Mark had been gone since Thursday morning on another “urgent” business trip, and by Saturday night the house felt too big, too quiet, and my body felt too cold. Eight years of marriage and the last twelve months had been nothing but quick, polite missionary s*x once every six weeks—if I was lucky.
My p***y ached constantly now, a low, desperate throb that no amount of yoga, warm bath or wine could fix. So I poured myself a third glass of Pinot Noir, turned off every light except the soft glow from the fireplace, and decided tonight was the night I was going to f**k myself stupid in the middle of our perfect suburban living room.
I stripped naked right there on the plush white rug. My heavy t**s bounced free, n*****s already hard from the cool air and the anticipation. I set my phone on
