I hear Michael come through the door downstairs and I can sense my heart rate increase. It’s been six months since we’ve been married, so we’re still technically a newlywed couple.

I hear footsteps downstairs. He’s in the foyer. Most likely checking his mail. If I know Michael, he’ll check the mail, throw out to shred what he doesn’t need, and come upstairs. Once he comes upstairs, he’ll come to our bedroom. He’ll change a bit—maybe get out of the suit and tie, or maybe even just take off his coat. He’ll wash his face, put on some slippers and head to his upstairs office. That’s right. Michael has an upstairs office in addition to his downstairs study. This entire townhouse on the Upper East Side revolves around Michael. Once there, he’ll either let me know what our plans for dinner are, or whether he’s eating alone in hIs office. He’ll have people on speakerphone with the television on. God knows what he does in there.

Like I said, it’s been six months since we’ve been married, but I know his after-work routine like nothing else.

But tonight, I’m going to be putting a slight dent in those plans.

I’m lying in bed. I’ve just freshly showered. I’ve shaved my legs. I got waxed a few days ago so I’m all good down there. I have my Elizabeth Arden on. Totally brand new lingerie from La Perla. A very expensive strip of lace black cloth that makes up a thong and barely covers my swollen pussy lips. A matching lace black bra. Stockings and garters. I’m lounging on the bed, my slender legs splayed out slightly, giving myself a wanton air. My face has a smoldering look; my eyes are as filled with lust as they’ve ever been in my life.

I’m dying for sex. I’m craving a cock. I need to get fucked. If this doesn’t entice Michael, nothing will.

I look at myself in the mirror. I know I look good. Guys have been telling me that all my life. I mean, I try not to let it get to my head and I really hope I don’t come across as if I’m stuck up, because I’m really not. I was just blessed with some good genes, but it’s hard work. I work out every day. I get on my Peleton and join a global spin class in the mornings. I do yoga, CrossFit, and Pilates. I try to eat well, although I do love chocolate. And wine!

All that, to keep what I have. Because I’m 35, and I know these looks won't last forever. That I’ll stop turning heads one day. Men won't stare on the street anymore. They’ll be looking; they'll be leering at the next pretty young thing that comes their way. She’ll be 21 years old with nothing in her brain.

I used to be like that. I remember those days, after I graduated from Dartmouth. Looking to have fun. To party. I used to live in the city with some roommates, and then on my own. I used to model—nothing serious, but enough to pay the bills and buy makeup, champagne, brunch, and clothes as well as pay for rent. Guys came flocking. And I used to have my pick.

But no one was ever good enough for daddy. And when your father is the Governor of New York State, you kind of have to do as he says. So I waited until he started introducing me to men he considered eligible. Only they were either too old. Like 90. Or too fat. Like 400 pounds. Or married too many times in the past. I much rather preferred my generation, thank you very much.

So daddy and I fell into a routine. He didn’t like my prospects that I chose, and I didn’t like the prospects that he found. I couldn’t just elope. I had to be the good daughter.

And then came the day that daddy left the Governor’s Mansion in Albany. And an elder gentleman by the name of Michael Anders came up to the house in Westchester. I know he came over because it was Christmas and I was home for the holidays. Mom showed him to dad’s office and they spoke for a long time.

When they came out, dad’s face was white as a sheet.

“I think this will work out to both our advantages,” Mr. Anders—Michael—said, shaking my father’s limp hand before turning to me. I watched as his eyes scanned my lithe body. But he did nothing else but stare. And then he turned and left.

Over the next three years, it seemed that dad and Michael were close. He called in a lot of favors. His contacts helped Michael raise money for a successful bid to become Mayor of New York City. He helped push through legislation that required state approval by calling in and using old favors. He even appeared as a surrogate for Michael on television. It seemed that dad did everything Michael could ever ask of him.

Until seven months ago, when dad came to my apartment. He looked older than his years, although he still kept in shape at 61. He sat me down, and took my hand, looking into my eyes.

“You need to get married, baby girl,” he told me. “I need you to marry Michael Anders.”

Now, the age difference Michael and I is 15 years. He’s 51. Left to my own devices, there’s no way I would ever consent to do something like that. And sure, I argued. I told him I had control of my own life. That I was my own person.

At one point, I even asked why he would suggest that I needed to do something as vile as what he was asking. But then I saw the look on my dad’s eyes—fear, anxiety—it was the look of a man who sees everything he’s worked for his whole life on the precipice of being taken away from him.

Michael had something on my father. Something bad enough that he was able to demand his only daughter’s hand in marriage.

Always the good daughter, never knowing how to stand up for herself, and also afraid of what saying no would do to my father, I instead said yes.

That was six months ago.

But enough about me for now. I can hear Michael coming up the stairs. His footfalls are heavy, but measured and my heart starts to beat with anticipation as I see his shadow on the ground.

He enters the room and turns his head to see me.

“How was your day, dear?” I ask with a coy smile. I spread my legs a bit further apart, to give him a better view.

Michael turns fully to me and takes a few steps toward me. His eyes scan my body. I smile lasciviously, letting my inner desire come through. I don't care if he’s 51 now. I don’t care what he looks like. I need to have sex with my husband.

His eyes continue to travel my body. I let my one hand lightly brush across the material of my bra, bringing his eyes to my boobs. Let him feast on those. I use my other hand to trace a line from my belly button down to my crotch. I see his eyes travel down with me.

He’s entranced. Good. I need him to be hard. I want to unbuckle that belt of his and lower his pants. Then take his cock in my mouth and lick the shaft before taking the tip in my mouth. Get him good, hard, and lubed up. Then I want to climb on top of his cock and ride myself to an orgasm.

Just thinking about having sex—not caring who it's with—is getting me wet. As noticeably as possible, I slip one finger inside my thong and push it down, feeling the folds of my pussy respond to my touch. My lips are swollen. From desire.

Not just for this man, mind you. But for sex. In general.

You could say I’m desperate for a good fucking. That’s what's causing me to lie there in the most vulnerable state I’ve ever allowed myself to be in in front of anyone. Nearly naked, with one hand fingering my pussy willing to subject myself to all manner of sexual objectification.

Michael’s eyes travel my body back up to my face.

He looks at my parted lips. I wonder what part of me he wants first.

He opens his mouth.

“I have a lot of work to do tonight, Jocelyn,” he says and my heart starts to beat faster and louder. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything tonight.”

What’s going through me right now is probably what you’re wondering? Ever been rejected for sex before? From a man? It’s almost unheard of for women to be told no. What does that make me feel like?

Shameful. Discarded. Unwanted. Ugly.

You name it.

“But you go on without me,” Michael says coldly. “Looks like you’re doing just fine on your own.”

And with that he turns toward the dresser, takes the coat of his suit off, grabs his slippers and puts them on and turns back to the door.

All without a second glance in my direction. I’m lying there like some unwanted sex doll.

Fuck. This was all a waste. My entire marriage is a waste. My life is a waste.

But before you go telling me to cheer up, babe, let me just clue you in on why I even did all this. Why I went to La Perla. Why I basically tried to initiate this whole intimate encounter.

Had Michael succumbed, it would have been the first time in our marriage that we had actually had sex. That our relationship would have been consummated.

See, it wasn’t bad enough that I was forced into this marriage. What’s worse is that for the last six months, ever since we’ve been married, I don’t think Michael Anders has touched me once in private. Never a kiss unless it's in front of the camera. Never a stare of desire when we’re alone.

Some couples have their whole relationships based around sex.

Ours revolves around a lie.

Michael stops at the edge of the door right before walking out. Without turning to me, he speaks to me.

“By the way,” he says coldly. “Lance has gone and gotten himself fired from the job I arranged for him at the White House. So he’s coming over to stay the summer with us. I think I want to use him for the re-election campaign.”

I’ve never met Lance. Michael has mentioned him maybe once. When we were getting married and signing the papers. And today. So I guess that’s twice.

“I trust that you’ll act appropriately around him,” Michael says. “We can’t have any surprises like what you tried to pull tonight happening while he’s here.”

And almost as an afterthought, as he leaves, he adds, “I’ll be having dinner in my office. Don’t wait up.”

And with that he’s gone.

Leaving me near naked and horny in my gilded cage.

Remember when I told you I wasn’t stuck up about being told I was beautiful? You probably didn't believe me all the way. Well, this is why I don’t let my beauty go to my head.