It felt good to have daily routines. It made her feel rooted. The same breakfast every morning; oatmeal with a banana in the winter and fall, yogurt and granola in the summer and spring. She always took the 8:14am train into the city. She always got to the station early and bought the Times and a medium coffee; skim milk, no sugar.
Three days a week (Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday), she went to the gym before work. Chest and biceps, then shoulder and triceps, then back and legs.
On Sundays, she made and packed lunches for the week: a lean protein, two vegetables, no starch, and a piece of fruit.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after work, she took the subway downtown instead of getting the PATH train home and stop for an hour or so at his apartment.
She had a key, so she went in before he got home and showered. She had a snack and sometimes a glass of wine. She waited for him in his bed, naked, face down on top of his thick comforter, with the pillows moved to the chair near the window.
He came in, hung up his coat, put away his briefcase, and took off his suit. Wearing only a white t-shirt and black boxers, he tied her wrists together, then to the bed frame. He tied her legs together at the knees and at the ankles, then her ankles got tied to the foot of the bed frame.
He never said hello. He didn’t speak to her at all, actually, not for almost a year. Not since they went on the few dates where they got to know each other. He hadn’t spoken to her since the time they stayed up all night negotiating how they both wanted things to go. How she would be used.
His hands were always greedy, pinching her thighs, slipping under her to paw at her breasts, taking thick handfuls of her ass. He pushed his fingers into her pussy, which was always wet just from waiting. He spread her ass cheeks and looked at her most private bits. He always examined her for a few minutes before using her.
Sometimes he just fucked her hard, then and there. He would slip on a condom and slip his cock inside of her, ready or not. Though she was always ready.
He grabbed her hips so hard he left marks as he used her cunt.
More often, though, before he fucked her, he would pull his laptop onto the bed and surfs for a while. He would absently smack her ass as he did or slip fingers into her pussy or ass. Just absently touching and teasing her. Even with her head buried in the comforter, she could hear the porn he would watch. Loud moans and dirty words. Slapping and hitting and women whimpering in pain or pleasure. She could feel him shift and then sense the rhythmic motion of him jerking off near her.
Then he would fuck her hard, not like fucking a person, but using her wet pussy like a sex toy. Just something tight and wet to accompany his viewing. Something only somewhat better than his hand.
It wasn’t fast, though. He was never fast. She would feel his cycle, start pumping harder and quicker, then slow down, catching himself, dragging it out.
When he finally did come, he put his hand around the back of her neck, tight, and held her in place, his grunts getting louder and louder. Then with his other hand, he would reach around her, squeezing one of her breasts hard. Then, finally, he would let out three or four loud angry-sounding gasps.
Then he would be still for a while—just the sound of his breathing and maybe the porn. After a while, he would get up, dispose of the condom, untie her, put the rope away. Then he would put on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and leave. She assumed to get dinner.
Only when he was gone would she pull the Hitachi from her bag. It would only take a minute or so for her to come, thinking about how he used her, feeling the soreness in her cunt, the fingermarks on her breasts, smelling his sweat on her skin.
Then she would shower again and dress and make the bed. She would leave the apartment as she found it and take a cab to Grand Central to make it home in time for an only somewhat late dinner.