The Escort Next Door Read Free Page B

I tried to tell
myself, as my eyes flooded with scorching tears.
    “Oh, God,” Paul gasped, his breathing coming hard against my
chest, as he leisurely lifted himself from me. “Ugh, fuck,” he muttered,
rolling to one side. As his flaccid penis slipped from me, some of his semen
dripped onto my inner thigh and, within seconds, created a chill that quickly
spread throughout my entire body.
    As soon as his bulk was off me, I reached down and pulled my
dress back to my knees. My trembling fingers remained there, clinging to the
hem. Paul’s left arm was lazily flopped over my waist and his foot, which was
still in his black loafer, was draped clumsily across my calf. The rest of him
was pressed face down into the mattress by my side.
    “Paul,” I said with a quiet, shaky voice.
    The only response I received was the low rumble of a snore.
Laying under what felt like an incredibly bright glare from our bedroom light,
my eyes fixed wide on the clean, white ceiling above. Shell-shocked, the events
of the previous few minutes played on a continuous loop. Everything about him,
from the way he’d behaved to the way he’d spoken, seemed alien to me. How could
the man I’d been sleeping with since I was eighteen have changed so
dramatically? Was it the result of two months of abstinence; a build up of
frustration coupled with the effects of alcohol?
    Those questions rolled unanswered around my brain, but it
was another that took center stage. What the hell had just happened? It beat at
my head over and over, as I laid stunned into motionlessness. I couldn’t even
define what had passed between us. It hadn’t been anything resembling love
making, not by my interpretation of the phrase. The way he’d cruelly taken what
he wanted regardless of my discomfort bordered on rape, but then again, I’d
never said, “no” or asked him to stop. I may not have been particularly happy
with what was going on, but I’d passively allowed it to happen. And that
brought with it another uncomfortable realization: it wasn’t just Paul who had
acted out of character that night.

Chapter Three
    Visitor
    I didn’t
get any sleep, and eventually crawled off of the bed at around five while
the sun was just beginning to create an amber glow on the carpet. I slipped out
from under Paul, not needing to worry about waking him, as he continued to
snore loudly.
    Leaving the room, I went down the hall to use the main
bathroom, not because I was particularly worried about disturbing my husband’s
sleep, but I needed some time to compose myself before actually confronting
what had gone on the night before. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say to
him. I even wondered whether the hours spent stewing over it had made me lose
all perspective.
    Climbing into the shower, I quickly soaped my body noting a
graze on my inner left thigh and freshly pinkish bruises on both hip bones. The
bruises were obviously caused by the force of his own pelvis knocking against
me, it took me a little longer to realize that the tiny teeth of his open
zipper had cut into the delicate flesh of my thigh. None of those injuries was
particularly sore though, and with the exception of a slight tenderness between
my legs, I had no other physical reminders of the evening. Still, try as I
might, I simply couldn’t shake the sense that something had gone very wrong in
my relationship with Paul.
    It took me no more than ten minutes to wash my body and
hair. I spent a further hour standing beneath the hot jets, trying to figure
out how to broach the subject.
    Wrapped only in a towel and with hair loose and dripping
wet, I returned to the bedroom. Still face down on the bed, Paul didn’t stir.
As I stepped into a pair of jeans and threw on a T-shirt, I watched him
breathing heavily. With his dark hair tussled, dress shirt creased and pants
hanging disheveled at his hips, he was a mess. It became clear that he was
drunker than I’d realized the night before. Would he even remember