Miss Sally seemed rankled, even, and as he saw the look on her face he knew he had fucked up. Bad. He couldn’t bear to look at Jennifer, who now had him bent over the arm of the leather couch, his belly slick with sweat, his asshole seizing from having just been penetrated to the hilt, his dick aching for release and his heart in about 1,675 pieces in a giant, gaping abyss inside his chest.
“Seriously? Seriously?” Jennifer shouted, stepping back from him, hands on hips. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her cock. It was slick with lube and froth and as she paced it bounced, like a conductor’s wand, conducting a symphony of Pissed Right Off.
“You aren’t going to let it go, are you, Declan? I let your shit go. No, really,” she yelled, pointing at Miss Sally. “I just had sex with you – no, I goddamned pegged you – in front of your predilection! And you are throwing a sex chat guy I never met in my face while I perform one of your biggest, deepest, longest-held fantasies on you?”
Miss Sally grimaced and looked at him. “When she puts it that way, you really come across as a douche.”
“Yeah!” Jennifer added. “And you! Get out of here,” she fumed, pointing at the dom, who just tittered and scratched something in the notebook. “No, really, Suzanna Lemmon, Ph.D. Your services are no longer needed.” She glared at Declan. “Ever.”
“You’re not the first wife to say that.” Miss Sally grabbed her bag and shoved the notebook in it, her smartphone dinging at the same time.
“But I’ll be Declan’s last, because if he ever sees you again I’ll bury his body in the backyard under a new pool I’ll buy with the life insurance money.” Declan cringed and pulled away from her, sitting gingerly on the couch, his ass still throbbing and his balls aching.
“Good plan,” the dom said, nodding. She turned to Declan and, rather formally, said good-bye. “I have a plane to catch and others to counsel, so I will leave you with a parting message: make love. Now. The old-fashioned way. No toys, no contracts, no sub or dom. Just love each other. Whatever you find there will tell you what you need to know.”
Thank you, Declan mouthed. He took a deep breath and Jennifer watched as he curled into the fetal position on the couch, eyes a bit glazed. She knew that look, but hadn’t seen it since college, the last time she had teased him into blue balls and left him hanging.
Fuck you, Miss Sally Suzanna Doctor Whatever, Jennifer added silently. And with that, Miss Sally’s long, lean surgeon’s fingers grasped the doorknob to the outside door, opened it, shut it with an ooomph and off she went, out of their lives, forever.
“That woman!” Jennifer threw a couch pillow at the closed door. It fell to the floor a few feet shy of the target in an impotent ploomph. She ripped the strap-on off and flung it, too, at the door, the dildo making a thwack against the tiled entrance.
Declan stood and came within a foot of her, his hands reaching for her shoulders. His naked body stood glorious before her, breathtaking, really. How could she choose sexting with John over this man?
“That woman,” he repeated, “helped me. Helped us. She may have, uh, unorthodox methods, but can you honestly say we’re worse off than we were two days ago?”
Deep breath, she told herself. It took seven inhales and exhales before she could reply with anything other than invective. “No. But I’m not sure she – ”
“In fact,” he continued, “I wish you had called her sooner. I wish I had thought of it myself. All these months – nearly two years,” he corrected himself, pain draining from him as he aligned the truth with his words, “I have been so selfish. So cruel.” He caressed her arm. “I am so, so sorry. I am sorry for calling you names, for making fun of your amazing,” he pulled back and raked her with his eyes, inhaling deeply and letting out a low wolf whistle, “body. For hurting your sweet, lovely heart.”
“I – ” she was melting, words escaping her. This was what she wanted for years. This Declan. And here he stood, tearing at every layer that stood between them, systematically destroying what needed to be destroyed.
“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “Why not take her last piece of advice?” He took one step closer, the tip of his penis brushing against her groin, the sheer bareness of him so fresh and appealing. Purely nude, completely without pretense, he waited for her to signal what came next.
“I love you, Declan,” she whined. She didn’t want to whine – it just came out that way. Two days of an emotional rollercoaster from hell and the reincarnation of something out of a Marquis de Sade book made her a weepy, whiny mess, quite suddenly. “I never met John. I never cared about him. He was just some nameless guy online. I don’t even know if he’s really a John or really who he says he was. For all I know he’s a 400-lb lesbian named Carla who is looking for love in allll the wrong places.”
He smiled, a tired grin. “Can we please just be together and stop all of this? Rebuild whatever we have and find our way back to that guy in a college frat and that girl who he adored?”
He cupped one breast, his mouth lingering at the curve of her neck, a warm, wet tunnel of lips and tongue and teeth that made her ache much lower. He reached for her, finding her soaked, and went serious. “You make me want to hide here for the next forty years and just be.” His entire body relaxed into her, an unfolding of trust.
Making love – good, pure, righteous love with kisses and murmurs and sighs, no butt plugs or Sybians or dildoes or strap ons and no Miss Sally – sounded like the best medicine for an ill marriage right now.
She needed to envelop him, to ride him, to be on top and to make him feel owned. Exerting control – exquisite, perfect control – she slipped out of her panties, tore off her bra, and climbed right on. No lube, no foreplay, no warmup needed; she slid down over his gloriously-thick shaft. He was hard and thick, and she groaned with fullness, her orgasm right there.
“I just want us to trust each other. I want to be your rock,” she moaned. A deep, unexpected kiss filled her as he sat up, adjusting her with a tilt of his hips, his cock hitting a spot so deep, so buried, she didn’t know it existed, bringing a wave of red-hot climax to the brink. He filled her, a fulfillment that was physical, sexual, as if the holy trinity of sex. Like a real hole being filled, taking every aspect of her as she pushed him back down and balanced herself on her knees, shoving her ass down with a slight hook, stroking her g-spot with his pole as she tongued his lips, nipping and tasting her Declan.
Using her haunches, she pulled out to the tip, and friction delightful, seeking out what she knew would be a more powerful orgasm than any before. But not because of their bodies, though his arms roamed her back, slid along the planes of her chest, cupped and nipped and stroked her. Massaging her breasts, he was shocking her whole body as she slid her ass up, changing her weight distribution. Her pussy walls clamped as she slid out to the end and shocked him with the force of her descent, slamming her hips into his as he, too surprised her with a rotation of his ass, his balls slamming into her taint.
“How could I have ever wanted anything but this,” he groaned. Slick juices covered the expanse of skin where they connected, the wetness joining with sweat and Declan’s smattering of hair to make their thrusts gritty, brutal, and so real she ached from the satisfaction of finding true communion with him. She was at a loss, the physical feelings too all-encompassing. She no longer had a coherent mind, just skin he stroked and nerve endings and her fullness.
She shoved her ass against his balls, the feeling so maddening and the force of his tip against her cervix making her scream. “Let go,” he whispered into her ear, knowing her so well, encouraging her with touch and sound. She clenched the bedsheets, her fists tightening, her pussy a swollen, hot mess ready to explode. A literal wave grew and crossed over, the wetness familiar as she ejaculated all over their laps, the juices sliding down his legs and all over the top of the leather couch cushions. She feared his disgust but it turned him on even more, making him grin and growl, then tense up as his orgasm, too, found its way home.
> And she screamed and screamed and wriggled and thrust back, nothing more than a wife making love with her incredible husband, their groans mixing to form one voice, their bodies in concert, spurting and exploring and coming together.
“Oh, oh, oh, Jen!” He stopped all words, she stopped thinking and her body tried so much to handle multiple orgasms, simple flesh too inept to know how to handle the writhing power of what they were creating, her voice sounding more like a prayer than an orgasmic woman having the best sex of her life.
He thrust and thrust, she thrust back, he stroked her belly, and teased, the pain exquisitely mixing with the sex and the explosion to make her scream something primordial, until the only feeling she had left was a blissful, drained feeling, all pussy and cock and Declan and them. Mercifully, just them.
Slowly, they released, little orgasmic aftershocks from parts of her she didn’t know she had, Declan’s cock filling her, as he leaned forward, keeping her in place, their wetness and his muscled body all she felt now. Her brain was empty, her cunt was exhausted, her muscles melting, completely satisfied.
“Sewer pipe,” she mumbled, sending Declan into a fit of exhausted, sated laughter.
“Elmo,” he replied.
“Elmo is your safeword?” she asked, looking at him in mock horror as she played with his hair.
“Yep. When the hell would I ever say Elmo? We don’t have kids,” he chuckled. Her mouth went dry and she pulled back, fear and chagrin and something else making her nearly mute.
“What, hon?” he asked, suddenly worried. “What’s wrong?”
Better to say it. Just say it. Just say it, Jen. “Uh, Declan, speaking of kids...”
He scrunched up his face in confusion. “Huh?”
“I stopped the pill last month.” She motioned to her uterus with a flourish, hoping comedy would help the situation. “I, uh, well, we weren’t having much sex, and it was giving me hormone problems, so...”
A tender look filled his eyes and he smiled a loopy, lop-sided grin. “Well,” he said, pulling her into his arms, “I guess I need to find a new safeword.”
“That makes two of us.”
He lifted his chin and mumbled, “What’s your new safeword?”
“'Miss Sally'. ’Cause I don’t ever want to hear her name again.”
The End
Pegging the Boss: Lindsay and Mark
Traffic was a bitch on I-95, and I knew I'd be late. Some dark-haired asshole who looked like an FBI-type in a Beemer and Oakley mirror sunglasses tried to cut me off when I was three cars away from the tollbooth as I eased off the turnpike onto the interstate. Came within an inch of my bumper. White hot rage shot through me, along with a flushed, hyper-alert sense. No way. I sat in this fucking line for 20 minutes and now Mr. Entitlement USA thinks he can cut me off?
He waved and shrugged, like he was oh-so-innocently asking for a small favor. I shook my head slowly, glad I was wearing sunglasses, too, because the red-hot death ray would have shot out my eyes and burned him to a gristled little crisp.
He smirked and shot forward, tapping my bumper. Fuck you, buddy. My car is crappier than yours and I am insured. You hit me, you're slumming.
I eased up and turned the wheel slightly to the left. No way I was hitting him. Ever vigilant, I made it so that in this game of chicken, I would win. Move an inch, take an inch. Like sex, I was doing to get what I wanted.
Right now.
He backed off and I moved forward, victorious. BAM! Take that. Someone with less determination than me right behind me let him in. I looked in my rearview mirror and realized he was flipping me off.
So I shot him the bird back. Fuuuuuuuuck you, dude.
And then he proceeded to follow me. Fine. Whatever. We were trapped in gridlock for the cloverleaf onto I-95, so I pulled out my makeup case. I always ran out the door a few minutes late, so I'd learned to prioritize. Powder, blush, mascara, lipstick. Done. I'm sure in a few years I'll need a hell of a lot more makeup, but at 21 the worst I need is a little undereye concealer if I party all night and come into work a little hung over.
Not true today, though. I got what I needed last night. My boyfriend, Darren, finally put out. That man has a tongue that could lick the moon if he really tried. Damn. Too bad he has to drink a six pack before he's willing to go down. My clit appreciated the effort, and it was a nice change from our boring, vanilla sex. I mean, missionary position is nice once in a while – what woman doesn't like to have a broad man's back to grab onto and scratch when she's screaming and coming like a freight train with a full load – but every single time?
If I climbed on top of him and rode his pole he practically yawned. Getting that tongue to flick my pussy took a ton of alcohol. And when I suggested using a strap-on last night, that had, apparently, been the last straw for poor old Darren. His baby blue eyes had bugged out of his head.
“Lindsay, you're nuts!” I'd never seen a person actually spring out of bed, but Darren managed it, naked and loopy from the beer. We hadn't even had intercourse yet; he'd finally gone down on me and I'd been moaning with pleasure just a few seconds ago.
“No – it's just a thought. I figured we could be adventurous.”
“By shoving a plastic dick up my ass?” Now he was scrambling into his jeans. He yelped – catching some pubes in his zipper as he rushed. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.
Ah, damn, I wasn't going to get his cock in me now, was I? “Well,” I crooned, climbing across the bed on all fours, letting my breasts dangle and rub against the sheets, sending tendrils of lust down to my increasingly-wet pussy, “everyone has fantasies, you know? I just thought I'd – ”
“No fucking way, Lindsay. I'm done. It's bad enough you want me to – ” he waved vaguely at my crotch – “put my mouth on, on that. But now you want to be the man and fuck me with a dildo you wear around your waist? You need to see a shrink.”
Now I was pissed. “If anyone needs a shrink, Darren, it's you. If you have to liquor up in order to, well, lick her up, then you might be gay. Go find a nice bar with men and explore a little. Have a nice life.” I'd been screaming the words as he walked down my apartment hallway and slammed the door just as I said the word “life.”
And that had been my night. The end of a weird 6 weeks with Darren.
So no undereye concealer today. I'd gotten off and ended a relationship. Today was about being reborn, cleansing myself, and just breathing. It was Friday and I had decided at the last minute, before running out the door, that I would go on a little trip, alone, to my parent's cabin in Vermont. Packed up some good erotic romance novels, my sex toy collection, and some Junior Mints, all neatly crammed into my laptop bag. Sitting in a cabin, watching porn and reading some good, raunchy shape-shifter crap was my idea of a cleanse.
This asshole in the Beemer kept following me as I pulled off the interstate and went down the back roads to the office.
And then pulled into my parking lot at work.
He parked in a spot right by the main door. The spot that said “Reserved for the Vice President of Marketing.”
I was the new marketing assistant.
Oh, shit.
The asshole in the Beemer was my boss. Mark.
All I was trying to do was get to work on time. The damn turnpike is always crowded, but there's always someone at the front of the line who will let me in. A $50,000 contract at work was at stake; if I was late and lost the client, I'd lose my job.
I drove up past the 40 or so cars in line and figured I'd edge in. And then I saw Lindsay, the new marketing assistant, in her little red compact car. Damn. It's like the universe read my mind. Just this morning the alarm clock had woken me out of a hot dream, with Lindsay the leading lady. She was only six years younger than me, and that auburn hair drove me wild. Were the silky curls leading to her womanhood auburn, too? Could my tongue blaze a trail through that blazing hair? My cock pushed against the zipper of my pants and I shifted in my seat.
Surely she'd l
et me in – she knew how important this client meeting was. I eased my dad's Beemer into place and tried to get ahead of her.
No dice. So I stared at her, hoping she'd recognize me. When she finally looked at me, her cool gaze turned me on even more. Rich hair the color of copper pipes, with painted lips so full they could take on my erect cock – and more. Her pert nose rested perfectly under a pair of sunglasses, skin the color of new milk. And I could see a hint of breast in her cleavage under the suit jacket she wore, unbuttoned and hanging under her seat belt. And beneath the steering wheel I knew those long, lean legs were pushing pedals, while my hand wanted to reach down, slide up her calf, over her thigh, and stroke her off.
My hand actually reached for my own damn thigh and nearly unzipped my pants and stroked off right then and there. Instead, I clamped down on my own steering wheel and smiled at her, then shrugged.
She shook her head “no.” Ah, come on! I shot her a nasty look and beeped my horn, a friendly tap. She turned away and grabbed her steering wheel.
So it was going to be like that, huh?
Winning games of “chicken” was my specialty. I tightened up and pushed forward, inches at a time, trying to get her to let me in. She fought back, though, and I tapped her with the BMW's bumper. My parents would kill me if I cracked it, though. I'd have to let Lindsay win.
This time.
She got through and I flipped her off reflexively, not even thinking about it, but she saw me and returned the bird. A flash of anger and arousal filled me like a balloon at a helium tank. Could she piss me off even more?
Could I want to fuck her even more?
We'd settle this at the office. Maybe it was time for a performance review for Ms. Lindsay. A very detailed, intimate performance review. And as long as we took care of things after hours, it would be fine.
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