of the cock I’m still holding, with his mouth.
Of course, it’s entirely different when he does it like this. We’re on different but familiar levels now, me knelt on the bed in front of him. Him with his face so close to the mattress.
And also to the thing I’ve inadvertently put in almost the right place. I mean, it’s not as though I can avoid the idea. I’ve done it without thinking, and now it’s as though I really do have something thick and stiff between my legs.
Something thick and stiff that he’s now sucking. Because he definitely is, and I definitely like it. I know I do, even when I don’t exactly want to accept it. Words just come to my lips, and they make me accept it.
‘Yeah, suck my cock, you little bitch,’ I say, far fiercer than I was a moment ago. Far gruffer, too, though that sound has almost nothing to do with wanting to feel like a man, in some way. It’s because I’m aroused, so aroused at the sight of my husband debasing himself like this, and I just can’t keep my voice on the straight and narrow.
It goes up and down and left and right, then drops out altogether when he starts moaning around the thing I’m now holding like a raised fist. Jutting and rude and angry, almost, only pulling back on it when that soaring feeling inside me gets too much.
I could drown in that feeling. I could get lost, and worse – I think he knows it. He wants me to go past that point, but I can’t, I can’t. This is enough, just this.
Just slapping my husband’s face, when he gets too greedy with the cock.
‘Enough,’ I tell him, while his mouth moves soundlessly around words he doesn’t know how to say. Perspiration stands out at his temples, along his hairline, on his upper lip – but it isn’t unattractive. Quite the contrary. It spurs me on, in the same way his squirming, heated body does.
Though nothing gets me as good as his response, when I tell him plainly:
‘I’m going to fuck you, now.’
It’s like I’ve touched a live wire to his spine. He shoves into the bed even though he knows he’ll be punished for that. And he moans so loudly, which he definitely won’t be punished for, at all. I could never punish him for something that makes my clit swell and my cunt clench around nothing, every inch of me suddenly right on the edge.
I’m going to come, I realise, calmly. Detached from it, almost. I’m going to come without anything touching me, and all because of the thought of what I’m about to do. I’m going to slick this big cock with oil. And once that’s done, I’m going to finger his tight little asshole until he opens up for me.
Then after all of these frankly excruciating stages, I’m going to ease this big thing past that ring of muscle until he begs me for more.
Which he duly does. I knew he would. It’s like we’re connected too tightly, when we get to this place, every action familiar even though it’s absolutely not, in most other ways. My hand feels too slippery – I’ve used too much oil. I’m conscious, so conscious of hurting him, even though the sight of the plastic sliding past all of his resistance is enough to almost send me over.
And yet that feeling remains. Of knowing him and understanding. It sings in me as he chokes out that I should fuck him so, so hard. Do it, baby, do it, he says, but I wait right on the brink. I stay just like that, with the thick shaft only partway inside him. Oil dripping and dripping down over his spread thighs, onto the sheets. Onto me.
Then just as he’s ready to beg again, just as I feel it shuddering through me too, I push in hard. I draw the cock I don’t have back out again, searching for a rhythm, searching for what he’ll like, and oh yes when I find it … when he gasps for me …
‘There?’ I ask, but I don’t need to. He’s already shoving back against that feeling, chasing it. He’s already saying things I don’t dare to, like ohhh yeah. Make me come, make me feel it, give me that hard fucking thing.
Of course, I notice that he doesn’t use the word cock. But that’s OK, because somehow the evasion of it hits me harder. My clit jerks again, just once, as though there’s a little string attached from it to the shaft I’m now pumping in and out of him, and I think that’s it. I’m going, I’m sure. I’m doing it, without so much as a rub over that swollen little bud.
But no, there’s something more to come, yet. Something I need, without even understanding that I do.
It’s OK, however. He knows.
‘Oh God yeah, baby,’ he says, as he works himself back on the thing I’m almost not holding any more. As he shudders, and gets so close, he follows it with other blissful words like: ‘You love it, don’t you.’
It’s not a question, I know. It’s permission. Permission to love it, permission to love this. Permission to dig my nails into his back and sob something garbled and frantic like take it take it take it, as my orgasm blooms so low and thick in my belly.
It’s almost like pain, I think. And it’s too all over the place, too unfocused. It runs riot through my body, glancing over my clit and striking me hard at the tops of my thighs. I almost sink right down onto the bed. It’s so strange and not right and good all at the same time.
But I stay up, for him. I keep the twist I’m giving to the cock inside him, until I hear him choke the words out. The ones I can hardly believe myself, even though the thing is still happening.
‘Oh Christ,’ he says. ‘Oh fuck, are you coming? Are you really coming? Ohhhh baby yes, yes. I love you, I love you.’
And then he goes over himself in one big, incredible surge. Body stiffening under its pressure. Near soundless grunts of pleasure throttling their way out of him. Every one of his shudders running all the way down him, and out through me.
Because by this point, I’ve sprawled all over his back. I can hardly help it – every bone in my body seems to have turned to soup. I’m wrung out, done in, turned upside down. Of course I am. I’m in Oppositeland, where orgasms happen without touching and he gets fucked, not me.
Where instead of saying I despise you for making me wait like that, he murmurs, low and sweet:
‘You’re so good to me, my lovely girl. So good in every way.’
I’m not, though. Sometimes I’m thoughtless, and impatient. Occasionally I cry without warning, and won’t let him comfort me. Hell, there are even times when I can’t let him comfort me, when I can’t let him in, when I don’t know what to say a second after he’s told me he loves me.
But I can do this.
For him, I can be the person I pretend I’m not.
How Was Your Day?
Valerie Grey
Made sure everything was in place and did a final check of the things I would need: a blindfold, a feather, a bowl of ice, a candle, a lighter and a rubber glove – just in case.
This thought made my stomach tighten and for a moment and I wondered if I was making a terrible mistake.
The sound of a car pulling into the drive cut that apprehensive thought
