Page 27 of Taking Turns

And the longer I think about it, the more I think about it.

When I’m walking back to my chair I note the thermostat. I kick the heat up a little higher so I don’t get cold, and go back to my chair in front of the family room window and consider calling Bric so we can discuss. But then I look at my watch and realize it’s nearly three in the morning. He’ll be up in a few hours.

I sit there in my chair, listening for her sounds. Snoring, or sighing. Or… shit, I hope for a little moaning. What if she plays with herself as she sleeps?

That thought is enough to get my ass back upstairs.

She’s kicked the covers off. In fact, it almost looks like she was thrashing around from a bad dream. Her fair legs are long. One is hiked over a pillow, which she hugs to her chest. I get my phone out and open the night vision app. Take some pictures. I never have a shutter sound on my camera, so all this is done in silence.

I have a lot of questions for Marcella Walcott, starting with her father, a US senator for thirty years. In fact, it turns out baby Marcella was born the first year he was elected. She spent her entire childhood being the daughter of Senator Walcott.

I found internet pictures of her up until age ten and then… she disappeared. I can only assume it was boarding school. But ten. Jesus. That’s young, isn’t it? There are no more pictures of her until she’s well into her twenties. Maybe just a few years ago, now that I think about it. She’s thirty. Her birthday is in February, so almost thirty-one. Those pictures online are all of her at the Charles Benton Gallery.

There are none with her father.

It strikes me as weird. Why no pictures of him with his daughter?

Maybe they just like privacy? Maybe her mother insisted on it. She died three years ago. The same year Marcella started her job at the gallery.

There’s a lot of gaps. Where did she go to school? She has a short biography on the gallery website. It says, Marcella Walcott is the daughter of US Senator Henry Walcott. She studied art history and curation and graduated with a PhD.

Usually after a biography rattles off credentials, they list a university. From Harvard. Or Princeton. Or wherever she was.

But not this biography.

“You have secrets, Marcella.” I say it out loud but she never even stirs. “And I’m gonna figure them out.”

I unzip my pants again, ready for another round as I stare at her half-naked body, so helpless and sweet, lying there in bed.

I imagine Bric this time. How he might fuck her. I’d pay money to see that. Watch him with his toys. His whips, his gags, how he can turn an ass cheek bright red with one, hard smack.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my hand sliding up and down my cock in long, slow strokes.

He got rough last night when we went downstairs. Not with Lucinda, she was busy and she’s not even close to his type. Some other wife or some other club member. They wear masks and no one talks about who they are. All I care about is the pussy. And the cocks. And the sweat. The slick sweat covering their bodies, dripping off their faces, red with exertion and lust. I like the way Bric grunts when he’s turned on. I like the way his huge cock fills them up and makes then cry out. I like the way he whips them until they have welts on their backs.

He’s sick.

But so am I. So is Quin. And so was Rochelle.

I’m betting Marcella Walcott is just as sick as us. I’m betting she walked out on Matisse this evening because she can’t admit it.

She likes the dark, I decide, coming on my stomach for a second time.

She likes the forbidden world we live in. And she wants to be a part of it, whether she realizes it or not.

I don’t bother going back downstairs to clean up when I’m done. Too fucking wiped out.

I just leave my eyes closed and drift off.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

I open my eyes—or try to. The sunlight is bright today. The storm must be over.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” I grumble, sitting up a little straighter. My neck is sore as fuck from sleeping in this chair.

“Then answer me. I called the cops. They’re on their way!”