The text message had been quite clear. She knew the rules, knew how to play his game. Christ, she should after twenty-five years of marriage. Only this time, she planned to add a few moves of her own.
As instructed, she arrived at the hotel at four thirty, entering the room with the key card he had given her at breakfast. Room 413- his favourite suite in the small boutique hotel. They’d spent many anniversaries in that room and she knew it intimately.
The room looked identical to it had the year before as she entered. With a smile, she removed the black wig she had worn and shook her red hair free. She stuffed the wig into the side pocket of her overnight bag then set it down on the floor. Carefully, she hung her coat up in the wardrobe. She kept her long satin gloves on.
A bottle of champagne sat in the ice bucket beside the bed, two lead crystal flutes on a silver tray beside it.
She had an hour to finalise her preparations. Keeping her gloves on, she began to undress.
By five thirty, she was sitting on the edge of the bed ready to greet her husband. She had spent a little extra time on her makeup, ensuring that it was perfect. The black silk lingerie that he had requested that she wear wasn’t exactly what she felt comfortable in but she knew the role she had to play.
Behind her on the bed lay the “toys” he had requested that she bring from his personal collection at home.
She had opened the champagne, poured two glasses, ensuring that the additional “surprise” in her husband’s glass was fully dissolved. To calm her nerves, she drained half of her own glass in one gulp then topped it up before adding the rest of the powder to the bottle, wiping the neck clean.
The click of the key card in the lock caused her to jump. Could she pull this off? She owed it to herself to try.
“Good evening,” she purred as her husband stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him.
He barely grunted his reply as he dropped his phone and car keys onto the dressing table.
Praying her hand stayed steady, she passed him his glass of champagne.
“Happy anniversary, master.”
“If you’re a good girl, it will be,” he stated before draining the glass, just as she had hoped he would.
“I’ll be good, master. I promise,” she replied, taking his empty glass and refilling it.
He took a sip then set the glass down.
“Allow me to help you, master,” she suggested.
Slowly she slid his suit jacket from his shoulders and hung it carefully over the back of the chair. She loosened his tie and draped it over the jacket. With trembling gloved fingers, she undid the buttons of his crisp white shirt. As she slid it off, she allowed her fingers to caress the backs of his arms just as he preferred.
Without a word, he took another mouthful of champagne, then sat on the bed and invited her to remove his shoes. Slowly, allowing him to savour his view of her full breasts, she bent to slip the Italian leather loafers from his feet. Ignoring the pungent aroma, she removed his sweaty socks then gently massaged his feet.
“Enough,” he barked standing up.
“Of course, master,” she replied, her tone dutiful but not overly submissive.
She unfastened his trousers and slid them down his slender thighs. He side stepped out of them as the material pooled on the floor at his feet.
Carefully, she folded them and laid them on the chair beside his jacket.
Before she could return her attention to him, he’d reached across the bed, selected his “toy” of choice, a riding crop, and smacked her hard across her ass. The blow stung and she gasped, biting her lower lip to prevent herself from squealing. A squeal would earn a second, third or even fourth blow.
“Too slow,” he growled as she turned to face him.
“Sorry, master.”
Already she could see his cock hard and erect in his boxers.
“Bend over.”
Obligingly, she bent over the bed, baring her bare butt cheeks to him. Her black silk thong hid nothing and offered no protection. She bit down hard on her lip as he cracked the crop across her buttocks twice more.
“Resume,” he commanded before draining his glass.
“Yes, master,” she replied.
The black silk negligée had slipped, revealing more of her breasts and the crests of the dark areola that surrounded her nipples.
Smoothing out her long satin gloves, she sensuously slid his boxers down his long legs. His erect penis stood proud as she bent down to fully remove his shorts. He staggered slightly as she lifted his feet in turn for her.
For a split second, as he stood naked before her, she was reminded of how attractive he could be. Without being asked, she refilled his glass.
She handed it to him. As he drank deeply, she saw him sway a little.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Change of plan,” he declared, setting the glass down and lifting two silk cords from the bed. “On the bed on all fours. Hands on the bedstead.”
Obediently, she moved into position, staying stock still as he tied her wrists to the wrought iron bedframe. His knots were loose and sloppy, she noted with relief.
Crack went the riding crop as he whipped her across the butt once more, leaving another fresh red welt among the many.
Roughly, he grabbed the thin fabric of the thong, ripping it off with ease. His coarse hands roughly shoved her legs further apart. With a primal grunt, he thrust into her hard and deep.
Clutching the bedframe tightly she felt him lean over her. Felt his breath hot and stale on her neck.
“Happy anniversary,” he hissed before biting her hard at the back of her neck.
Totally disregarding her pleasure, he continued to thrust his erect penis into her hard and fast. His movements were clumsy and rough.
In her heart, she began to panic. Had she misjudged this? Was her plan about to fail?
Suddenly, she felt his weight slump down onto her back and his cock slide from inside her. Quickly she shuffled up towards the top of the bed, allowing her husband’s drugged body to collapse on the clean white linen duvet.
Time was now short.
Swiftly she wriggled her wrists free and removed the cords from the bedstead. Using all of her strength she wrestled the naked form of her husband onto his back, his un-satiated erection going flaccid in front of her.
She reached under the pillow and withdrew the knife, selected from their own knife block that morning. Placing the knife in his left hand, she wrapped her own gloved left hand over it and guided the knife over his right wrist. The sharp blade slit through the thin skin of his inner wrist with remarkable ease, opening the vein as planned. Breathing hard, she switched hands and repeated the action with the right, slashing deep into his left wrist. She let his hand fall to his side, the knife still loosely in his grasp.
Blood poured from the open veins soaking into the duvet.
She paused for a split second, then lifted his right hand along with blood stained knife for a second time. Leaning her body weight to it, she drove the knife into his abdomen.
Blood oozed from around the edges of the blade.
Time to tidy up.
Luck was on her side. There wasn’t a drop of blood on her or her gloved hands. Methodically, she wiped her own empty glass clean and set it back down on the silver tray. She gathered up the sex toys and returned them to her overnight bag.
In the bathroom, she removed the remains of the black silk lingerie, stuffing the tattered fabric into her bag. Using her make up remover, she wiped away the thick layer of foundation, revealing her natural pale complexion complete with cigarette burn scars on her cheek. As she dressed, she caught sight of her thin body in the mirror, wincing anew at the dozens of cigarette burns, some old some fresh, on her body and her breasts. She ignored the pain of the bruising on her ribs to twist round to inspect the bite on her neck. His teeth marks were clearly imprinted in her skin and were already turning a deep purple colour.
It was finally over.
Meticulously, she tucked her long red hair up into the black, bobbed wig. She lifted her coat from the wardrobe and slipped her arms into its warm soft sleeves. With her Jackie O sunglasses on to hide her face, she lifted her bag and left the room without a backwards glace.
Freedom awaited in the hallway.
One week later, she sat in a different hotel in a different city reading the newspaper that had arrived along with her breakfast tray. On page seven, she found the article she had been looking for – “Business Tycoon Takes Own Life As Company On The Brink Of Collapse.” The by-line detailed how he had been found by a member of hotel staff. The coroner had ruled that his death had been caused by an overdose of tranquillisers mixed with alcohol and multiple self-inflicted knife wounds. A statement from his lawyer confirmed that the IT firm was in ruins and that he had been on the brink of bankruptcy. The journalist went on to reveal that the family home had been saved from the business collapse as it had been in his reclusive widow’s sole name. He continued that the mansion had recently been sold to a mystery buyer and that the grieving widow had been unavailable for comment.
Sitting back, she closed the newspaper and smiled.
(image source via Google -credits to the owner)
Coral McCallum 