I push her legs farther apart, open her plump nether lips, and suck on where she is most sensitive. She lets out a short cry. I vary the pressure of my tongue, caress and probe with my fingers, and once in a while let her feel the sharpness of my teeth.
All of a sudden, my hair is tugged hard. Startled, I stop what I am doing. But it is not her trying to yank me off, only her hand involuntarily gripping my hair.
My heart hurts, both with the expansion of hope and with the certainty that this hope too will decay into despair the next time she takes aim at me. But I begin to pleasure her again. Perhaps she thinks that I am manipulating her just as she hopes to manipulate me, and perhaps I am, but it is not the same. I need to pleasure her. I need to bowl her over. I need to push her under and drown her in sensations.
Because I do not know of any other ways to tell her that I love her. That I have always loved her.
I do not know whether she tries to resist. If so, her resistance crumbles before my need. I am ruthless and relentless. I know now exactly what she likes. And I do everything that makes her tremble and jerk.
Her free hand claws the sheets. Her foot digs into my shoulder. Her pelvis lifts off the bed.
I dig my tongue into her and she comes, screaming.
TWO MINUTES PASS. THREE. To my amazement, we are still in an embrace, my head on her thigh, her hand in my hair, both of us breathing heavily. Against my better judgment, I begin to dream of the day when I never need to leave her arms.
Her hand drops away from my hair. My pride prods me urgently: I must get up before I am shoved off. But it is difficult; I want to stay where I am, comfortably ensconced, nothing between us but warmth and closeness.
I force myself to get off the bed.
Unlike yesterday, she is not turning inward in the aftermath of her pleasure. Instead, she observes me closely. I can’t quite interpret her expression. There is that light of speculation again. But more than anything else she evinces a sense of readiness.
For what?
“I suppose you will wish to fuck me now?” she asks, the decorousness of her tone completely at odds with the indelicacy of her words.
Now I understand: She is ready to pounce on her opportunity to turn me mindless with pleasure.
“Darling, I am always ready to fuck you,” I answer, my voice only a little unsteady. “I have been ready to fuck you for years upon years.”
I unfasten my trousers and my linens and let them drop at my ankles. My cock juts out, eager and hard. I give it a casual tug.
Her eyes widen.
My hand, in a solid grip, moves up and down the shaft of my cock, once in a while closing over the glans. “Come, darling, open your legs again.”
Her eyes never leaving mine—or perhaps I should say, her eyes never leaving my cock—she slides open her legs. “Am I still as pretty there as before?”
“Prettier.” All plump and swollen from the pleasures I wrested from her.
“Are you going to fuck me now?”
The way she utters those words, both a dare and an invitation, makes my cock twitch in my hand. It wants to bury itself deep in her exquisite cunt.
“Have I not pleasured you enough this morning?” I counter. “Do you want more?”
She, of course, will never admit to such needs. “I am a devoted wife who thinks only of her husband and does not wish for his desires to be unmet.”
Her voice has the barest quiver of breathlessness to it. Hope, my old enemy, rears its naive head again. I ignore it. “Who says my desires will be unmet?”
“You will resort to your own hand when I lie here, all docile and accommodating, with my thighs wide apart, and my pretty, pretty cunt laid bare?”
Jesus. Had she wrapped her mouth about my cock, I could not be more aroused. “Yes, for a change,” I manage to say.
“Why?” Her free hand dips down, her fingertips lightly caressing her slit.
In my mind’s eye I see myself yank that hand out of the way and pound her with my cock, my hands gripped tight on her hips. I almost forget why I stand at the side of the bed, touching myself.
Then I remember it is because I am not ready to venture into the lioness’s den when she has her teeth and claws out.
“Because I am a pervert, as you tell me.”
I am rough in my motions, at one point slapping my cock before grasping it again and tugging hard. Her gaze flicks from my cock to my face and back again. Her feet clench; her bound hand grips onto the bright red sash that holds it in captivity.
Her pelvis undulates—slightly but noticeably. Noises escape me. I imagine myself balls-deep inside her. I imagine her legs wrapped around mine. I imagine her telling me, in so many words, that she has never known such pleasure, that she can never get enough of my cock.
Of me.
I expand to ridiculous dimensions. My other hand grabs onto the bedpost.