"Come with me," Lori said, heading for the bathroom, "I need someone to attend to me."
I followed.
Once again I had that feeling that his eyes were on me.
She sat on the toilet and smiled at me.
"You're liking all of this, aren't you?" she asked as if we were sitting across the table talking about our kids or what had happened at the garden club.
She got that satisfied look we all get as I heard that hissing sound of a woman relieving herself.
"Well?" she asked when I didn't answer.
I felt the blush spreading as I said, "Yes. Well, it's overwhelming but, well, yes."
She smiled and said, "I am too. I was surprised, if we're being honest, at how much."
She stopped talking for a moment, her face reddening a little, and the smell told me she was doing more than peeing.
She grinned at me and said, "does it bother you that I'm enjoying degrading you?"
I had to think about that one.
"I guess," and suddenly I started laughing. The utter absurdity of what was happening struck me hard. Here I was, standing, watching my husband's girlfriend taking a shit, naked, and having a conversation. Well, she was naked and I was in now-three-day-worn clothes, stinking of sweat and sex, semen staining my dress and caked in my hair. I couldn't stop laughing.
"What?" she asked, looking at me curiously.
"Oh," I said, kind of gasping for my breath the way you do after you've laughed that hard, "it's just the absurdity of all of this."
"Are you laughing at me?" she said, and her smile had disappeared.
"No," I said, still chuckling, "I'm laughing at
ME!
"
She smiled then, and I could see her body tense as it does when you're finishing your morning business, making that final push.
"Okay," she said, leaning back and parting her legs a little, "wipe."
I suppose I had known this was coming but I still had that little adrenaline rush deep in my belly.
When I hesitated she said, "shall I call David and tell him you refuse?"
"No," I said, pulling off a couple of feet of toilet paper, the nice quilted stuff I always sprung for, and folding it into a pad.
She smiled and said, "Good girl," as she spread her legs a bit more.
I wiped her pussy where she was wet and then, front to back as I had been taught as a girl, wiped back. After I wiped her ass I inspected the paper and when I saw the heavy brown stain dropped it into the water and pulled off another length.
When I finally had her clean she stood and went to the vanity. "Yours?" she asked, picking up a toothbrush from the little rack.
"David's," I said.
She put it back and picked up the other one. I watched as she used my toothbrush to brush her teeth.
"Go on," she said, an odd smile on her face, "make breakfast and bring it up. We'll have it in bed."
I heard her say, "a little something before breakfast?" as I headed for the kitchen.
I looked around, thinking, and got out eggs and bacon, set up the toaster, and loaded it with two English muffins cut in half. I broke a half-dozen eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and began beating them with a fork, looking for that perfect color, the buttercup yellow my grandmother had taught me.
As I let the eggs come to room temperature I set the big frying pan and the flat skillet on the stove to warm.
I realized I was smiling and that made me laugh which made me smile more.
"You do know," I said to myself, "that a psychiatrist would probably diagnose you as fucking nuts, do you not?"
And, of course, I was right.
Because on some level I really had no hope of understanding, I was happy.
Tired and dirty and stinking, preparing to serve my husband and his lover breakfast in bed, I was happy.
Doing such mundane domestic things, making breakfast, moving around the kitchen in which I had prepared thousands of meals, I was happy.
Even wondering what fresh humiliation, what new degradation awaited me, I was happy.
