"Remember," he texted me the other day. I was in the study, working, Emily was in bed, reading.
"Roles...mine and yours."
"I do...I think about them all the time," I told him.
"Good. Remember then she's your wife and the things you do with her are sweet, loving, and tender. But..."
I watched the dots, watched, waited while he typed.
"She's my whore, there to do with as I please. And the things we do are unspeakably dirty."
I just stared at the screen, felt the tension, the tightness in the cage, the fluttering in my stomach. Increased by his next text.
Right? I looked at the top of my phone, saw she was on the text, too.
"Yes, Sir." her text appeared in the conversation.
Half an hour later I went into the bedroom to go to bed. She was awake still, reading still, blushed when I walked in.
My wife. His whore.