We had just been lying there. Quiet. Not asleep, not talking, not really touching either. Just side by side in that familiar post-dinner, pre-sleep space. The air between us stale with routine, like the soft groan of an old floorboard you stop noticing after a while.
I reached for him—mechanically, maybe. But also, intentionally. I reached over his soft belly and wrapped my fingers around his cock. Not out of passion. Not out of love. Out of need. That particular, specific ache that pulses between my legs. I was horny. Not for him, but horny nonetheless. And I knew he’d be hard for me. He always was. Even when I didn’t want him, even when I hated him, he still wanted me. And that… that was power, wasn't it?
He didn’t say anything. Just rolled to his back, like a well-trained pet. No protest. No enthusiasm either. Just silence, obedience, expectation. That annoyed me more than if he had said something stupid. Why did I hate that so much? I stroked his dumb little penis, just enough to get him hard. Just enough to make him useful.
Then I climbed on top. Like I always do. It’s where I like to be—because there, I’m in control. There, it’s mine. He’s mine. And yet… I resent every second of that. I feel like I’m owning something that is mine, something I never wanted, and simultaneously giving away too much.
I looked down at him. My husband. Sweet, boring, predictable man. His eyes were half-lidded, waiting for me to move, waiting for me to give him a reason to exist in that moment. I adored him. I hated him. My heart swelled with affection and my stomach twisted with nausea at the sight of his face.
He always had something to say. Always something to fix. My opinions? An afterthought. He loved me, I think. He meant well, maybe. But he was a man. A man. And everything that came with that—unearned confidence, subtle entitlement, lazy affection—I hated. I hated how I needed him, how I had built my life around a man who would never, could never understand what it’s like to be me.…
