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CARL AND MILLICENT RANDOM WERE preparing to retire for the night.
Certain blatant and unmistakable signals were being flaunted by Carl’s sexily-endowed, dark-haired, thirty-five-year-old wife. like the filmy, orange negligee which he found draped across the bed as he entered the bedroom in Millie’s wake. Like the drum of the shower in the adjoining bathroom, the aphrodisiac scent of her musky perfume as she dried and dusted herself, a spoor that carried upon her anticipatory hummings, conveyed a searing, electric signal on the suddenly-charged air.
While Carl Random couldn’t help but be aroused, already finding his prick nudging upward inside his pajamas as he waited for Millicent to appear, he nevertheless sensed a strange ennui, and a withering sense of duty as well.
Shit, he mused sardonically. Of course. Wednesday night. We always do it on Wednesday night. Part of Millie’s super-efficient program. Daddy’s rights. If a woman wants to hold her man-she was fond of saying-well then she’d damned well better see to frequent oil changes; his crankcase should be drained at least twice a week.
He wasn’t knocking it. But there were times when the mechanical aspects of their marriage rites palled somewhat. Surprises he certainly could have used. A strange irritation choked him. And just what-what in hell, jerk, he challenged, is eating you?
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.