Mayla

Mayla lay beside her sleeping husband, quietly masturbating hoping not to disturb him after their usual sexual encounter: she’d strip, drop to her knees to suck his cock and, on his command, she’d bend over to take him doggy-style; another night of five minute passion, another night of faking an orgasm, another night of frustration.

As the wife of an arranged marriage, Mayla had always been told, especially by her mother, how lucky she was to have such a good husband; he always kept food in the house (and what a house), he always gave her nice things to wear, he helped support her aging parents, what more could she want?

‘Fidelity for one thing;’ Mayla thought having already gone to the doctors twice to treat cases of V.D., ‘an orgasm by him, even if only once in a while; safety would be nice;’ she added to the list thinking about his violent temper, he may have been a good son-in-law, but a good husband, NO?

All throughout her attempts at self-satisfaction, she’d look at her husband, hoping he was still asleep, afraid he’d catch her, remembering the last time he did:

“What the fuck are you doing,” He shouted at her, “insulting me? Telling me I’m not a good enough lover?” He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her from the bed saying, “It’s you, YOU.” He went to a dresser drawer and pulled out a belt.