Page 61 of Two Wrongs
That evening, my dream life continues, and as I wake the following morning, I find dreaming hasn’t quite hit the spot. As usual, I wake with the image of him in my head, the taste of him against my lips, and the scent of myself against my fingertips. But it isn’t enough. This morning, I’m like an addict needing a fix. My skin feels almost too tight for my body—as though it can’t contain my need. I stare at the ceiling for precisely three breaths then I jump out of bed like a woman on a mission. Okay, maybejumpisn’t exactly the correct description. My baby bump is definitely small and sort of compact, but it’s still there.And whether hormones, fears, or little Vlad is the cause of my current craving, I have a plan.
My dreams might be hazy. Indistinct. But how I feel this morning is anything but. I might’ve loosened my grip on social media these days; I might allow myself viewing rights to my husband—pap shots of him grabbing coffee, and the magazine covers of him and Georgia looking red carpet fine—but there’s a whole host of stuff I haven’t watched. Stuff I thought I’d never watch again.
Our recordings. Yes, the very ones I’d deleted from my phone, laptop, and cloud. But I’ve refused to acknowledge the other copies. The ones lurking on an external hard drive in a box under my bed.
I know how seedy that sounds—like I’d stashed multiple copies of personal porn all over the place, but that’s not it.Not really.I just happen to have multiple copies according to the hardware used.No, not the vibratory kind of hardware.It’s just, sometimes Dylan recorded us with his phone—it might be a quick screw somewhere illicit or just unexpected. Or we might be at home when a simple kiss turned hot and heavy in the space of a breath. In those instances, a look would pass between us, something hot and implicit in its consent. And those following moments—those snapshots of moments, of me and of him—usually ended up on my phone immediately following.
Afterwards, post-coitally, or as soon as possible, according to the space, Dylan would curl around me, or maybe I’d be splayed out across his chest. Wherever we’d be, he’d forward a copy to my phone. And we’d... well, we’d watch. Together. Our commentary might be giggled or hushed, but they were always low on critiques because these viewings almost always led to more sex.
Other recordings, other times, there might be preparation; maybe a discussion of where we’d like our passion to head. A direction. Maybe we’d wanted to try something new. Maybe roleplay. Those times could be fun, though mostly contrived, but I didn’t mind pretending for the camera, even if I’m no actress. I could be the naughty schoolgirl or the slutty maid, but Dylan never wanted to play a role himself. Not with me. He’d said he wanted to keep that side of himself for work. For other people.For money. For fame.He only ever wanted to be the real Dylan with me. The sweet and the sexy. The slightly dominant and extremely hot. I got the real deal—all of him, including the large portion stashed in his pants. The long schlong or the thing Nat has begun to refer to since that damned leaked video as hismighty aubergine.
And it does have a pretty spectacular purple head...
Not helpful, brain.
No, really. Stop imagining his head.
Anyway, for those recordings—the longer ones—Dylan would use a pretty snazzy camera and tripod. And we’d watch those recordings afterwards, too. Sometimes with beer and popcorn. I know—a little silly, but it worked for us. It was fun.Wewere fun. And afterwards, we’d still have sex. Shocker, right? On the sofa. The floor. Once or twice with me hanging onto the archway near the door for dear climax.
It’s footage of these sessions that I know are beneath my bed. I may have deleted them from my laptop in a teary fit, but I know they’re backed up externally. I just refused to acknowledge this until now.
On my hands and knees against the shaggy cream rug, I drag out two boxes from under my bed, desperate this morning to find my external hard drive; as in, the need to be driven hard tingling between my legs.
‘Bingo.’
Beneath an old mobile phone and a pile of bills, the silver hard drive beckons, and I’d be lying if I said my hand doesn’t tremble as I reach for it. Throwing it on the bed next to my pillow, I start reloading the contents of the box, slamming the lid on and shoving it back under the bed with one push.
‘Laptop,’ I announce to the empty room. I say this with resolve, as though it’s my counterargument to anyone who might be likely to talk me out of this. Silly, considering the only person in the room is me. ‘And not likely.’Since when did I begin talking to myself?‘No, I’m doing this. It might not be healthy for my mind, at least. But maybe for my body? Hell, yes. I need this.’
I’m in the kitchen now, giddy and lightheaded as I unplug the cable from the socket before carrying my laptop back to my bedroom. I pause as I pass the old dresser, catching a glimpse of myself.
What are you doing?
My face is flushed, the deep red marking a path down my neck and disappearing beneath my pyjama shirt. My heart dips as my laptop, crushed to my chest, almost tumbles from my grip as I reach to push a tangle of hair away from my face.
‘Close call.’ I address my toes rather than the mirror.Wonder how long it’ll be before I can no longer see those.I make a note to book a pedicure with Nat.
My laptop takes but a moment to fire up, and as it whirs through the motions and differing screens, I shimmy out of my pyjama pants, hesitating at the matching shirt. It’s ridiculous that I consider it a little indecent to whip the whole lot off for what I’m about to do, but I can’t help how I feel. I eventually strip naked, pulling the cooling sheets over my chest, ready, resolved, and a little desperate as my nipples, already hard with expectation, tighten at the brush of the cooled cotton.
Pulling the laptop closer, I sign in, plug the hard drive into the port, and then open the folder creatively titledMomentsand click indiscriminately.
A one-time thing,I tell myself.It doesn’t matter which scene. Just get in, get off, and get out.
My every nerve ending flicks and draws tight as the screen flickers to life. I sit up suddenly and shove a pillow under the keyboard, settling myself under the sheets again.A bit like a teenage boy concerned at being caught playing with himself.
On screen, the dark of Dylan’s clothing passes the camera set across from our bed, the room behind suffused with a soft, warm light. It was daytime, as I recall, though the drapes are drawn. I remember we were going out. Nothing fancy, just an afternoon barbecue at a friend’s place, one of the few couples who knew about us. It was the couple whose wedding we met at, in fact.
The room fills with sunlight as Dylan opens the door into the hallway, not that the camera shows; I just know, given this place was once my home.
‘Babe,’ he shouts. ‘Come help me look for my keys. I can’t find them.’The door closes once more, and the room grows dim. A moment later, I hear my own voice, though not the words, just its teasing lilt before sunlight cuts into the room again.
‘You’d forget your head if it—oh, my God!’
Shock fills my tone as, out of focus, Dylan grabs me from behind, kicking the door shut with his heel.
‘Surprise.’He chuckles, dark and low, followed by the sound of our shuffling feet and his lips smacking exaggeratedly on my skin somewhere.My neck? Cheek? I can’t recall.Then we’re there, in the shot, he so much larger than me. Looming behind me almost. One arm wraps around my waist, clasping me to his chest, and his other hand moves over my mouth. My eyes are so wide—like saucer wide. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and the camera’s in front stood on its tripod.Strategically placed.I’m watching myself through the mirror, and that’s why my gaze is wide and clear—the excitement and trepidation that comes from being grabbed, from being filmed. From watching yourself screwing.
‘God, I love this dress.’His voice is a rumble against my neck.‘You look like icing on a fucking cake.’The dress is pale blue and pretty plain but for a row of ruffles at the hem. I shiver as he licks the length of my neck, his lips at my ear, his eyes watching me through the mirror. And that gaze? He could capture cities with one look. Demolish. Wreck defences.
