Relight my Fire

by Joanna Bolouri

  Finding his shirt, he quickly pulled it on and buttoned it up. ‘Promise me you won’t touch yourself until tonight. We’re so doing this. Shit, I have a semi now. I fucking hate you.’

  I rolled back on to my side. ‘Hate you, too, honey. Have a great day.’

  Yep. Still got it.

  Tuesday April 4th

  When Oliver got home last night, he was a man on a mission. As requested, I hadn’t touched myself for the entire day, but given that Molly was here, it wasn’t likely to happen anyway. Perhaps some mothers can have a quick one while their kid is preoccupied elsewhere; I just don’t seem to be one of them.

  We all ate together, then he played a little Minecraft with Molly on the PS4. I didn’t think someone with such tiny hands could be so adept at building massive houses. Molly’s pretty good at it, too.

  If Molly had been younger, I’d have jumped in the bath with her but she’s at the age where she just points at my body and either laughs or gives me a disgusted look, so I bathed her first before showering quickly while Oliver read her a story. After popping in to kiss her goodnight (and to make sure Oliver wasn’t asleep beside her), I put on some nice underwear, dimmed the lights and sat up in bed, waiting for him to come through. From the point where I heard him say goodnight and close her door, it was like he’d just Quantum Leaped directly into our bedroom.

  He sat beside me on the bed for a while, waiting for Molly to fall asleep. He fidgeted, obviously dying to get started.

  ‘It’s dark in here, Phoebe.’

  ‘It’s called mood lighting. You want me to be in the mood, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but what am I? A bat? I need a little more light for this to work . . .’

  I compromised by turning the dimmer switch half a millimetre. Oliver got up and stood at the end of the bed. I suddenly felt very exposed.

  ‘You’re just standing there.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Can you at least take your shirt off? Women need visuals, too, you know.’

  He smiled and started slowly unbuttoning his shirt, while I began running my hands over my chest and stomach. It all felt very unnatural. No one wanks like this. I felt like I was replicating some dodgy porn movie where women suddenly become inexplicably aroused when a man appears to fix their washing machine.

  Very astutely, Oliver noticed this and without taking the piss, he quietly said, ‘Let me see if I can help things along. Close your eyes.’

  I gratefully complied. Hearing my bedside drawer open and close, I began to smile. Oliver was bringing out the big guns.

  Placing my vibrator in my hand, he firmly pulled down my underwear and left one side hanging around my ankle. It was clear that Oliver had a very specific visual in mind. I felt him move to the side of the bed and watch me as I used the toy on myself. It was something I’d done many times before, but this time it felt different. This time it wasn’t just about me.

  Hearing his trousers unzip and his breathing quicken, I slowly opened my eyes and saw him standing over me. Fucking hell, he was hard, he was close and he never took his eyes off me. I reached across and ran my left hand down his thigh and he moaned softly. Hearing him moan made every nerve in my body tingle. I was close too. Part of me wanted to demand he just stop and shag me but this wasn’t my game. In my game, wine would have been made available.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Tell me when you’re going to cum.’

  As I did, he came on my tits. And my stomach. And weirdly enough, a little on my elbow. Gross.

  *

  I had no choice but to shower again afterwards and he joined me, quietly repeating holy fuck over and over again.

  I’m the best girlfriend EVER. Only two more sex jar requests to go and we’re done!

  Thursday April 6th

  Molly and I Skyped Mum this evening as she’d ignored my ‘Happy Birthday’ messages and Skype attempts over the past two days. I was beginning to worry.

  ‘Happy Belated Birthday! Where have you been?!’ I asked, like a total parent.

  Mum laughed. ‘Dad took me to a fancy hotel. It was marvellous. They had a swing band playing; I think we’re going to take lessons. Hello, Molly darling! How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘I can ride my bike now. With no stabilisers or anything!’

  Mum clapped loudly and yelled to tell Dad, who popped his head into view of the camera. ‘Aren’t you amazing!’ he said proudly. ‘Maybe you can teach your mum how to ride. She was never really a fan of bikes when she was your age.’

  Ah shite. Rumbled. Thanks,Dad.

  Molly slowly turned her head towards me like a demonic doll. ‘You said you could ride a bike.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied guiltily. ‘I just didn’t want you to think Mummy was a loser.’

  Molly giggled. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll teach you. Then you’ll be a winner!’

  I cuddled her and whispered, ‘I have you. I already am.’

  Friday April 7th

  I only get twenty days holiday per year and I’ve had to use five already for Molly’s second term break. Now I have fifteen days left and she still has a shitload of time off to come. Not to mention what I’d need for any family holiday that we might decide to take. Oliver will have to eat into his own allowance if I have any hope of making them stretch. I have no doubt that we’ll end up paying Maggie to watch Molly during the lengthy summer break, unless she goes away, in which case we’re screwed. Happy bloody Friday.

  In other news, Lucy texted me to say that she’d overheard Dorothy talking about our new boss and he’s due to start on the 24th. They must have hired the skinny man. I hope he’s mentally prepared to take on our shit show of an office. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

  Saturday April 8th

  Another rainy weekend but I took Molly to see a special showing of Sing-a-long Frozen at the theatre as I’d been given freebies at work. Turns out I knew more songs than I thought, much to Molly’s amusement, even dueting with her on ‘Love is an Open Door’ like a BOSS.

  Knowing I had three tickets, Oliver made himself scarce, feeding me some bullshit story about having to work from home. If I checked his browser history right now, it’d tell a different story, I’m certain.

  We got pizza for dinner on the way home and I put a very tired but happy girl to bed about an hour ago.

  Must remember to dye my roots, I look like a badger.

  Monday April 10th

  We’re opening the sex jar again on Thursday. It’s Oliver’s turn and then that only leaves mine. To be honest, I’m absolutely in favour of keeping this as a part of our lives forever. It’s been very fun. For my last one, I chose ‘rough sex’ but after our hotel sex, I’m thinking I’ll need to change it. That was as intense and rough as it’s ever been. What else do I want? I’m guessing ‘let me sleep for twelve hours straight’ isn’t a sex request, no matter how arousing I find it.

  Thursday April 13th

  I know both Oliver and I are meant to be open, honest and non-judgmental with each other regarding sexual desires, but the moment I read his last request, that all went out the window. As he nearly did.

  ‘WHAT? Nope. Uh-uh – no way. You are not fucking my face. Fuck your own face, fuckface.’

  ‘Are you quite finished?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s technically not face—’

  ‘It’s deep throat!’ I growled, ensuring Molly couldn’t hear. ‘Do I look like Linda Lovelace?’

  ‘Um . . . it’s hard to tell when your face is all contorted like that.’

  I put the note back in the jar and closed the lid. ‘I give you plenty of head,’ I said, grabbing my hand cream off the dressing table. ‘Good head, no – INCREDIBLE head. What’s the fucking problem?’

  He watched me furiously rub cream all over my hands with a mild amusement. ‘I’ll explain, if you’ll listen . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Didn’t you give me a hand-job with that—’
/>
  ‘Oliver . . .’

  ‘OK, I’ll stop.’ He turned me around to face him, making sure I was listening.

  ‘Firstly – your blow jobs are fantastic. I have zero complaints. This isn’t about that. Secondly – I do NOT want to face-fuck you. That shit does nothing for me.’

  Realising I’d applied far too much cream, I started massaging it into my legs too. ‘So what then?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. With someone who can deep throat – it’s just a very different sensation. I know not everyone can do it and I’ve only experienced it a couple of—’

  ‘Who the fuck with?’ Oh God, here comes competitive Henderson. I hate her.

  ‘Girl at Uni . . . and Ruth. She could do it.’

  Oh, of course she could. Oliver’s model ex-girlfriend, with no personality and apparently no gag reflex.

  ‘Look, all I’m asking is that we try it. I’m not going to force you, for God’s sake. Just think about it?’

  I nodded to say I would but I was busy picturing Ruth swallowing Oliver’s entire body like a fucking snake. I needed to speak to Lucy about this.

  Friday April 14th

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Lucy Jacobs

  Subject: Help required.

  So it turns out that Oliver’s last sex jar request is for me to deep throat him. Turns out that Ruth (remember her, the one who came to Skye with us) could do it and despite my initial concerns, I’m now solely intent on being better at it than she was.

  But I’m not sure I can do it. I gag when I’m brushing my tongue ffs.

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Re: Help required

  Jesus, it’s only half nine in the morning, dude.

  Only kidding – I’ll text you a couple of sites where they teach you how to do it. I’m not emailing them from work, I’ll get sacked. Warning though, I have thrown up a little doing this. Grim. But apart from that, you’ll be rewarded in heaven by never having to do it again!

  I waited twenty whole minutes before she sent me two links through WhatsApp, both how-to guides on how to take a whole dick into your throat for beginners. There’s no way I’m reading these while Molly is around.

  Saturday April 15th

  Oliver took Molly out on her bike this morning which gave me time to read through the links Lucy sent me.

  Practise first! Use something penis-shaped like a banana or a dildo and insert it into your mouth until it hits your gag reflex. Practise doing this for a few minutes at a time until the need to gag has gone. This can take anything from a day to a few weeks.

  A fucking banana . . . I’m going to have to simulate oral sex on A FUCKING BANANA?! I threw my phone down on the bed.

  I have so many questions. Do I keep the skin on? What if I do it unpeeled and it breaks and then I die with an entire banana wedged in my oesophagus? Or what if it gets stuck but I can still breathe through my nose and I have to go to A&E and explain why I don’t eat bananas like a fucking human?

  Can I use a vibrator instead of a dildo? Do I need to take the batteries out?

  Did perfect Ruth have to do this or was she born without a gag reflex as well as body fat?

  Fuck, did LUCY DO THIS? I texted her immediately.

  Please tell me you didn’t go down on a banana to perfect this.

  Fuck no. I hate bananas. I bought a new dildo. I wasn’t putting any of my old toys in my mouth. You like bananas, though. And it’s cheaper . . . Plus if you vomit, you can just chuck it in the compost bin.

  Don’t speak to me or my bananas ever again.

  It took me until Oliver and Molly came home to decide whether sticking something down my throat repeatedly until I stopped gagging was worth it. Was an extra couple of minutes of pleasure for Oliver worth potentially vomiting? Did I really need to outdo Ruth, who’d already been dumped in favour of me? Was I really that immature?

  Course I fucking was.

  Tuesday April 18th

  NURSERY HOLIDAYS ARE OVER! NORMALITY RETURNS!

  Oliver dropped Molly off at Maggie’s this morning as I skipped into work, happy to be free from my darling family for a whole eight hours. Lucy was equally pleased to see me, presenting me with a croissant and latte as I walked through the door.

  ‘What did I miss then?’ I asked, wondering why Lucy and I were the only ones in at 9 a.m. ‘Jesus, it’s quiet. Where is everyone? Ooh, did the dickhead Rapture finally happen?’

  She sat on the edge of my desk. ‘Dorothy is in London, Kelly is on holiday and fucking “heid the baw” phoned in sick. It looks like it’s just me and you, Peggy Sue. I’ve left a message with Dorothy to phone me back ASAP but since she’s leaving soon, I doubt she’ll care.’

  ‘Oh man. Whoever decided we didn’t need more staff was an idiot,’ I replied, biting into my croissant. ‘I guarantee someone will get their arse kicked for this.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘You know what this means though?’

  ‘We order in a pizza for lunch and charge it to the office because we can’t leave the phones unattended?’

  ‘Cooorrrect! I’ll get the menu . . .’

  *

  I opened my emails and sighed as I was faced with two weeks’ worth of spam, complaints and nonsense from Lucy she’d sent me in my absence. Literally the moment I turned off my out-of-office message, one popped up . . . from Jay. Shit. I opened it tentatively.

  From: Jason Dainty

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Advertising

  Hi Phoebe,

  I called last week but they said you weren’t back until this morning. Would be good to have a chat about future advertising if you have time to drop in at some point?

  Jay

  I turned to speak to Lucy but she was on a call, so I just flapped my arms in her direction until she got the hint and hung up.

  ‘Jay just emailed me,’ I informed her, pointing at my screen in case she didn’t understand where emails came from.

  She plodded over, lukewarm pizza in hand. ‘Anything interesting? What did he say?’

  She glanced over the email and laughed. ‘Dainty? His surname is DAINTY? Why didn’t you tell me this?’

  ‘Because I don’t think he ever told me.’

  ‘Check him being all professional. Mr Dainty totally wants to ride you.’

  ‘How on earth do you get that from this email?’ I looked again to see if I’d missed anything.

  ‘Two reasons,’ she said, examining a mushroom she’d just picked off the slice. ‘Number one – his bar is far too trendy for our readership and there’s no way he’s advertising again. Number two – he wants you to go back and see him. This could easily be done by email or over the phone. He just wants to be in a room with you again.’ She threw the mushroom into my bin and went back to answering phones while I sat there disagreeing. As much as I hope she’s barking up the wrong tree, if she isn’t, I’d have no problem knocking him back if I had to. I of course replied in an equally professional manner, resisting the urge to just write FUCKING DAINTY, THOUGH?!

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Jason Dainty

  Subject: Re: Advertising

  Good morning, Jason,

  Thanks for your email. I’ll be happy to pop in – say, Thursday at 3 p.m.? Let me know if this is suitable.

  Kind regards,

  Phoebe

  As I pressed send, I thought, there isn’t a handsome, tattooed man on the planet that could make me cheat on Oliver. Especially not a dainty one.

  Wednesday April 19th

  Oliver has been decent enough not to pressure me with regards to his sex jar request and has no idea that for the past four days I have secretly been practising with half a cucumber. I feel like a fucking idiot but I’ve convinced myself it’s less humiliating and lethal than a banana.

  At first I just retched continuously, wondering why I was putting myself through it, but this morning I found I could withstand the gagging – not entir
ely, but by Jove, it was progress. I think I’m getting the hang of it.

  I came in to work today so I could catch up on more of the work that had accumulated while I was away. Dorothy wasn’t pleased that Brian had phoned in sick yesterday and that Kelly had refused to take any work calls on her day off. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have either. She left shortly after the morning meeting on ‘business’, which we all knew was code for ‘doing something personal and completely unrelated to work’.

  Brian pestered Lucy on whether she’d received any info or paperwork on the new manager of Scottish classified advertising and her answer was ‘Fuck off, Brian, I’m busy’. If she had she would have told me anyway.

  *

  Molly and I made dinner tonight, breading fish and making chips in the air fryer. She even did her own fish fingers and was very proud of herself. Oliver praised her cooking skills highly.

  ‘I’m going to be a Chef, you know,’ she decided. ‘With my own café.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he replied. ‘Your mum and I will get free chips forever.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she deliberated. ‘It might just be a café for girls. I haven’t decided.’

  I let her watch some television before bed, while Oliver and I did the dishes together, admiring our own child like a couple of smug pricks. After we’d finished, Oliver grabbed a beer from the fridge. He looked weary.

  ‘Tired?’ I asked, drying the last of the cutlery.

  He nodded. ‘I am, actually.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I replied, beginning to cough weakly. ‘Because I have this itch in the back of my throat I was hoping you could help me out with.’

  He opened his can and took a swig, oblivious to what I was getting at. ‘Sore throat?’

  I placed the last of the cutlery in the drawer. ‘Not sore, no, but it’s about six or seven inches down and I just can’t reach it myself . . .’

  He paused, mid-swig. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Yep. But if you’re too tired, I can—’