Leaning back in the taxi, Olive tried to relax as the lazy spring evening sped past the windows. Magnolias, cherry blossoms, camellias. She was passing through the quiet side of the city now, houses with gardens and garages, the kind of upper class pristine suburbia that only seemed to exist in lifestyle magazines. 

The sky was deepening and traffic was quiet. His house was half a mile away. She’d never been there before. He didn’t even know she knew the address, let alone that she was on her way.

***

One week earlier

I’ll pick you up at seven, he’d said but it was half past now and he still hadn’t turned up. 

Olive had given up on standing by the buzzer (in case she didn’t hear it) and was sitting on the sofa in the short black dress she’d bought especially for the night. It was a nice dress. She couldn’t wait for him to see it, to see how she looked in it. The skirt didn’t reach halfway to her knees and she extended her legs, examining them for imperfections. Her skin was smooth and brown from lying out on the balcony all weekend. Black, heeled sandals were secured around her ankles. 

She sighed, stood up and wandered to the window, parting the Venetian blinds with her index and middle fingers. The street below was quiet. The one time she figured she looked passable, he didn’t show up. She told herself traffic must have been acting up. Wasn’t there a football match or a concert on the other side of town? The last time someone had put on a gig, she’d been stuck in traffic for two hours. 

Picking up her phone, she checked for messages, even though it hadn’t made a sound. Nothing. She typed a text. Where are you? She backspaced. She frowned and let out a long sigh, glaring at the screen. Something... softer. Light-hearted. As though she wasn’t about to burst into tears. Did you forget about me? She sent it before she could rethink it and threw the phone onto the sofa. 

Seven thirty-five. 

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Didn’t he care? Had he actually forgotten?

She didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d been looking forward to seeing him all week and now he hadn’t shown up and the entire night she’d been fantasising about was suddenly empty. 

Her phone remained silent. If it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have cared, she’d have phoned a friend, someone from work even, gone out, drank too much and had a good time. But it was him. Why did being in love make her so pitiful? Needy. Emotional. Why did it make her pace around the apartment like a spare part, simultaneously loving him and hating him and constantly wanting to burst into tears? 

They’d talked earlier in the day. He told her he loved her like he always did and it made her heart jump. She’d made him laugh, he’d made her laugh, he’d called her baby and angel and honey and it made her feel full of golden weightless sugar. Every word spilled into her and made her feel like he really did love her. He said it. I love you, he said. But he also said he’d pick her up at seven and now it was twenty to eight and he hadn’t called or texted so maybe it was all just words. 

She wanted to scream. All day she’d felt jittery, excited, elated at the prospect of seeing him. It didn’t matter where they went as long as she was with him. They could go to a movie and she’d spend half of it just staring at his profile, so caught up in the flawless architecture of him. Nobody touched her like he did. Soft and hard and always so possessive, whether he was holding her hand or holding her throat while he fucked her hard. 

Olive crossed her legs. Almost always his hand would find its way beneath her skirt before they were even alone together and he’d trace the edge of her underwear and make her tell him what colour it was. He made her heart race and her cheeks flush and he loved it. He’d kiss her, whisper the dirtiest things in her ear, the kinds of things that made her stomach clench and her body flush with want. “As soon as we get back in the car, I want those lips around my cock,” he’d said last time and he got what he wanted. She could still remember his hand pulling up the hem of his dress as she’d leaned over to trace her tongue around his hardening cock, feeling it grow beneath her fingers. He’d smacked her ass as she’d sucked him, making her flesh sting and her panties wetter with every swat. 

Nobody got to her like he did. In those moments, their relationship felt full, complete, they were in sync and understood everything about each other. It was the most beautiful way of being alive. But now? It was the worst. She wanted to hate him but couldn’t begin to. She’d tried before, but always wound up caving. Ten to eight. She looked out of the window again. He wasn’t coming. She knew he wasn’t coming and yet she still sat waiting, glaring at her silent phone until the clock had crawled past nine and she caved. 

She decided she hated him. She took off her dress and her earrings and decided she hated him and would never speak to him again. 

He wasn’t hers. Reality hit her hard. She stood under the shower and tried to believe it. To anyone else it was obvious. It was his tenth wedding anniversary next week and yet she still held onto this crazy idea that he belonged with her. He wasn’t hers. But every emotion hit harder with him. Was she delusional? It hurt to try and believe it maybe because it meant all the years of hanging on had been for nothing. But it wasn't nothing. All those feelings. 

He was married. She hadn’t known it until after the first time they’d fucked. She liked to think she wouldn’t have touched him if she’d known. But he had a way of being reticent with reality, and once they’d crossed the line everything seemed to turn grey, mistakes and lies indistinguishable. She’d never asked if he was in a relationship. He’d never said. She tried to break it off after, agonised over the audacity of him and yet she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t help herself. He had a way of talking to her that made her insides light up and ache.

Olive stepped out of the shower and dried off, walking naked to her bedroom. It was a hot night. She opened the window and a warm breeze drifted in. Her phone lay on the bed and she picked it up telling herself he hadn't texted but unable to stop hoping he had. He hadn't.

She lay back on the bed, the light from the phone illuminating her face in the dark room. She scrolled back through their conversations, pausing now and again. Nudes. His body. Her body. An endless exchange of raw nakedness. Videos and pictures he’d taken. His cock pushing inside her. His hand gripping her hair as he yanked her head back and made her take it deep. His fingers in her pussy and in her mouth and digging into every inch of her body.

"Fuck," Olive breathed out the word, her eyes fixated on various pictures of them. He'd take obscene images and send them to her at random times, always, always catching her off guard.

There was one where he'd had her sitting with her legs open. She could remember it like yesterday.

“I want to cum,” she'd said

“You don’t have permission,”

He’d said it simply. Like it was that easy. She'd wanted to crawl over to him and press her face against his warm, hard cock; and feel his hands wind into her hair as he rubbed against her face. But she couldn’t. She'd watched him helplessly, her fingers hardly daring to move against her aching sex.

“Did I tell you to stop stroking?”

She'd bitten her lip, a moan escaping her. She’d been on the edge for half an hour that evening, her clit swollen and sensitive. Touching it just a fraction too hard could make everything fall apart. The pictures he'd taken said it all. Her legs were spread wide, open to him. Her thin t-shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to her breasts, nipples visible through the white cotton. She looked sexual; wound up and desperate. 

“If you don’t want to stroke it, you can slap it instead.” he'd said.

She'd whimpered. 

“Do it, baby.”

She'd done it and as she relished in the memory, Olive did it again. Opening her legs, she raised her hand and let her trembling fingers slap down against her wet, swollen pussy. It stung. Her legs tried to close but she forced herself to keep them spread as her breath rushed unevenly out of her.

“Harder,” he'd said.

She winced.

“Please.”

“Harder.”

“Fuck!” Her eyes watered, her body jerking as the pain burnt through her and yet she felt her pussy flush even wetter, her wetness trickling down to her tight asshole. So wet. 

He’d sat on the coffee table in front of her and examined her smooth, wet pussy. She’d watched him breathlessly. Everything she was. She could hardly believe how freely he looked at her. How wet she must look. How pink and swollen her clit would be.

“Pull your legs higher,” he'd said, “I want to see everything.”

She felt like he was there again, in front of her as she sank down a little further into the bed making her ass push out so her tight knot was displayed. She felt the air against it and knew it was wet with her honey.

“It’s mine,” he'd said. “It’s all mine.”

He'd moved forward and licked her, hard and purposefully, his tongue dragging from her clenched asshole all the way up over her throbbing clit. Olive's eyes closed at the memory. She could hardly breathe. She made a sound, something tiny and insufficient. His tongue had stayed on her clit and then he'd leaned forward and taken it between his lips, sucking it into his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, please.”

His teeth pressing into it. White light pushed behind her eyes. She could feel her pussy leaking continuously. She’d never been so wet. His teeth pressing harder, sinking into her swollen nub, making her stomach clench and her body tighten. She didn’t dare to move, to speak, to breathe. Please. Please. Please.

He released her.

The memory was intense. Olive’s fingers were relentless against her swollen pussy until she came like she’d never stop, gasping his name as she writhed through the pleasure. 

When she finally felt able to move, her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

I’m so so sorry for tonight. I promise I’ll make it up to you.

Olive stared at the words, then replied It’s ok even as her eyes filled with tears.

Did he really love her? The nagging doubt made her insides twist desperately and persisted. Maybe she was just one in a line of many affairs. It was easy to let the thoughts take hold when she was alone. Easier to believe he didn't really care. He made the same promises every time. Built up her hopes and dreams and then always found a way out. She could see it from an outside perspective but she liked to think the intricacies excused him. 

She closed her eyes. Everything hurt.

***

It was the evening of his anniversary. He’d mentioned the party maybe half a dozen times during idle conversation but the details had stuck, building up until Olive knew more than enough. It would be easy to ruin it. The pictures. The videos. His hands all over her with his wedding ring in plain sight. It would be so easy. 

The taxi stopped in the middle of the road and she stepped out. His house was on the corner of a quiet, tree-lined street. There were cars in the driveway and more parked on the kerb, winding around the corner. She could hear music playing faintly. It suddenly became real. This was his whole life. His family and his friends. The thought of all those people, of everything he had, made her feel insignificant.

She wanted to hate him. Hating him would make it easier but hating him wouldn’t be enough motivation. She was doing it because she loved him. Because she wanted him for herself. If he really loved her, he’d understand. In fact, he would probably end up being grateful for it. She was helping him.

She slipped through the gate and followed the path around the outside of the house to the back garden. Nobody gave her a second glance. The music and conversation was loud. People were drinking, children were playing. There was a barbecue and an enormous cake. Olive started to wish she’d never come. Reality was too real. Too many people and too good an atmosphere. Was it even the right house? 

Then she saw him. It’d been so long, her stomach clenched in the desperate way it always did. She’d never felt so helpless for anyone before him. He looked relaxed. Happy. It wasn’t what she’d expected. He always sold his reality as a chore, as something he was dying to escape but it didn’t equate with what she was seeing.

Perhaps it was easier not to know, not to push, not to risk everything. Perhaps it was easier to accept the part of him she had and not try to force her way into more. If he wanted more, he’d have made it happen. If he was unhappy, he wouldn’t be celebrating his anniversary, looking like the man who had everything he’d ever dreamed of.

He saw her then. He didn’t react much. It was almost impressive. She watched him try to come over to her, people stopping him to talk at every turn. She wondered what he’d say. He’d probably ask her to leave, plead with her not to ruin his life. She didn’t think she could bear to see him reduced to something so human. She couldn't bear it.

"Hey, would you like a drink?"

Olive turned, startled. The woman was tall with friendly eyes and a magazine beautiful face. His wife. She'd seen her before, the times he'd been asleep while she glared at the wallpaper on his phone. It felt outrageous to be face to face with her. The whole thing suddenly felt indecent. 

"No," she said finally. It seemed like the only appropriate thing to say. "No, I really have to go."

And she left.