What Lies Beneath
There are sentences I've served in a prison I built out of lies
-Sting
Martin stumbled into the bathroom, his body sweaty, his stomach churning. He caught his shoulder on the doorframe, scraping the skin and drawing a little blood, but he didn't notice. He squinted, momentarily blinded when he flipped the light on. In the bedroom behind him he could hear his wife move, the bed creaking underneath her as she rolled over. He knew, if he turned, that he could see her in the light spilling out of the bathroom. He didn't turn.
The bathroom was warm and inviting, walls painted a golden yellow, fluffy brown towels on the towel bar, plush brown bath mat on the floor. The floor itself was done in terra-cotta tiles, tiles that were still warm from the late spring sun that had streamed in through the large windows on the far wall. It was dark outside now, though you could barely see the trees and garden in the back yard. Martin felt dark inside.
He closed the door and turned the exhaust fan on, filling the room with its muffled rattle. Martin stripped the condom off his still erect penis and tossed it into the trash. He missed, and it sat draped over the edge of the trash basket. The condom glistened in the light, still covered with lubricant and the remains of his wife's juices. It was empty, though, its only real point to hide that it was unnecessary. He hadn't had a real orgasm with her in years, and the guilt because of that gnawed at him.
Martin leaned his head against the wall, self-loathing and despair washing over him, his stomach fluttering like he was in free-fall, the sound of rushing blood loud in his ears. The bathroom started to fade around him, darkness rushing in, obscuring his vision. He shuddered and reached into the tub to turn the shower on. He hoped the water would wash away the feelings, leave him clean again. It hadn't yet, but there was always hope, and hope that tomorrow might be better was some days the only thing that kept him from falling into the pit that always seemed just in front of his feet.
Steam billowed out of the shower, the water close to scalding. Martin didn't care, he almost welcomed the pain as a distraction. When he stepped in, the heat hit him all at once, the forgotten scrape on his arm flaring hot, as if he'd been branded. Branded like breeding stock. Maybe that was all he ultimately was, just going through the motions, doing what was expected, directed by others. Free will was for people, and he wondered if he really was people any more. He didn't think he wanted to know for sure.
He grabbed the scrub sponge off its hook, a lime green wad of plastic mesh. The shower gel he drizzled onto it was a dark blue, though it left trails of white foam as he ran it across his skin, the trails burning like fire as the steaming water struck them, the irritation from the sponge enough to magnify the heat of the water. Martin's eyes were closed as he slowly scrubbed, not seeing the foam or the red of his skin as he scrubbed across the padding at his belly and the wispy hairs across his chest.
He felt it, every scrape and movement, as he worked to wash away the signs of his lovemaking, wash away the touch of his wife. He wanted desperately to feel them in his heart, in his soul, but all he had was the phantom feel of them on his skin, and no amount of scrubbing washes away ghosts, no matter how much we might wish it could.
A shudder ran through him as he worked lower. His erection remained, used but unsatisfied, the water reviving the dried lubricant, making it slick. He whimpered as he touched it, a touch he wanted so very badly to be someone else's, a touch that moved him to pleasure and not shame.
Martin moved his hand away. He wouldn't -- couldn't -- masturbate now, not with the memories of what he'd done with his wife so fresh in his mind, but it was too late. The touch was the last straw, the pleasure mixing with his deep longing and desperate need. With his eyes closed there was nothing to anchor him, keep him from falling into fantasy. Even if the fantasies hurt so very much when they ended.
The hiss of the water as it left the showerhead, and the sound of the splatters as it splashed into the puddles in the tub faded away, changing to the crackles and pops of burning logs, the soft sound of falling rain. The heat of the water was the heat from the fire, comforting instead of threatening, surrounding him
Before his closed eyes Martin could see the logs as they burned, flames flickering across them, coals glowing red in the grate, casting an unsteady light on the hearth and the room beyond. Above the mantle of the stone fireplace was a painting, a large winter landscape with children, snowmen, and romping dogs.
He stood, in this fantasy, at the edge of a throw rug, one that stretched from his feet to the fireplace, covering the hardwood floor. The rug had pillows scattered all across it, piled high in spots in a comfortable nest, a quilt of red flannel bunched up just to the left of the rug, ready to be pulled across it, waiting only for someone to lie down in front of the fire. On the other side of the rug was a tray with two dark red stoneware cups filled with steaming hot cocoa and a plate of chocolate dipped biscotti. A bowl of fresh whipped cream, thick enough to support the spoon stuck straight into its center sat next to the cookies. Behind it all was a tall thin crystal vase holding a single dark red rose.
He could feel the warmth of the fire. The heat on his face almost painful, but he wanted it badly, and wanted to share it. He was sharing it -- he wasn't alone, he knew that. The popping fire couldn't hide the sounds of slippers on wood, nor the light chill breeze, the kind that precedes someone moving through a still, cold room.
Martin shuddered at the feel of that soft wind, shuddered and felt the arms encircle and hold him, strong arms attached to a strong body. They pulled him close, hugging him to the man behind. The feel of the whiskers against his neck sent a wave of happiness through his body, happiness matched by pleasure at the feel of a thumb brushing across his nipple, the bulge of an erection push against his ass. Breath, hot and damp, flowed across his right ear and a voice, deep and masculine, whispered "I love you, Martin."
With those words he came, his dick erupting without him touching it, his orgasm so strong it hurt. His muscles tensed hard, hard enough to send a burning pain through his abs, his thighs, his chest. The force of the spasms sent cramps through his prostate and a stabbing through his penis as his semen burst out with more force than mere flesh can withstand. His strangled cry was caught between clenched teeth, letting only the smallest whimper through.
When the orgasm passed, Martin's muscles went limp, his body sliding down the wall of the shower. He didn't feel the soap dish as he cracked it with his elbow, didn't feel the water pelting him as it turned cold, didn't feel the sting in his penis from an orgasm stronger than he'd ever had. All he felt were the phantom arms around him, the breath in his ear, and the words echoing in his head.
Felt them, and cried.