Chapter 16

By 'real address,' I meant the address where I once lived – the house of my parents.

"Is this it?" As we got near to the old building, Logan inquired.

I gently said, "Yes."

"Thank you once again, then. I was happy that you showed up close to my brother at this precise moment. I would certainly be worried a lot if it were another guy."

I said as I exited the vehicle, "No problem."

He bid goodbye by saying, "Good night."

"See you," I said as I approached the door.

My house, my home, where I essentially spent my entire life. Yes, there were other spots as well, but I will never forget this one. I walked in the door. It was dead quiet inside. Everyone seemed to be sleeping. Darkness was all I could see. Even the lights were turned off. The lights suddenly came on as I climbed the stairs, and I looked up to see my mother standing there with a hunting rifle. She had a towel wrapped over her hair and was wearing her robe.

"Mother, it's me." I muttered, instinctively raising my hands as I froze in amazement.

"Oh my God! You terrified me to death. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Come on in, how are you?" She led me upstairs after giving me a gentle hug and caressing my shoulders.

I learned that Nanny's cousin and his kids had finally left after Ranold Hamilton showed up in our home. Furthermore, it appeared that nobody else wanted to reside there. They needed two months to prepare their belongings for travel to a faraway place. I was relieved that my mom's and sister's noisy, disruptive neighbors had moved out. And the hunting rifle was a plastic replica, as it turned out.

We were seated at the kitchen table that evening, just like we used to. We were chatting about everything while sipping some herbal tea. We were alone with my mother after my sister went to bed. The first inquiry was about my father and sister. She and I both lacked solutions. We were unable to contact the police or make an assistance call, so we spoke about what we ought to do next. What were we supposed to say, after all? They just... vanished? What happened to them? They left and did not come back, did they? We both agreed that there was a connection to Ranold Hamilton, but we lacked any proof.

We sat there silently, occasionally guessing something, but it wasn't enough. My mother finally left me alone with the cup of tea on the table. I took a look at my phone. There were no notifications. Even my husband remained mute. I was trying to say that we almost didn't talk since New York, but that day I almost had a close call. He should at least write to me and ask how I was doing or just say, "OK." But he did not write anything. I moaned. It had gotten late. Nearly 3am. A lot has occurred recently.

I dropped the cup in the sink and walked upstairs while whispering, "I need a shower."

The water was soothing and warm. I remained there feeling as though the water was carrying away all of my feelings into the culvert. I felt instantly warm and comforted. I leaned my head against the wall, closing my eyes. I sighed, recalling what we were doing with Ethan that day. Even if it was excellent, he hardly ever remembered it. I had a glance at my pubis.

"Fuck..." I admitted in a whisper that I wanted to masturbate.

Sometimes I did it in the shower. Several times. Just to unwind after a long day in school. And I had no idea why I had decided to do it. I just wrapped my hand over my penis and started running my fingers along it. I felt wonderful. I truly enjoyed the entire process for the first time.

"I need more..." I had no idea how that thought had entered my head.

My body systems were acting strangely while I stood in the shower. I was excited and felt warm within. I felt so calm and content. I didn't even realize how I started massaging my nipples and groaning. It soon became clear to me. I instantly stopped and was exhaling heavily. My dick was quivering as I glanced at it. It yearned for more. My swollen pinky nipples were clamoring for more. I was shaking throughout, as though I were addicted to sex. I made an effort to cool off a little, but all that did was make me want it more. With my back against the chilly, damp wall, I allowed my fingers to travel all the way down to my butthole through my testicles.

And I entered for the first time. My lips were closed when a soft "fuck" came out. I felt fantastic. I started rubbing my delicate insides with my fingertips. It started with one, but I finished up with two. After a little while, I came, gasping for air and slipping down the wall.

"Fuck..." I knelt down and cried out in a frantic whisper.

***

The next morning came far too quickly. I awoke on the empty bed where the three of us had been sleeping. My mother was preparing something in the kitchen as my sister left for school. I changed into my clothes from yesterday and headed downstairs. Like in the old days, mother's breakfast was the greatest. I ate my favorite egg toast with cheese while seated at the table. It was amazing.

However, my joy was short-lived. I saw Ranold Hamilton waiting for me outside the door on his bike as soon as I left my parents' house. The fact that I was still his husband was once again made obvious to me by his friendly gesture. I sat behind him on the bike, and we rode ahead. Somehow, the scent of his well-known perfume and the scent that constantly followed him were so soothing. I slept for a little while without even realizing it.

We were in the subterranean parking lot when I opened my eyes again. When my husband got off the steering wheel, I may have seen his untidy hair for the first time. As if he washed it, but failed to dry it. We headed to the elevator. We were both silent. I had no idea what to say or do. I was simply waiting for the damn elevator to arrive at its destination.

And as soon as it happened, we appeared on the fourth or fifth level, which was colored in crimson and gold. There was a royal air about everything. I was gazing at the walls, which were covered in images from the middle of the 17th or 18th century and large mirrors in imposing golden frames. We entered a spacious hall after passing through the door. A round red carpet with a pouf in the center, a few women, and racks with various clothing hanging there were present. There were also large windows (as usual, right?) wrapped with thick red curtains.

One of the women approaching us said, "Good morning, Mr. Hamilton."

There were lights everywhere, and a dressing room was to the right.

My husband replied, removing his leather jacket and said, "Good morning."

I noticed him wearing a T-shirt. That was one of his casual monotonous t-shirts, which he occasionally wore at home. I felt fortunate for some reason since I knew I was lucky to have seen him at the apartment in that way. My husband was speaking to the woman, so I quietly took a seat next to the wall. I was watching the room and they were talking about clothes.

When I heard my husband say, "Olivier," I shuddered slightly and moved closer. "Take good care of him."

He handed me to the woman by my shoulders, and she smiled sweetly.

"Come here, Mr. Hamilton, and we'll show you the best we have."

It was the first time I had ever been addressed as "Mr. Hamilton." My husband sat on the couch near the windows with his laptop open. The fitting process started. Women kept going in and out of the changing room, offering me dresses, blouses, skirts, suits, and other attire. Everything was of extremely high quality and was quite open. The shirts were virtually sheer or made of a material that replicated all the relief of your shape. The skirts and trousers were so tight that my hips and butt appeared to be wrapped in food wrap. The dresses had no fabric on the back or had a slit. The only people who seemed to be having fun with the process were the three women who would constantly enter the room as I was getting dressed and offer me specific recommendations.

It suddenly fell silent. I was aware that they were looking for something "very special." They constantly gave me something extraordinary, but eventually it seemed to be nothing special, so they started looking again. I was seated on the cushioned white seat with plush upholstery. The room was fairly large and spacious. There were two long benches next to the side walls, one large mirror with lighting, and a little clothes rack that was nearly never empty. The collar of my delicate white-milk satin shirt has the same drawstrings as the sleeves. I untied them. The pants were made of fine cotton, I believe. In truth, I had no idea.

When the door eventually opened, I was still waiting, but instead of the woman, I saw Ranold Hamilton dressed in a suit. I immediately got to my feet and started stroking my fingers as the wand instructed, feeling a slight shiver run down my spine.

"Is it to your liking?" He asked me as he pulled me toward the mirror and gave me a soft hug around the waist.

I stumbled a little and suddenly found myself standing in front of the large mirror with the substantial golden frame and the tiny light bulbs on it.

"W-what?" I asked softly while glancing at my feet in the mirror.

The moment he spoke, "The outfit," I felt his hot palm cross my spine. "You didn't stay in your own bed the previous night."

My shoulders were the first place he put his hands, and he started a slow, gentle massage. His movements made me tremble a little, but I wasn't afraid. I had a strange sense that he wouldn't hurt me in any way.

"Y-yes..." I turned my head away. "I was visiting my family."

His hand moved up my neck as he said, "Olivier," and he lifted my chin to force me to look into his eyes.

"What?" He was placing his fingers around my waist when I uttered a barely audible shiver.

He continued in a regular tone, "Yesterday you called me by name. Please, could you repeat it out loud."

When a knock came from behind him on the door, I instantly froze.

"Mr. Hamilton?" My husband just cocked his head when the woman asked.

He was silent. Even though she hadn't fully opened the door for passage, she apologized and shut it.

'What?! Say that again out loud? Please?!' I was considering the question Ranold Hamilton had just posed. His statements left me feeling so astonished and annoyed that I could not even picture him asking me to do something in such a kind manner. I was incapable of doing it. I felt awkward saying his name out loud. I wouldn't dare attempt to say it out loud.

He turned back to me, and I quickly looked aside, thinking, 'Don't stare at me like that.'

He said in a quiet voice, "Olivier," and I blinked nervously.

His hand moved toward my chest, and I felt it. He began to lightly stroke my nipple in circles after gently rubbing it.

"N-no..." My hand was resting against the mirror when I muttered.

He didn't stop, though. It appeared as though he was tease me with his slow, soft movements. When he stopped, I shivered once more. My mistake; I believed he had stopped. He simply switched sides, though. Now as his hand was touching my other nipple, I was like, "Fuck, that felt so amazing." Only his petting made me feel hard. And I yearned for more. I started to dribble from behind and was frightened that I had such feelings for a man who had only been my husband for a short while.