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"Bitch, bitch, bitch."She stretched onto tiptoe as she ignited the remaining lamp light; unnecessary and revealing, the twin moons of her bottom exposed as the clinging fabric slipped northward, and between them the split seeping arc of her vulva was briefly, teasingly displayed in all its soft, smooth, hairless glory.I refused to moan. It's beneath me. I would not submit to such degrading behaviour even as she swivelled, lowered herself into her armchair, threw a single leg wide across an armrest, the remaining pretence of propriety flung asunder. I adjusted the focal point slightly, bringing her pouting perfection into sharp relief; a single fine line of manicured growth split her waxed mons, pointing downwards to the petal lips already opened beneath the lamplight, the darkened, blood-infused pinkness of her clit swollen and receptive, her furrow glistening, her pulsing gash dribbling wetness before my eager gaze."Slut."Mimicking the position I so frequently adopted, her slender. ”I think the thing that struck me most about the conversation – with a Christian pastor – was the complete lack of reference to God. That shows how I’d changed... The next day I breakfasted on cereal and toast – slightly over done toast, but I was proud of the effort – and instant coffee. I went to work. Mid morning, my mobile phone rang.“Don Upthorpe.”“Oh, Mister Upthorpe. I’m Sister Hopkins at Broomfield Hospital. We couldn’t find anything physically wrong with your wife, and she surfaced early this morning. She ... I’m sorry to say ... it was felt necessary to refer her for a psychiatric assessment. I expect you’ll be hearing from them.”“Well, thank you for letting me know, Sister. Perhaps I shall be able to visit later?”“I should put that off for the time being, Mister Upthorpe, but her doctor will be in touch.”“Thank you, anyway. I’ll let you get on. Goodbye.” Why could I not visit my wife?“Goodbye.”It was evening before I received a call from Doctor Jones at the Linden.
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