I haven’t followed the Wicked Wednesday prompt this week cos it’s true story time! Aside from reviews, I don’t think I’ve ever let you into my sex life, lovely readers, and I think it’s about time I changed that. So, here we go…
Holy fuck, I’ll be in for it when we get home, I can feel it in my bones.
How do I know? His sudden silence.
He’d been talkative when we left the shopping precinct, nattering away as he grabbed my bags so that I could use the cash machine. We’d reached the car and he’d stuffed a few over-filled tote bags in the boot, and was cheerful and smiling, right up until the moment I playfully smacked his butt as he opened the passenger door for me.
I watch his smile fade as he walks around the front of the car, kicks the tyre, rolls his eyes at the leaflet trapped under the windscreen wiper. By the time he closes the driver’s door and snaps his seatbelt on he’s stony faced. He holds up his hand and there between his calloused fingers is a fluffy dandelion seed.
“Make a wish.”
All I can do is blink.
His hand is so steady, his eyes so level, his voice so calm. If I didn’t know him I’d be worried. Afraid, even. The change in him is so abrupt fear would be a rational response. But I do know him, so I’m not worried, and what’s more I know he doesn’t really want me to say anything. So, I just sit quietly, tensely, listening to the soft hum of the engine until his iPod kicks in and fills the small space with one of his favourite songs.
When we arrive home I bounce out of the car, expecting him to get the shopping while I open the front door. A questioning cough has me spinning around so fast I nearly trip over my own flip flops. He pops the boot and gestures toward it with a sweep of his arm.
I’m shaking when I bend over to start gathering up the bags. It’s the height of summer out here and our street is swarming with people. Neighbours cutting hedges, mowing lawns, gossiping over fences. It’s obvious what he’s going to do, but I still gasp and jerk when he presses himself up against me. I’m trapped, burning up from the heat of sun baked metal on my belly, and of horny man on my back.
My instinct is to reach around to grab the hard rope beneath his jeans, but I don’t dare. God only knows who might be watching. I wait instead, feeling the blush that’s already reddened my face spreading out to tint my ears, down my neck to colour my chest.
Before I can compose myself, I’m being spun away from the car, pushed gently toward the path. The boot slams, then I’m being led to the front door.
“In you go,” he says, boosting me up the concrete steps. I can hear his smile in his voice. “Hiya, you alright?” I hope that whoever he’s talking to hadn’t seen him rubbing his groin on my butt.
The shopping is abandoned just inside the door. My tailbone cracks against the second stair, the roots of my hair strain against the tug of a tight fist, and my dry lips drag against the cock that’s trying to force its way into my mouth.
“Spit on it.”
Do I even have saliva at this point? Can I make enough in time? I do what I can, but it isn’t good enough, so I end up with my jaw snagged in a vice-like grip. One of his fingers coaxes my mouth open and I have to fight my gag reflex against the wet lump that lands on my tongue.
“Use that.”
God, I must look like I’m sucking lemons, sitting here cringing with a mouth full of someone else’s spit. When I let myself think about it, just for a second, the need to get it out almost sends me into a blind panic. But his cock is nudging against my lips, so I let the wetness bubble over it. Soon enough I forget all about what he did. I’m too busy sucking, stroking, scratching his balls, tickling his pucker.
A few letters flop onto the doormat. The postie’s little computer beeps a few times and a couple of small packages drop in one by one. Can they see us through the frosted glass? Can they make out blurred images of a hand desperately clinging to a bannister and a pale white arse thrusting back and forth? I kinda care, but he doesn’t.
“Naaah! Stop, that’s enough.”
His heat is suddenly gone. Trails of saliva cool on my chest, make the valley between my tits itchy and sticky. He slaps my face, pulls me into the living room by the front of my bra. My head is spinning, my legs feel like spaghetti. Everything is moving so fast I don’t know what he wants, what he expects, how he needs me to behave.
Should I be active? Eager? Show him what I want, push back when he pushes forward? Or should I be passive? Bend over when he says so, open my legs when he says so, take his cock for as long as he wants to fuck me with it then carry his orgasm inside of me until every last drop seeps out of me to gather in my knickers?
The scrape of the bench being pulled away from the wall makes me yelp. Hard wood digs into my hip bones, my toes snag on one of the legs. Hands under the shelf, clasped tight, pants around my ankles.
“Fuck!”
He doesn’t usually bite this hard. Not at first, anyway. The sensation is so intense I sink my own teeth into my forearm to try to spread out the pain signals my brain is receiving in an attempt to confuse it. He’s sucking so hard I know there’ll be purple blotches on the undersides of my cheeks for days.
The door opens, he rifles through the bags, then the door closes again. Soft strokes tickle my butt cheeks and then THWOMP! A laugh catches in my throat. THWOMP! I know what he’s spanking me with. THWOMP! One of the books I picked up in a charity shop lands on my arse again and again. It doesn’t hurt much, but it does amuse. Unfortunately for me, I make the mistake of letting him know.
“Oh, you’re laughing, are you?”
Laughing himself, he crosses the room with heavy footfalls and the kitchen door opens. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What will he come back with? There’s so much in there to hit me with he always says the kitchen is as good as a bondage shop.
I want to die when he walks back through the room carrying something I use every day. He’s grinning, letting it swing from his finger. But beneath his entertained expression is something a bit more careful. Watchful. He’s showing me what he’s selected, taking his time to walk back to me to give me a chance to decide whether it’s a yes or a no. All I need to do is utter my safeword and he’ll go put it back.
I say nothing.
I remain silent until the first time the bamboo chopping board connects with my right cheek. It was only a half-hearted blow but the sharp pain bleeds over my skin until it feels like it’s on fire.
Fifteen seconds pass before I feel his fingers probing, stroking, then another THWACK! Harder this time. Hard enough to make me cry out. Twenty seconds pass, THWACK! Thirty seconds pass, THWACK.
I hate it when he does it this way. Quick bursts of impact has always been his favourite way to play, but not now. This time he leaves blocks of time between spanks, making me wait, making me wonder if it’s over, if another is coming, if he’s building up the burn so that I’ll more than feel it when he starts delivering his quick strikes.
Another THWACK! Fuck, has that one broken my skin? Is that trickling I can feel running down the back of my thigh blood?
He pulls me up, turns me to face him, and kisses me. I’m dazed, confused. Wondering what’s what. But when he looks down my gaze follows his, and then I know. It isn’t blood I can feel dripping on my skin, it’s spunk. He came, and I haven’t, and it looks like I’m not going to get to do so any time soon.
“Go and get all that stuff you bought put away,” he says, nodding at the bastardised book on the sofa. “I’ll be up in a minute to put some cream on your cheeks, I’m just gonna wash your sweaty arse off this chopping board first.”
