Chapter 1 - The Schedule

CHAPTER 1: THE SCHEDULE

I was bored. So very, very bored with my life. I mean, yes, I had it made. I didn't have to work since my husband made plenty of money, so I could lounge around the house all day if I wanted to.

But I didn't want to. I wanted something to do with myself besides chase invisible dust bunnies and iron creases into jeans because I was bored.

I'd been up since seven and I'd already made breakfast, cleaned the fridge and taken the dog for a walk. And it was now only eight. I still had many hours to kill before making dinner before Tumelo came home.

I could spend some time watching daytime television; there had to be an Uzalo repeat or some talk show I could tune into. But I didn't want to.

I wanted some excitement, something out of the ordinary, something that would make my heart race and my pulse pound, which hadn't happened in a long while. Not even when Tumelo and I had our weekly scheduled sex sessions between 8:30 and 9:00 on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. And it was always the same. He'd kiss me after dinner, take my hand and lead me into our bedroom. We both undressed at the same time, him making sure his clothes were folded perfectly and left on his dresser. I left mine in a pile on the floor since I'd be changing into my pyjamas in exactly thirty minutes anyway. We'd each get into bed on our own sides. All of this took exactly five minutes. I know, I timed it once.

Tumelo would half-heartedly kiss me before nibbling on my ear, which tickled and made me roll my eyes because I'd been telling him since we started dating eight years ago that I hated that shit. He'd move his hand to fondle my breasts, taking approximately one minute for each before moving his hand between my legs.

He'd finger-fuck me with two fingers for around four minutes — without any clit action — before climbing on top of me and slipping inside. He then took his time, staring into my eyes as he grunted with each thrust. By this point we'd be at exactly eleven minutes, which left Tumelo four minutes of thrusting and saying, "Oh baby, you feel good. You gonna come for me soon?"

That was my cue to stop making imaginary shopping lists in my head and start the fake moaning. I'd moan for exactly three and a half minutes before screaming out, "Oh Tumelo. Yes, yes, yes." He'd pump into me for exactly thirty seconds before he'd cum.

The last fifteen minutes of our allotted time for sex included him lying on top of me for approximately three more minutes before he'd kiss my nose and pull out. He'd take off to the bathroom and clean up (another three minutes) and return in his pyjamas. When he came back to bed, I'd take a shower (six minutes), brush my teeth (one and a half minutes) and put on my pyjamas. I'd slip into bed at exactly nine, where Tumelo would kiss my head and say, "Love you honey, goodnight," before rolling to his side of the bed and flipping the bedside lamp off.

Yes, we scheduled our sex life. And it was boring as hell.

I'd begged Tumelo several times to fuck me before we got out of bed on Sunday morning. He'd informed me, "Darling, you know I love you, but let's stick to our schedule, okay?" He then got out of bed, took his morning piss, showered, brushed his teeth and got ready for the day. In the twenty minutes before he came out of the bathroom, I cranked one out using my favourite vibrator with the setting turned up as high as it could go.

The only time I'd had an orgasm in the past four years was when I took care of myself. Which, if Tumelo found out, he'd be pissed, because he thought he was a master in the bedroom. Which was laughable, since he'd only been with one other woman, and I'd heard through the grapevine that their relationship ended because he was so "vanilla". I'd once broached the subject of mixing things up — having him eat me out or letting me give him a blowjob — and by his reaction you would have thought I'd asked him to fuck my ass. His scathing, "We don't do that, Nqobile. Let's stick to our routine," was enough to put me off ever bringing up the subject again.

All of this blew my mind a bit, because when we first started dating he was a hell of a lot more creative in the bedroom. He took his time making sure I got off before he even thought about it. But it seemed to me like he landed the perfect trophy wife, fifteen years younger than him, and that was that. Once the marriage certificate was signed, our sex life became a lesson in monotony. If I had known, I might have rethought the marriage. But hey, I looked on the bright side and reminded myself daily that my husband took care of me in other ways. Like providing me with a brand-new car every couple of years, always a BMW and always black at his insistence. We had a beautiful house in the estate in Pretoria East and a place at Hartbeespoort Dam that we hardly ever used. I could go shopping and spend whatever amount of money I wanted on a ridiculously expensive pair of shoes I'd never wear and Tumelo wouldn't bat an eye. But god damn it, I was horny and I wanted to be fucked.

I also wanted something to do with my time. Tumelo wouldn't hear of me getting a job, and there were no charities nearby that I wanted to volunteer with. The only one I would have even considered was the SPCA, and Tumelo refused to let me do that. So I did nothing instead. I cooked, I cleaned and I masturbated at least three times a day.

But today I was going to try something different. I was going out. Leaving the house for a change of scenery.

My neighbour, Mpho, had told me about a new farmers' market out Irene way, and I wanted to check it out. I looked at the clock. Five past eight. I had plenty of time before the vendors packed up their wares and went home at eleven.

I put the dog in his crate and grabbed my keys.

The market wasn't far from my house, just twenty minutes when traffic was bad. This morning was a bit backed up due to commuter traffic on the N1, so I sang along to Metro FM on the drive.

When I arrived at the market, I parked, grabbed my canvas shopping bags and my handbag and took off.

I meandered my way through a few stalls, looking at potted plants and jars full of jam and preserves. I bought a few things and tucked them in my bag. There were some pretty impressive-sized baby marrows that were making my horny mind imagine a good self-fuck later on with them, so I bought two (a girl can never be too careful) and continued on.

I had made it to the table selling farm bread when I heard, "Nqobile Modise, is that you?"

My head whipped up. I would recognise that voice anywhere. It belonged to Bokang, my high school sweetheart, the boy whose heart I broke when I left for Tuks and he stayed home. We hadn't spoken or seen each other since the day I left to pursue my degree.

A smile broke across my face and I looked up.

Bokang was gorgeous; he always had been, but the last twelve years had filled him out. He no longer had that boyish look to him. By a long survey of his sexy body, he'd got hard in all the right places.

He stepped out from behind his table, made his way to me and pulled me in for a hug.

My nose was tucked into his neck and his spicy, manly scent hit my nostrils. He smelled good enough to lick. I stepped back and said, "Bokang, it's so good to see you. What in the world are you doing here?"

That's when I noticed his well-worn blue jeans, so threadbare in places I could tell he'd had them for years. And the kicker was the red and black checked shirt he was wearing with his sleeves pushed up. He looked, quite honestly, like a farmer.

He confirmed that fact when he said, "I took over the family farm a few years back. My niece, Karabo, makes all of these delicious breads. She couldn't make it this week, so I told her I'd take care of the market selling today." He grinned at me and my heart skipped a beat.

"What have you been up to, Nqobi?"

"Oh, not much. Got my teaching degree and came back home. Met a surgeon and married him a few years back. And since then I've pretty much been doing nothing but sitting around the house. You seem to be a lot busier than I have been." I tried to cover my disgust at my present situation, but Bokang knew me well and knew I was hiding something.

At that point a customer stopped by the table. Bokang apologised and held up a finger to me with a, "Excuse me for a few minutes, Nqobile, don't go anywhere," before he loped around the table. The customer bought the last of his niece's bread.

"Gonna pack up now, Nqobi. But you should come have coffee with me," Bokang invited, smile firmly in place.

I nodded. "Sure, I'd love to grab some coffee with you."