Spencer’s

You’re in a suburban house, a small kitchen overstuffed with appliances, a stack of washing up in the sink, a rack of dripping clothes on the floor, overflowing bins of rubbish, food waste cursed with flies, recycling scattered with the unrecyclable. And in the centre of this mess stands Spencer, dressed as the perfect housewife, blue dress, perfect blond hair, an apron with red spots, duster in one hand, washing cloth in the other.

On the table sits her phone and its flashing. It’s flashing her fertility, that she is most fertile now, that for the next hour is the perfect chance to get pregnant. She drops the duster. She drops the washing cloth and follows the sound of laughter out of the kitchen and into the lounge.

In the lounge is a conglomeration of manly men, all bristling muscles, the scent of testosterone strong, the sounds of ribbing, of jesting, of dismissing, heavy in the air. Chad sits there, bare chested, bulging shorts, muscles inappropriately large, bulging further as he pumps a dumbbell in his left hand and raises a beer in his right. His friends are equally split between working out and drinking out. None of them notice her appearance. Their eyes are fixed on the television, where a game of rugby is being shown.

“Chad, it’s time,” Spencer tells him. He looks at her confused. “I’m most fertile now. Time to give me a child.”

“But the rugby’s on,” Chad insists. “Get me a beer instead. Rugby’s on.”

And his friends break out into macho chanting. “Rugby. Rugby. Rugby.”

She can feel her fertility peaking. It’s an aura of golden light that emerges from her stomach. But Chad has already turned away from her and back to the clashing of men, and the fumbling of hand on balls. As a scrum forms, he and his friends huddle closer, eyes fixed on the screen, breath ragged with their excitement, their dumbbells and their beer momentarily forgotten.

The doorbell rings. Spencer leaves her husband and her friends to open it. In the door you stand there, all smiles, all charm.

“John, have you come to watch Rugby with my husband.”

“No, Spencer. I’ve come to help you.”

It’s only then that she realises that you are naked, that your penis juts out before you, towards her, and once her grey eyes have fallen on it, they can’t pull away.

“Yes, I’ve come to give you a child. I’ve come to give you more pleasure than you can imagine. Chad doesn’t want to please you. All he wants is the image of a perfect wife. He doesn’t want to work for it. He doesn’t want you to have pleasure.”

“No, I love him. He loves me.”

“But he doesn’t please you. Now cum.”

The world shatters. The house turns into crystals of colour, into fragments of sound. Leaving only Spencer and you. And then both you and Spencer and the dream are gone. You’re in darkness. You’re in your bed. The feel of the cap on your head, the painful erection, the only residue of what you had seen.