"I know you're busy, Mark. It's just… it's been two months."
Claire's voice was a thin, frayed thread stretched across a thousand miles of digital static. She stood in the center of her bedroom or at least what should feel like her bedroom.
The space was so white and curated it felt more like a gallery than a home.
The damp towel she had wrapped around her head after her shower began to lose its grip on her hair, sending a single, icy bead of water tracking slowly down the sensitive dip of her spine.
She didn't reach up to fix it.
"And it'll be at least another week, Claire. Maybe more." Mark's voice was crisp, punctuated by the rhythmic, muffled thud of a stapler and the distant murmur of voices.
He must be in the office. (It was almost 11pm, and way past closing hours, so why was he still there?)
Ignorant to Claire's train of thought, her husband kept speaking, "This deal is the pivot point. If we land Sterling, the firm moves into a different league entirely. You might not even be able to get through to me for a few days once we move the team to the retreat site. The reception there is non-existent."
Claire closed her eyes, her knuckles turning a bloodless white as she gripped the phone.
The air conditioning hummed, a low, predatory sound that seemed to suck the warmth right out of her skin. "A few days? Mark, Thursday is our fifth anniversary."
A beat of silence followed. It wasn't the silence of a man feeling guilty; she knew her husband too well to know that he would never feel guilty for doing his job. He was probably surprised it was that time of year again.
"Wow….has it really been that long?"
Bingo.
"Gee. You don't have to sound too excited." She deadpanned.
Mark sighed, exasperated, "Okay, baby, I'll have flowers sent for you. The white lilies you like and you can buy whatever you want, I won't mind. Take yourself out and enjoy. Look, my assistant is waving me down. I have to go."
"I love you," she said.
The words were a reflex, a hollow habit she performed to keep the structure of her life from collapsing.
"You too. Gotta go."
The line cut to a dial tone.
Claire lowered the phone, her reflection staring back from the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
She looked exactly like a billionaire's wife was supposed to look:
She was beautiful, with her olive complexion that complimented the almost pale silver of her blonde hair and offset the striking green of her eyes.
In a nutshell she was expensive, maintained, and elegant .
But she was also utterly vacant.
Five years.
She'd spent half a decade in this life, her only real job to be ornamental and patient.
But lately, the patience was rotting into a restless, physical ache.
She was a housewife in a museum.
Her days were a blur of empty hours, wandering from the high-end gym to the granite kitchen to late brunches thrown by fellow elite wives, all the while thinking about the ghost that was her husband and if she would even see him that week.
And when Mark did come home, he was a shell of himself, either too exhausted to touch her or so distracted by his phone that he might as well have been back in the office.
An old, familiar heat began to pulse low in her stomach. It wasn't a soft longing; it was a jagged hunger that charity galas and overpriced clothing shops couldn't touch.
She missed the weight of him- not the corporate drone he'd become, but the man who used to pin her to the sheets with a desperate, territorial hunger and make sure she would be unable to walk the next day, before his ambition became his only real mistress.
With a shaky exhale, she sat on the edge of the King-sized bed.
The silk sheets felt like ice against her bare skin and she traced the intricate embroidery of the duvet with a shaking fingertip, the taste of guilt bitter in her mouth.
A part of her honestly hated this.
But the need was sharper.
It won, as it always did when the silence became too loud.
She reached into the back of her nightstand drawer, pushing aside silk sleep masks and lavender sachets of unused condoms until her fingers hit cold, rigid silicone. She pulled it out, her face heating to a deep, shameful crimson.
'A practical solution for a modern woman!,' The discreet online description read with a cheery tone.
But to Claire, it felt like a confession of failure, the failure of needing a plastic substitute for a husband who was too busy to be a man.
Sighing for what felt like the uptempth time, she lay back, letting the towel fall away completely. Above her, the ceiling fan churned the stagnant air in slow, lazy circles.
She spread her legs wide, the draft from the vent brushing against her exposed pussy, making her shiver.
Her own touch started light,.fingertips gliding over her ribs, circling her navel, then dipping lower to part her slick folds.
She was soaked already, her clit swollen and throbbing from the pent-up frustration, begging for friction.
She clicked the device on.
The low-frequency hum vibrated through her palm, sending a thrill up her arm.
"Please," she whispered to the empty air, though she didn't know what she was asking for.
She dragged the tip along her inner thigh first, teasing herself, building the anticipation until her breath hitched.
Yes.
Then she pressed it firmly against her clit, the intense buzz shooting sparks through her core.
Her hips bucked involuntarily, a soft moan escaping her lips as she ground against it, chasing the building pressure. Yes.
Needing more, she slid the toy down and pushed the vibrating head against her entrance, coating it in her wetness.
She thrust it inside slowly, feeling the silicone stretch her walls, filling her with a firm, unyielding pressure that made her gasp.
Inch by inch, she worked it deeper, her free hand clutching the sheets as her body adjusted to the intrusion.
Once buried to the hilt, she twisted it slightly, angling the vibrations to grind against her G-spot, and her back arched sharply off the bed.
Her hips rolled in a steady rhythm now, fucking herself with the toy - pulling it out almost completely before slamming it back in, the wet sounds of her pussy echoing in the quiet room.
In her mind, she pictured Mark's cock instead, thick and hard, that huge 8 inch length pounding into her with the kind of force she craved for.
Her other hand roamed up to her chest, squeezing her breast roughly before pinching and twisting her nipple until it hardened into a tight peak, the pain mixing with the pleasure to heighten every sensation.
The vibrations pulsed relentlessly inside her, making her inner muscles clench around the toy. She sped up, driving it faster, deeper, her thighs trembling as sweat beaded on her skin.
Her clit ached for attention too, so she reached down with her fingers, rubbing tight circles over it while the dildo buzzed against her most sensitive spots.
The dual assault pushed her closer, her breaths coming in ragged pants, moans turning into desperate whimpers.
"Ah ah ahhh!"
She fucked herself harder, the toy slick with her arousal, her pussy gripping it with every thrust.
The tension coiled tighter in her belly, a hot, insistent burn spreading through her limbs.
Her toes curled into the mattress, her vision blurring as the orgasm rushed toward her. With a final, frantic plunge, she shattered!
Her walls spasming around the silicone, cum flooding out as waves of ecstasy crashed over her. She cried out, the sound raw and unrestrained, her body shaking violently through the release.
For a moment she felt weightless, floating and free.
Then, the drop came.
The pleasure receded like a retreating tide, leaving her stranded on the shore of her too-empty bed
It made her feel hollower than before . No warmth. No heavy limbs draped over her. No whispered affection. Just the cooling silicone in her hand and a damp patch on the expensive sheets.
"Pathetic," she muttered, the word tasting like copper, feeling disturbingly that she was about to start crying.
Sitting up, she threw the toy away, let it drop to the floor unceremoniously before wiping a hand across her eyes, feeling a sudden, frantic need to scrub her skin clean.
She was halfway to the bathroom when her phone rang again.