Ok I know it's been a while but like I've said before I'm not really a prolific writer. Now apologies up front for not working on other projects but you go where the Muse takes you. Special thanks to "The Dude" for the editing on this piece, we'll see if we can keep the Grammar Police at Bay.
Again everyone person depicted in all my stories are eighteen years of age or older. Nothing written is real, that would be weird. Fantasy is just that, fantasy and Oedipus Stories have been around for centuries so I make no apologies there. The author neither condones nor encourages any of the actions depicted within this tale. This is more Porn than it is anything else so if you're looking for Tolstoy, Chekhov or Dostoyevsky, well you've come to the wrong place.
And so we begin.
*****
What am I doing? Who does this? How could I have fallen so far, willingly? All these and many more questions were busily travelling through my brain. None of them were receiving an answer of any measure. It had been three weeks since my fall from grace and my slide, if you could call it that, took the form of a full on plummet. 'The Plummet' as it were began from the moment I left my son's room and returned to my marital bed.
Roger was asleep upon my arrival, still firmly secured as I had left him. As I gently began to untie his ankles, releasing him from his night's confinement he awoke. "Did you even think of me last night?"
"Sometimes," I replied softly continuing to unfasten the terricloth ties from the foot board.
"Well?"
"Well what?" I looked at him giving him no indication I knew what he was alluding to.
"Tell me what happened."
"What do you want to know?" I relented.
"You fuck him?"
"Weren't you listening?" I asked feeling somewhat annoyed at the directness of the question. I had just finished releasing both his feet and was now looking in the nightstand for the keys to the handcuffs. I wondered to myself how he managed to sleep at all trussed up as he was. Once I found the key I approached the bed, it seemed odd us having this conversation. It was like we were discussing the weather or some other immaterial thing that had no relevance to us or our relationship.
As he began to sit up in the bed, rubbing his wrists and then his ankles he replied to my question. "A little bit."
"Well then, you know we weren't watching TV." The sarcasm and anger were dripping from my voice. I was angry with him. Moreover, I was feeling guilt and that guilt was driving my anger. Roger got up and stood, then immediately headed to the bathroom. I guess a night spent tied to the bed probably had some significant downsides.
I heard the toilet flush and then Roger returned, he grabbed his pajama bottoms and pulled them on before he walked over to his bureau and took out a T-shirt. He didn't even acknowledge that I was wearing my house coat and nothing else.
"Is he up?"
"He's been up and has left," I replied. "I thought it best he be gone when I woke you. I think we have a lot to talk about."
Roger immediately left our room and headed down the hall. He opened Michael's door and peered into the room. As you can imagine it was in complete disarray.
"Jesus Christ, Rachel, what happened in there?"
"What do you think happened in here?" I don't know if I was more annoyed with his questioning or confused at his response. His entire composure threw me.
"My god, look at this room, it's trashed." He was right, it was trashed. There were no sheets on the bed, really. The fitted sheet had come off sometime during the night and was never returned. Most of the pillows remained and a single sheet was draped over one corner of the bed. There was a pillow and a blanket on the dresser that I hoped Roger ignored or didn't notice, as I wasn't really feeling like explaining how they got there. The room definitely looked used and, embarrassingly enough, still smelt of sex.
"Alright you've seen the room, that's enough. Let's just shut the door, shall we?" I said in my most matronly of voices. I could feel my embarrassment rising the longer we stood there. It was of course at that point that Roger did the unthinkable; he walked in.
"Roger, get out of there," I admonished. "Jesus Christ."
All at once I felt embarrassed and prepubescent. Like some high school girl caught doing something shameful, but the fact was I didn't feel ashamed. At that moment I felt angry and betrayed. He had put this into motion. He had played his ever manipulative game and set things to flight. I wanted to yell at him, to strike out at him; after all he had driven me to this, had pushed me. Hell, he had gone out of his way to see this happen, so fuck him.
Just as I was about to say something more severe, he turned and looked at me in shock. For the first time it was actually sinking in. In that very instant, reality and fantasy collided and he had to reconcile these two desperately differing perceptions, each with its own set of precepts. Fantasy can be anything wild and broad with little or no fear of repercussions. Reality is truth and fact, mired in consequence, decision and choice, requiring ownership and acceptance. And now he was faced with all of that.
