Plato's Cave During the Slicer Wars and other short stories by Terri Kouba
“Come hither, you wretched wench!” he growls. He pulls me to him roughly, leaving white imprints on my arm. He pulls my breasts tightly against his chest, his arm a vice around my small waist. He smells of turkey legs and red wine. His lips, slick with turkey grease, slide across my neck. He leaves wet fingerprints on the front of my dress.
“I asked for ale, dark and deep. Not the piss of a goat!” His laughter roars through the inn as he flings me toward the kitchen. “And make it quick, wench.”
His fingers reclaim their prints moments later as he follows me into the kitchen and pushes me out the back door. He presses my back against empty boxes in the alley. One grimy hand raises my skirt as the other tears away my blouse. His turkey-greased lips slide across my breasts, his wine-stained tongue probes my erect nipples, staining them red. He pours himself into me, my body protected from the rough alehouse bricks by layers of cardboard. He finishes and pulls away. My dress drops to my knees and hangs still. “You’ve earned yourself a good tip tonight, wench!” He ties his pants around his thin waist and emerges from the kitchen to a roar of cheers from the alehouse patrons, a full dark ale in one hand and a dripping turkey leg in the other.
My husband is an accountant. A numbers man. A man who needs his ledgers balanced, his socks paired, and his morning coffee in his blue cup. He rarely initiates sex, preferring it done by me, but when he does, it is always in the dark. He doesn’t realize I can feel his burning cheeks against my bare skin.
“I asked for ale, dark and deep. Not the piss of a goat!” His laughter roars through the inn as he flings me toward the kitchen. “And make it quick, wench.”
His fingers reclaim their prints moments later as he follows me into the kitchen and pushes me out the back door. He presses my back against empty boxes in the alley. One grimy hand raises my skirt as the other tears away my blouse. His turkey-greased lips slide across my breasts, his wine-stained tongue probes my erect nipples, staining them red. He pours himself into me, my body protected from the rough alehouse bricks by layers of cardboard. He finishes and pulls away. My dress drops to my knees and hangs still. “You’ve earned yourself a good tip tonight, wench!” He ties his pants around his thin waist and emerges from the kitchen to a roar of cheers from the alehouse patrons, a full dark ale in one hand and a dripping turkey leg in the other.
My husband is an accountant. A numbers man. A man who needs his ledgers balanced, his socks paired, and his morning coffee in his blue cup. He rarely initiates sex, preferring it done by me, but when he does, it is always in the dark. He doesn’t realize I can feel his burning cheeks against my bare skin.