The Husband Sitter

Or his growing hunger to do it again. Soon.

I smile at him when he falls to his side on the bed, red faced and breathing heavily. Still playing the good girl, I curl my fists against his cheek and snuggle close. “You better get back soon, Daddy,” I whisper, kissing his mouth and letting my tongue mate gently with his. “We can’t get caught.”

A little while later, I’m sitting in the backyard under the stars when a light goes on upstairs. It’s the master bedroom. I watch drowsily as Mr. Red walks into the bedroom, greeted by Mrs. Red. They smile at one another and embrace for long minutes, an obviously cathartic moment taking place. Inside my chest, I feel my heart flutter and expand with knowledge.

The knowledge that I’ve found my purpose in Los Angeles.

EPILOGUE

One year later

It’s girls’ night out.

I smile as I climb out of the limousine and shoulder my overnight bag. As usual, the chauffer was sent to pick me up at my apartment in Beverly Hills, taking me to the Black residence. I’ve been living in my gorgeous penthouse for some time now. After my first three magical nights with the couples, Mrs. Black got in touch with the best realtor in Los Angeles and each couple contributed funds to buy me the penthouse. I couldn’t believe their generosity. I still can’t.

I’m living a fairy tale.

Every Sunday night, Mrs. Red calls me with the weekly schedule. A calendar organized into which husband I’ll “sit” for on what nights. I like how it constantly changes. Sometimes Mr. Black needs me more than usual, because Mrs. Black is out of town. Those weeks, I’m usually thrown up against the door as I soon as I walk inside, my ripped panties pressed to his nose while he takes me in a fury, whether or not the maids are watching. Sometimes I think he even prefers having them observe. Yes, Mr. Black is definitely my most arrogant lover.

Mr. and Mrs. Blue like their visits more spaced out. Sometimes Mrs. Blue likes to catch us in an upscale hotel room. Or in the backseat of Mr. Blue’s car, fogging up the windows in the Hollywood Hills. Other times, she just likes me to spend the night between them in their bed, watching with a smile on her face and busy fingers between her legs as I ride Mr. Blue and tell him how magnificent he is—and I’m never lying.

Mr. Red is my Daddy. I save a little something special inside me for him, even though I love all of the husbands equally. My favorite is whomever I’m with. Still, I pulse all over thinking of Mr. Red relieving his stress during one of our little “talks.” The rigid man I met that first night has learned to smile more. His relationship with Mrs. Red has visibly improved and she’s started participating more in the game. Just last week, she told Mr. Red I needed swimming lessons and suggested he teach me. He brought home several swimsuits for me to try on. While Mrs. Red waited outside the bathroom, he came inside to help me tie the itty bitty top and he took me against the bathroom sink while reassuring his wife through the door that we’d be right out.

I stop outside the front door of the Black residence and press a hand to my flaming cheeks. One year and this arrangement has not only shown zero signs of losing its incredible shine, its perfection seems to be enhanced with every visit. I’m in love with love, even more than I always was, because I’m now in deep, enduring love with six individuals. The wives, the husbands. And they love me back.

There are two free nights per week that I spend on my own, walking the bright, boisterous streets of Los Angeles, letting the emotions of those around me catch and take hold. I learn through walking in the shoes of others and I bring those experiences to my relationships with the Blacks, Blues and Reds.

Someday I’ll visit the compound and tell my parents about the marriages I’ve become an integral part of. My lips twitch. I’m just not sure when I’ll be able to fit a vacation into my very demanding schedule. I’ve just had two nights off in a row and the energy pouring from the house tells me I’ve been missed.

Before I can even knock, the door swings open and not one, not two, but three husbands fill the doorway. Girls’ night out is a rarity, but when it rolls around, I husband sit for all three men while the wives go out on the town.

I have to admit, it’s better than any holiday. Even if the excess of testosterone and lust usually causes me to black out afterward. Worth it.