And I am rather sensitive given that we have abstained from sex as of late.
Annabelle feels guilty about it which I hate far more than the abstinence itself.
While I, of course, miss bedding her, I am so enjoying the easy intimacy we have found lately that it hardly feels like a sacrifice. Because while I want her, always, I want to be close with her in all ways. And we have grown in different ways these past few weeks—in ways that she wouldn’t have allowed under normal circumstances. We have gone places that would have been difficultto reach otherwise—but now that we’ve gained them, I know we’ll only be stronger for.
And I am confident that our passion will return. With us, it is too strong to be gone for long.
Nevertheless, I am hard by the end of the story which ends, as it did in life, with the split letter.
At the very end of the story, I spy a note.
Dear Alfred, I know that you have been patient with me as of late. And you know I would never approve of you neglecting yourself. I insist that when I am gone today, you pleasure yourself. If this little story helps, well, then so be it. You can tell me about it upon my return. But make no mistake. I am commanding you. Annabelle.
My cock strains at this directive.
God, but I do love when she gives me orders.
It has been three weeks, almost, since I indulged myself. And the fact that Annabellewantsme to self-pleasure makes it too tempting.
Sitting at my desk, I take myself from my trousers and give myself hot, quick strokes. I close my eyes and remember that first time with Annabelle, now throughhereyes.
Her admiration for my cock.
Her admission that it is larger, more pleasing to her, than that of any of her previous lovers.
Her confession towards the end of the story that she knows, immediately, that she is addicted to my touch. To my cock. To how I make her come.
The pleasure builds and I know I will spend.
And then without thinking, going purely on instinct, I come—all over the pages Annabelle left me.
Chapter 57
Annabelle
When I return from the counting house that afternoon, I find my husband at his new desk.
I left him a surprise—and I am very curious to hear if he obeyed my order.
Late last night after Alfred went to bed and I was still looking over my ledgers, the notion occurred to me. And I was so excited. The idea felt like a way around my body and its constraints.
“Good afternoon, Alfred,” I say, and he looks up from his book.
Not a bawdy one. Something by Dickens, it would seem.
I hope it means he long ago completed the task that I left for him.
“Good afternoon, Annabelle.”
“Did you find your morning productive?”
“Yes, I wrote a new story,” he says. “I hope you will read it.”
“I look forward toit. Did you find my note?”
“Ah, yes,” he says.
“Did you read the story I leftyou?”
