MUM

Charlie Powell

Before the baby, she’d worried about having to deal with all the sick and shit, but it’s the endless saliva that’s been the greatest shock. Now the gifts from people who’d been there already make sense. She’d expected stuffed toys, cute sleepers, nappies, but instead there was just an endless stack of muslin cloths. They’re six months in now, and the appearance of teeth has only made things worse. Not only is she constantly covered in drool, she’s up half the night trying to pacify a fretful child with sore gums.

It’s killed her sex drive.

Friends talk about the way motherhood makes them feel their body—their tits especially—is no longer their own, and while she sees what they mean (her nipples are dry and cracked from all the feeding), it bothers her less than the way that tiredness and lack of time have led to a sex life that’s distinctly vanilla.

She misses kink.

“I’ve booked a hotel,” Mike tells her, as he paces up and down the bedroom, rubbing Jessica’s back and wincing at her furious tears.

“Why? Oh god, have I forgotten our anniversary?”

“No! You need a break. We need a break. My mum said she’d look after Jess.”

It’s true; they do need a break. She feels like motherhood has become her whole identity in a way she never would have predicted. Pre-Jess, she’d have gone all soft and gooey at the thought of her baby saying “mama” or people referring to her as “Jessica’s mum.” Now that it’s reality, sure, it provokes love like she’s never felt before, but it also makes her slightly wistful for the days when she was just “Susie.” Not to mention the days when she was “slut,” or “bitch,” or “whore.”

“Do you think we should stop calling each other ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ in front of the baby?” she asks Mike. “After all, she’s too young to understand. Perhaps we should start using our real names again?”

“I don’t mind ‘Daddy,’ actually,” Mike says, winking at her. “Though I’m happy to answer to ‘Sir’ if you’d prefer?”

“I’ve never called you Sir!”

“It’s not too late to start!”

The hotel is stunning, an old country house with a huge four-poster bed, a roll-top bath, and a bottle of champagne on ice.

“For now or for aftercare?” Mike asks, gesturing at it, and she knows this is his way of asking if she wants to submit or if she’d prefer to go vanilla.

“For aftercare.”

“Sure?”

“Dead sure.”

“Lie on the bed.”

She reaches for the zip on her dress, but he stops her. “Clothes on, please.”

Susie does as she’s told.

The weight of his body and the feeling of his lips on hers bring her back to herself. Her breasts may still be heavy with milk but right now, her body is hers and hers alone. He takes his time unbuttoning her plaid shirt but then he sinks his thumbs into her soft, pale flesh and she mewls with delight.

“Look at me,” he says, and she opens her eyes to meet his gaze, hoping that he’ll hit her. She’s always loved the feel of his palm connecting with her cheek, the shock of it, the way it leaves her with no choice but to be utterly present in the moment.

He doesn’t slap her. Instead, he spits, fiercely, right into her open mouth.

It’s the hottest thing she’s ever experienced. Somewhere at the back of her mind, clouded by lust, she remembers a friend complaining that her husband never actually listened to the things that bothered her, he just pretended to listen until she calmed down.

Mike has been listening.

Every time she’s wondered aloud at the fact that she used to get off on fluids—spit, semen, tears—whereas now she spends most of her day mopping them up, he’s heard her.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too,” he replies, and spits again. The warm, wet blob of saliva hits her squarely on the forehead.

“More,” she begs.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.” “Please what?”

“Please, Sir.”

All the things the baby has tried to claim as her own, Mike takes back for the two of them. He pulls Susie’s hair in thick, grasping handfuls until she yelps in pain. He bites her, leaving marks on her neck that she knows will turn purple before the morning. She knows too that she’ll gaze at these bruises in the mirror once she’s back to her normal routine, reliving her sexuality between night feedings and nappy changes.

Then, once he’s reduced her to her old, submissive self, he makes her suck his cock, pushing his length deep into her mouth until her own saliva runs down her chin. He scoops it up and wipes it across her cheeks, mixing it with his.

He pushes her skirt out of the way, her knickers to one side, and with a single thrust, he’s inside her, thick and long and oh so good. They’ve had sex since Jess was born, of course—often, in fact—but this is the first time since the baby arrived that it’s been like this. She comes hard, and quickly, and he does too, filling her with semen, so that she is soaked with him from top to bottom.

There’s saliva in her fringe, on her face, dripping down between her breasts. Her mascara is smudged beyond repair. She’s a mess, but she feels wonderful.

“I’m not sure we have time to shower before dinner,” he says. “Not if you also want to drink that champagne.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she says, digging deep in her handbag. “I’m sure I have something in here I can clean up with.” And as she pulls out a muslin cloth, one of the million spares she carries everywhere, both she and Mike dissolve into laughter.