colour. He regarded you as the pouty child you felt like, and what made it infinitely worse was Michelle’s reaction. Her eyes slowly refocused, and she glanced sideways. For the first time tonight, she noticed you.

Your body rejects your will. It refuses to open its mouth, to utter the questions your feverish mind has raised, to obey. As a second drags on into a moment, you realise that the silence formed between you and your wife cannot be broken by yourself. You fall to the whims of Michelle, the future now at her mercy. You don’t know if she has the same revelation, but she speaks regardless.

“Let me finish.”