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Clive’s Last Saturday

C.A. MacKenzie

Clive’s Last Saturday

Copyright ©2018

C.A. MacKenzie

Published by MacKenzie Publishing

April 2018

Cover image: DuBoix (Morguefile)


License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, real places, locations or situations is purely coincidental and unintended.



Clive Carver clutched the packet of bills wrapped in brown paper—almost two thousand dollars’ worth—before stuffing the thick wad into his coat pocket. Coins jingled in his pants pocket. Such a godly sum of money. More than he had ever held. No matter how many years he worked at the livery stable, he’d never make that much.

He rubbed the bulge in his coat. Time enough for caresses after he arrived home, when he’d sort the money into stacks on his bed and lovingly gaze at the piles.

He had never equated sex with money except when he’d been satisfied by Sadie and begrudgingly forked over the requisite ten bucks, but staring at the money aroused him. Money for her services was money well spent—when he couldn’t put off paying her, that is. No one would begrudge him that pleasure, not when his wife, Matilda, wouldn’t service him. What man could survive without sex? As was breathing, sex was a necessity. Surely a man would explode, either inwardly or outwardly, without that vital fulfilment. Any man would attest to that.

He sighed. Did Matilda even care about sex anymore? His mouth salivated remembering sex with her that morning, which had been a long time coming. He had been shocked when he accidently looked at his wife—really looked at her—and discerned what appeared to be a youthful figure beneath the many folds of fabric, not to mention a youthful glow that painted her once-pallid face. When had that previous frightful image vanished?

He hadn’t been able to stop himself. It had been so long, he had to test her new beauty. Though he had an upcoming tryst with Sadie, he still felt stimulated. And why should he be forced to visit—and pay—Sadie when he could have a similar, second-hand heifer for free at home?

Matilda immediately rebuffed his touch. Eight in the morning was too early for her, of course. The bitch. Too much out of her routine. If she ever wanted sex, it had to be in the dark after she went to bed.

The horrified expression on her face would have been enough to propel another man into the parlour for the night, like a shamed dog kicked to the barn in the dead of winter, but not Clive. He was the master of the house, as well as master of his wife. No matter his wife wasn’t interested in him anymore; it was her duty to service him.

He ignored Matilda’s expression and grabbed her arm. “Come, woman.”

Matilda, a fork clutched in one hand, latched her other hand on the edge of the table. He yanked her arm again, and the fork clattered to the floor. When she continued to fight, he glared at her for a few seconds before backhanding her across the cheek. A lone tear fell and stained her dress. When he jerked her harder, she gave up. Her face turned white, defeat and acceptance prominent. She was no match for the bulky Clive.

Had it been merely surprise that had washed over her face? It had been at least six months since he’d paid attention to her sexually.

Neither said a word. He half-dragged her to the bedroom, where he threw her to the bed and ripped the bodice from her dress.

“Stop. Let me undress.”

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