It’s time to admit the fantasy isn’t working any longer.
Sherry stands over her quivering partner, her thigh-high boots chafing against the skin. She lets the crop in her right hand drop to the floor.
‘Matty,’ she says. ‘Get up. I’m done.’ She glances at herself in the mirror next to the bed. Scantily clad in leather. Her breasts bursting out of the bustier; her sagging tummy hangs over the skimpy shorts.
God, how could this turn anyone on?
Matty opens his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t do this. It’s not working.’ She unzips her boots, rubs at the red mark at the top of her leg as if to accentuate her point. She peels herself out of the leather outfit and slips into a sloppy T-shirt and running shorts.
He’s watching her, pouting. ‘Well that sucks,’ he says, rolling over in bed.
Sherry’s already left the room. She calls out from the kitchen. ‘Sorry.’
As she rubs ointment on the irritated skin, she realises she’s not truly sorry. Not really. It was his idea, months ago, to introduce this into their love life. For a while, it was fine, and she happily played along. Even found it titillating at first. But Matty had grown more insistent on costumes and level of pain inflicted, and once, he’d ignored her when she used their safe word. Since then, her interest in this element of the bedroom had waned dramatically. The boots, the last straw.
‘Why don’t we just keep going, Sher, but without the boots and stuff?’
She draws breath, considers him for just a second. ‘Nup. Not today. My legs are sore from the boots.’ But it’s not just that. She feels humiliated. Small. It’s not her; she’s just a normal girl with normal desires.
Minutes later, Sherry’s got a coffee in her hand. Somehow, she feels better.