Having eaten an extra portion of fried rice for the purposes of tonight’s sex games, Phyllie had no difficulty at all in defecating on Roger’s chest. Sometimes she struggled: she’d be straining like a toddler on the potty, her temples throbbing with the exertion, black marks flitting across her vision as she almost passed out, and all for what? A fawn-coloured, thumbnail-sized Richard, and the perfume of sin and sewers. But not tonight: tonight Roger was treated to a veritable omelette of ordure, which he smeared across his nipples while Phyllie fisted him with one hand and yanked him to a surprisingly copious conclusion with the other. It was only while loading the bedsheets into the washing machine that Phyllie mused on the salad days of their courtship, back when simple urination had been as far as they’d dared to go. How sweet they’d been! How green! But what did it say, she wondered parenthetically, about their marriage, that these days even watersports weren’t enough?
