Three or four times a year but
always when he least expected he would
arrive home on a Friday night to find his
children happily playing with the babysitter, a
bottle of champagne open by the bed on which
certain clothes were laid out which
immediately set fire to his belly and his
beautiful naked wife, newly shaved, her
eyes sparkling with adventure, reaching on
tiptoe to kiss him, whispering
“My hunting clothes are ready. Shall we
go hunting, my love?” and she knew his answer from the
swelling against her and the heat of his kiss on the
mouth that would soon taste of
other men’s cocks.
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