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While My Husband Watches
By Nixie Fairfax
Copyright 2018 Nixie Fairfax
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
“What’s wrong, Naomi?” my husband Ryan asked as I settled into bed beside him. He set down the book he had been reading and looked at me soberly over the top of his glasses. “What’s eating you?”
“What?” I said, surprised. Had it been that obvious? I thought I had been hiding my mood better than that. But now that I knew Ryan had picked up on it, I knew better than to try to deny it. I shook my head and made a dismissive motion with my hand. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not nothing if it’s bothering you so much. Ever since you got home from work I could tell something was wrong. You’ve been distracted all evening. Tense. Keyed up.”
“It’s just…work stuff. You know. It’s nothing you need to be concerned about.”
“It helps to talk these things out.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that big a deal. Really.”
I must not have sounded very convincing, because he rolled onto his side to face me, his expression serious, concerned. “Not according to the way you’ve been acting. Whatever this is, it’s really gotten under your skin. I can tell.” He gently brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. “Come on, Naomi. You can tell me anything. You know that.”
I sighed. He wasn’t going to relent till I’d gotten this off my chest, was he? I was touched. Still, Ryan might not like what he heard. “It’s just…it’s this guy at work. Colt. He’s a trucker for the company. I have to interact with him every so often and…” I shrugged. “He’s just difficult to deal with sometimes.”
“What, is he mean to you or something?”
“Not exactly. He’s just—just…” I hesitated, not sure I could or should reveal the full story to Ryan. But then something prompted me to go ahead and spit it out: “He’s a pig.”
Now that I had expressed the basic nature of the problem, the rest began to flow more freely, my uncorked feelings spilling out. “He’s a complete pig. He comes on to me incessantly and says these—these—just these crude and disgusting things. He’s the most arrogant, offensive…” I couldn’t think of a word or phrase sufficient to express the full magnitude of my disdain, so I ended my mini-diatribe by throwing up my hands with a gasp.
Ryan regarded me in silence with a fixity that made me a little uncomfortable. I was half expecting him to ask me why I didn’t just report the guy for sexual harassment or something (a question to which I realized I didn’t have a very good answer). Instead he quietly asked, “What’s this guy look like?”
The question took me aback.
“Um, I don’t know. Late twenties, maybe. Shoulder-length brown hair. Blue eyes. He’s…I guess a lot of women would consider him, you know, pretty good looking. I mean, if you’re into the whole overly muscular, square-jawed, beefcake kind of look.”
“Do you? Find him good-looking, I mean?”
I was even more taken aback now. Why was he asking me these things? “I—I don’t know. He’s okay, I guess. He’s just so…smug. Imposing. I can’t stand him.”
“Hm.” Ryan was silent a moment, which only made my uneasiness increase. Then he said, “What kinds of things does this guy say, exactly?”
“Oh, you really don’t want to hear that. Trust me.”
“I do. Tell me.”
I glanced at him and saw that he meant it. He was sincere. But still…
“Well, I don’t know if I’m really comfortable repeating it.”
“It would help get it off your chest.”