Sub U

Chapter One Dayton Dayton Hargrave looked at the sleeping form of his fiancée, Bobbie. She was on her side, facing away from him while she slept, as always. There was enough moonlight coming through the shades to see the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her outline as she breathed. They’d finished making love about an hour ago, and she’d drifted off to sleep immediately without so much as a word. Yep, just turned over on her side and went to sleep after the job was done. Why did he just call it a job? he wondered. Is that what it was for her? For him? He couldn’t exactly tell. At least she still let him have s*x with her, he reasoned. And the s*x was okay, and at least she didn’t complain about it. Some of his friends had joked about their wives shutting the proverbial gate as soon as they got married, or as soon as the kids came, or as soon as they . . .whatever. But he really couldn’t tell if she genuinely enjoyed s*x. Having the lights on and being able to see her face would have provided a bit more information in that regard, but the lights had to be off before things got rolling. Her rule, not his. He shifted uncomfortably and resumed staring at the ceiling. Lately he noticed he was growing increasingly frustrated, and he couldn’t pinpoint the reason. Maybe it was just wedding jitters. In only six months, they’d be tying the knot. It wasn’t as if things were bad between them, it was as if he were detached somehow, standing at a distance and watching them circle one another. Was she detached somehow too? Dayton sighed. What the hell did he know, really, about anything she felt? Everything used to always be okay with her. What was that line from that movie? Jell-O and pudding. Yeah, that was it. Everything was always Jell-O and pudding with her. Even when he thought he’d done something to anger her, she used to just smile and say, “No, no, I’m fine. Really.” But now his mind wandered to the fundraiser they’d attended last week. Dayton had made an inappropriate joke at the dinner table — too much scotch had made it, really — and everyone had looked at him all tight-lipped and tight-assed, and this time Bobbie did too. Just as well; he’d grown sick and damned tired of her laughing at his jokes when even he knew they weren’t funny. He thought he’d love that in a woman, but this was just . . . He sighed loudly and slapped his palms to his face. What was the damned problem? What, he was annoyed when she agreed with him, and he was annoyed when she didn’t? Why couldn’t he cut her some slack lately? She was pretty, she was intelligent enough, she didn’t seem to mind s*x, she fit in okay with his friends — most of whom he knew to be elitist snobs, but, hey, friends didn’t just grow on trees, did they? He figured they were all phonies, himself included, in that maybe they only pretended to tolerate each other. Bobbie probably hated his friends. The males in his circle stole glances at Bobbie’s big breasts; the women probably resented them. The males loved her bawdy jokes; the women probably resented them. But everyone tolerated her at least, which was a far cry from the treatment some of his previous women had received. He’d brought his share of girlfriends to the circle before, and the reception had often been downright icy. Who wants a woman no one can stand? Hell, if truth be told, maybe Bobbie even held him in only ...what was that line from that movie? Medium esteem. That was it. But he had more than a few bucks, and he knew that made him easier to tolerate. He looked at her again, his gaze following the sensuous curve of her hip. How often he’d thought of easing over, pressing his erection up against her back, raising her nightgown and taking her from behind. But she hated “doing it,” as she called it, from behind; she thought it was degrading. The one and only time he’d gotten her on her hands and knees for him, he’d been so turned on and so full of scotch that he’d tried to take her anally. The venom that spewed out of her mouth was enough to ensure he never tried it again. He begged her forgiveness over and over, swearing to her that “it just slipped.” She seemed to calm down and forgive him after about three days. She’d watched him warily during that time, as if she were waiting to make sure the same old predictable Dayton had crawled back into his body and it was safe for her to let down her guard. So was that what he had to look forward to in marriage? Play it safe, Dayton. Be predictable, Dayton. Stay detached, Dayton. He wondered what she told her girlfriends about him. He pictured them sitting around the lunch table at the country club once a week, their conversations growing louder and louder over carafes of white wine. “You think that’s bad? Wait ‘til you hear what Dayton did yesterday!” And there would surely be cackles of laughter from the hens, who would then share what their own husbands had done. It made him angry, until he reminded himself that he had no proof she was doing any such thing. And wasn’t that the point? He didn’t know much about anything she did, or what she thought, or how she spent her hours while he was at work, or how, deep down, she really felt about him. Oh sure, she said the right words, but there was just ...something . . .something behind her eyes when she said the words he wanted to hear. Some message in her eyes told him she was keeping things in check. How he’d love to get her on her hands and knees and ram in and out of her so hard that she’d be crying for mercy. He’d ride her so hard that the truth was f****d right out of her. He cried out, “What the hell!” Bobbie turned over and sat up. “Dayton? What is it?” she said, sounding alarmed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “Nothing, honey. It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.” “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “No, honey. Go back to sleep. I think I’ll just get up and read for a while.” “If you’re sure,” she said, in that fuzzy sleep voice he liked. He waited until he saw her silhouette lie down again, and made his way carefully down the staircase in the dark. He flipped the switch on a small lamp near the bar, poured what he knew to be far too much scotch, and took it with him to his study. He’d made this trip to his study countless times in the insomnia-filled nights over the past few years, and he’d always found some sort of comfort, maybe because it was the one place in the house that was truly his. No decorator of Bobbie’s had dared lay a finger on anything. When he was working in here and Bobbie needed to speak to him about something, even she entered with a bit of trepidation. He wondered, though, if she’d snooped around at all in the past, say, while he was at work. That was one more thing he could add to the list: he didn’t even know her well enough to know if she was a snooper. He sat down at his desk and sighed. He looked at his favorite picture of them, taken at an outdoor party almost a year ago. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair and eyes, while she was on the short side, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a balcony big enough for Shakespeare. He loved those big breasts. Too bad she didn’t let him play with them in the way he’d like to. In the photo, they had an arm around each other’s waist, and a drink in the other hand. It was one of those rare pictures in which the lighting and scenery came together perfectly, and he remembered the exact moment the picture was taken. They’d just decided that morning to get married, after one of those dreaded “where do you see our relationship going from here?” talks. But the discussion had gone okay, if only because he figured the timing was right in his life to finally settle down. But he was beginning to see how different they were, and he was no longer sure those differences were such a good thing. He reached under the desk, pushed open a small segment of paneling and pulled out a key. He unlocked the large, cabinet-type door and pulled out a stack of magazines. He knew he had a few unread ones left over from his Chicago trip last month—magazines he’d be too embarrassed to actually subscribe to, but which were purchased easily enough from newsstands when he was out of town. Bobbie tolerated his subscriptions to Playboy and Penthouse, and he’d never felt the need to justify them by claiming that bullshit excuse of liking the articles. Who did men think they were kidding? He’d even looked at the magazines in bed a few times, hoping Bobbie would scoot over by him, rest her head on his shoulder and look at the pictures with him. Now that would be hot, he thought, especially if she got some ideas she might like to try out. But no such luck. She’d glance away from her reading, look at the cover of his magazine, and quickly go back to her fluffy book. He looked at the covers of her books sometimes when she’d get up to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. There was usually a heavily muscled man holding a woman in his arms, bending her backward so far to kiss her that her spine was surely about to snap. What did those men do when they threw the woman’s back out and she ended up in traction in the hospital? Bet that chick was piiiiiiiiiisssssed. Surely the man would visit her in the hospital, probably only one time though. The woman would be flat on her back, and she’d hold her arm out ramrod-straight with her palm blocking him from getting any closer and she’d call him an asshole or something. She’d tell him if he was really sorry then he could just take his brawny ass down to accounting and pay her flippin’ hospital bill. Yeah, that was probably how it worked, Dayton thought, opening a magazine he was sure he hadn’t read yet. The first feature was called “Take Her and Make Her.” There was a picture of a man playing a professor-type role, with a woman dressed as a schoolgirl facedown over his lap. Dayton smiled at how old the woman was. Some student. She probably really needed the job, though. Someone had already warmed her ass up pretty good, judging by how red it was. Dayton wondered what Bobbie would do if he ever pulled her down onto his lap like that. Probably call the cops. Or her mom. He didn’t know which would be worse, especially considering he hadn’t even met her mother yet. The next photo showed a woman with her hands cuffed behind her back. She was bent over at the waist, with her chest resting on the back seat of a cop car. A man dressed as a police officer had her skirt pulled up, exposing her naked, curvy ass. His hands had spread her cheeks apart, and the tip of his huge, erect c**k was poised tantalizingly close to her asshole. “Bad, bad girl. Someone’s been resisting arrest,” Dayton said, quietly. He turned the page and his heart jumped upon seeing the photo of a buxom blonde wearing a wedding veil. “Well here cums the bride,” he said, chuckling. Her white corset stopped under her bare and ample breasts, giving them that pumped-up, swollen and begging-to-be-touched look. She was on her knees, which were forced apart by some sort of bar. Her arms weren’t visible, but the angle of her shoulders suggested they were restrained not-so-gently behind her back. The split of her vulva was barely covered by the smallest white satin thong Dayton had ever seen, and she was shaved absolutely smooth and hairless. She wore a garter belt, and white hosiery that came to the middle of her thighs. A naked and well-built male whose face was out of the frame of the picture stood to the side of her, facing her, holding a handful of her hair in his fist, twisting her face toward him. His huge c**k was deep in her mouth, while her eyes ...her eyes. Dayton was mesmerized by them. She had a look of complete helplessness, and at the same time looked as if she was about to soak her panties at any second. There was no faking that she was restrained, or that the c**k in her mouth was so big she was probably having trouble breathing. This was a woman whose eyes said she was being forced to obey. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and he lost track of how long he must have stared at the pleading look in her eyes.