I lay in bed at night, resenting her inability to do dishes, resenting her taste in music, resenting who she might be fucking or imagining fucking. And I stroked my cock. I stroked it and stroked it. I shot jets of cum while imagining the look on her face if she knew. It was a complicated look of violation, resentment, and excitement.We were half-drunk in the living room, trying to watch a movie, and it was hot. The couch was too small, and we couldn’t get away from each other. “Move the fuck over,” she said.I huffed, and sat on the floor. “You don’t need to be an asshole about it,” I said.“Fuck you,” she growled. The booze was making her mean-spirited, which in turn ignited a mean spirit in me.“Fuck me? Fuck you. No seriously, fuck you. You’re living here rent-free, and you’re being a serious pain in the ass. Can you pick up after yourself? Maybe do the dishes every once in a while.”She stared at me, her eyes wide and fiery. “What the fuck is your problem?” she said.I glared at her. , of having all the bad in me literally cored out and replaced with sensations that felt they could rip the very sky asunder for all their electricity… … … … No. Things going back the way they were were simply not an option, and I whether I would perish to be overwhelmed by the 10,000 or somehow stand in triumph at the end of the day no longer mattered. I would stay. Despite this new resolve, I found myself screeching and ducking as a sound not unlike a heavy rain abruptly fell over the village. Bolt after bolt, quarrel after quarrel as my husband’s men fired in volleys so vast that it seemed no surface would be left untouched. It was agonizing minutes by the time it was all done. Crossbows took time to reset, of course, but they had been firing in waves to avoid any interruption in the hailstorm they’d unleashed. I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally worked up the courage to look out at the town. Every surface, every spot of ground, every hay-bale and house was bristling with.
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