Fiction

Breakfast In Bed

By Sue Simpson

Marcie hummed to herself as she pottered around the kitchen. The day before she had drawn two thousand pounds out of their joint account and had bought an antique silver tray and two matching tureens. They were quite a bargain, she was pleased with her purchase.

She laid the tray with a beautifully embroidered tray cloth; she had spent many a long hour making this to please her husband. They did so enjoy the finer things in life.

Her masterpiece was almost complete, the tray laid with the exquisite cloth and topped with the two tureens. A tall stem vase with some purple and green hydroponics crystals looked far more classy than just a fill up of tap water. She had picked the single red rose with care. Paying attention to its colour and form. This rose was as near perfect as she would ever find. Fresh and vivid in its crimson colour. Newly opened, it appeared to be showing the virginal beauty within its folds almost shyly. Seducing the eye, drawing the gaze timidly into its velvety petals. Marcie sprayed it with water to keep it looking as fresh as it did when it was snipped from the stem.

This was a special breakfast. For fourteen years Marcie had taken Allan his breakfast in bed on a Sunday morning, but this one was so special.

She had been a good wife to her husband, never once strayed. Kept the house beautiful, herself trim, and was a pretty bauble for him to display on his arm at work socials.

Allan had come a long way in the last few years. The business was one of the most successful in the north sector of the city. They had gambled when others had taken the safe option, had speculated on risky deals, and had held back restrained when their competitors were making grand ostentatious bids that they could never maintain long term. Business was booming and although Allan was the figurehead of the company, Marcie was the driving force. She had an intuitive grasp of where the market was going to fluctuate, she guided and led, always remaining in the background. The little woman. The stunning socialite who threw the most desirable parties in town. Marcie was the envy of the tennis set.

They had gradually moved up the real estate ladder too. Who would have thought that fourteen years ago they had begun married life in a two-bed flat above a newsagent's shop on the high street? These days home was Manor-Gables. A little private estate with high walls and surrounding five acres of ornamental gardens and forest. Sometimes Marcie had been lonely here, but this special morning she was pleased with the privacy. She hoped Allan would appreciate the effort she had made.

One last detail. She popped the Polaroid camera on the tray. After all they'd want to have the memory of this morning for all time. Marcie whipped off the apron she had been wearing and checked her appearance in the hall mirror. The ivory silk negligee complemented her dark skin tones beautifully and her long auburn hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders. The low cut, matching nightgown plunged almost to her waist. The breast enhancement she had had the previous year had been worth every penny. She was pleased to note that the morning chill had caused her nipples to protrude through the sheer material. The nightgown was slit to upper thigh at either side. Allan was in for a treat this morning.

She pushed the bedroom door open with her foot, and entered holding the tray out before her.

"Good morning my darling. Look, I've brought you breakfast in bed." She smiled her most alluring smile.

Allan's eyes were wide open, no residue of sleep clinging to his good-looking face. Marcie reminded herself every morning how lucky she was to be married to this man, who set so many young female pulses throbbing. It amazed her that after fourteen years of marriage she could still command his complete attention when she walked into the bedroom, and she certainly had it this morning. His eyes were following her every move. He licked his dry lips and swallowed visibly.

Marcie placed the tray on the bedside table and gazed down with love upon her dear husband.

He was half sitting propped against the stiff headboard. He winced in discomfort as he tried to shift his position. He rotated his left wrist slightly, and Marcie mumbled a few cooing words of sympathy as she saw how chaffed and hurt his wrists had become.

"Oh now look what you've done to your poor handies, I told you it would do no good to struggle. You are a silly boy Allan."

She pulled hard on his wrist, checking without mercy the tension of the steel handcuffs. His arms had been extended beyond his head for over nineteen hours. His ankles similarly cuffed, splayed and attached to opposing bedposts. Red-hot needles of pain were coursing through his poor tortured body.

He shrank back from her, a small whimper escaping his dry mouth. "Marcie please. Come on now you've had your fun. Let me go and we'll say no more about this please. Marcie. Dammit she meant nothing to me."

"I know that sweetie." She smiled benevolently at her errant husband. "None of them ever do."

She held a bottle to her husband's penis, and he relived himself. Preferring this to the indignity of soiling the bed. She set about washing and shaving him. She patted cologne into his freshly shorn cheeks, and smoothed some deodorant under his armpits. She was pleased with her efforts. "Now then shall we see if Mr. Eager wants to come and play with Mommy"

He shook his head. "No Marcie. No. Please don't."

"Oh come on Allan you're not normally so shy. What's the matter? Does it only work for teenage sluts these days?"

Allan closed his eyes as his wife's fingers curled round his limp penis. It took a little while, but soon his member stiffened and betrayed his terrified mind in the same way it had betrayed his wife many times over the years. Beneath her familiar manipulations it soon reached its maximum potential.

Marcie smiled. "There that's better," she crooned.

She removed the lid of the first tureen, as Allan's eyes widened in horror. Her eyes on the other hand looked clear and serene as she held the huge knife in front of her. Was his wife still sane, or was it just a case of insanity having no expression? The 'Learned gentlemen' would debate this point at length, later.

It was more difficult than she had anticipated cutting through the engorged flesh. Not that it was engorged for long mind, the blood shrank back through his penile veins a lot faster than it had swollen in, as though it was ebbing like a tide away from the penetrative blade of the kitchen knife.

He screamed. That man really did scream, but then as the last sinew was sawn through with the serrated blade he went almost quiet, a small mewling moan every few seconds, but that was all. He seemed fascinated as he watched his blood dye the floral bedding. He stared from the blood between his legs to the flaccid piece of meat in Marcie's hand and couldn't seem to equate the two. He felt no pain. That surprised him. He had the works here, a veritable assortment of external bleeding. Veinous bright red oxygenated blood. Arterial, the big boy. The gusher. A dark red spouting fountain of blood, rising from between his legs to fall in a crimson shower. And the almost insignificant capillary bleeding. Marcie's Ivory night-gown had an obscene spread of deep red staining, and two red hand prints smearing off in south tailing trails.

Allan's face was the colour and texture of soft putty. His gums were white, his skin clammy. He was in clinical shock. At this point he was still conscious. A strange calm came over him and although he still continued to moan every few seconds his face broke into a small lopsided imbecilic smile.

Marcie picked up the lighter from the pretty tray and depressed the flywheel that ignited the flint. Allan's eyes were drawn to his wife's beautiful face illuminated by the soft flame of the lighter.

"Have a cigar Allan," she muttered as she stuck the gory end of Allan's dismembered penis in his mouth. He made no effort to resist. A glob of mixed blood and saliva oozed out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. A piece of limp muscle adhered wetly to his upper lip. Allan made no protest.

Marcie picked up a length of wick from the tray and carefully inserted it into the urethral opening of Allan's penis. She put a flame to the wick, and the hanging, wrinkled length of his precious organ lit up like a candle on Halloween. Soon the smell of singed flesh permeated the air. Allan, still conscious, made no effort to move. She hoped he wasn't too catatonic to enjoy her creativity.

"Second course Allan," she enthused brightly lifting the second tureen for inspection. She was gratified to see Allan's eyes shift slightly towards the bright shiny silver that reflected her beautiful face so perfectly.

She lifted the lid with a flourish, and Allan managed to gurgle on the last reserves of his strength. He looked into the glassy eyes of Tracy Jones, his latest office junior and occasional bed partner. Her severed head with frozen expression gaped back at him from the silver slaver.

Marcie laid the tureen on his lap.

Marcie took a few photos of her artwork and tossed them still developing on the bed beside her husband.

"I'm just going to set the washer off dear. Now you two make yourselves comfortable and call me if you need me."

Allan's eyes fluttered and he welcomed the blessed darkness.