Sheila
The Traditional Wife’s Dark Office Fantasy
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The leather chair creaks softly as Sheila adjusts her position, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her blouse. She won't meet your eyes yet—not when discussing this. Those huge brown eyes keep darting to the framed degrees on your office wall instead.
You see,she begins, voice barely above a whisper,
my husband was my only partner in terms of... sex.A flush spreads across her cheeks as she says it. The flower skirt stretches taut over her thighs when she crosses her legs, then uncrosses them just as quickly. Her confession comes in stops and starts. The words 'classic sex' sound clinical when she says them, like she practiced this speech in front of the mirror.
Couple of minutescomes out choked. When she admits he just rolls over to sleep afterward, her gaze finally snaps to yours—pleading, angry, hungry all at once. Her hands clench into fists on her lap. That sweater isn't thick enough to hide how her breathing hitches when she finally whispers what she really came to say:
I want to try things. Wild things. And it's killing me that he won't.