by Tijan
“Famous couples.”
“Why don’t we go as royalty. That’s simple. Then I can wear a tux and you can wear a ball gown and everyone wins because you’re dressed in a costume.” He smiles as if he’s come up with the best idea in the world and picks his paper up again.
I round the table. Armstrong is in his typical bed wear: a white cotton T-shirt and a pair of cotton pajama pants. The shirt fits a little loosely instead of hugging his chest and arms. Although he has a lean build, so that’s part of the reason.
His dark blond hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck and hanging across his forehead. I run my fingers through it, pushing it back.
The unexpected affection catches him off guard and he sets his paper down again, looking up at me. I take the opportunity for what it is and sit in his lap. Neither of us has to be at the office early. There’s plenty of time for morning activities of the pleasurable variety. Draping an arm over his shoulder, I ask, “What royal couple would you like to go as?”
He settles a hand on my hip. “What about Kate and William?”
I finger the curls at the back of his neck. “Kate has dark hair and William is losing his.”
“Hmm.” His gaze dips down to the gape in my robe. I’m wearing a pale satin sheath. My nipples are very prominent. “What about Prince Charming and Cinderella? That should be easy. Or Sleeping Beauty and Phillip.”
It would be a little odd that Armstrong is so familiar with the names of the Disney princes and princesses if his aunts and uncles didn’t have children who were significantly younger than he is.
“Or we could just go as Ken and Barbie.” I mean it as a joke, obviously.
“Your breasts aren’t large enough for you to pull off Barbie.”
I’m about to push out of his lap, but he tightens his grip on my waist. “I didn’t mean that in a negative way. Yours fit nicely in my hands.” As if to prove his point he cups them. “If at any time you become unhappy with their size, we can always visit a cosmetic surgeon and have them augmented.”
“You want me to get a boob job?” Never has he ever mentioned being unsatisfied with the size of my breasts.
“No. No. Not now. They’re quite perky. I just mean down the line, if things should change and it’s something you want.” He pulls at the tie on my robe, pushing it over my shoulders. He traces the satin strap and brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric. “Yes. More than adequate, really.” From Armstrong, that’s a compliment.
I suck in a quick breath. Armstrong isn’t really a morning sex kind of guy. It messes with his routine, which he’s very particular about. But we have all this time. What’s fifteen minutes? A quickie. Something to take the edge off. And maybe this time I’ll come.
I push the strap over my shoulder, exposing the nipple. It tightens at the kiss of cool air. “Maybe we should get naked.”
“Right now?”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “We have the time.”
He nods slowly, absorbing this potential deviation from his morning ritual. “We do.”
I go in for a kiss and he turns his head. “I have coffee breath.”
“I like coffee.” I kiss my way over his chin.
“We should shower first.”
“Why bother when you’re about to get me all dirty, anyway?”
“You know how I feel about . . . freshness.”
If there’s a way to kill a mood, it’s referencing freshness. I used to find the pre-sex-shower ritual adorable. He’d be all wet and smelling fantastic. I’d join him in bed when I was done cleaning up. There would be a very sexy inspection. At least it used to be.
I heave a sigh, pull my strap back in place, and grab my robe from the floor.
“Are you going to shower?”
How can a man be so damn oblivious? “No, Armstrong, I’m not going to shower.”
“I thought we were going to have sex.”
“Apparently I’m not fresh enough.”
“What about a blow job?”
I whirl around. “Seriously?”
“I’m hard now.” He gestures to his lap.
“I guess you’ll have to figure out what to do with that then, because I’m going to be busy solving my own damn problems.” I stalk down the hall to his bedroom and root through my overnight bag. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. My travel vibrator. This sweet baby has gotten me through a few unsatisfying nights in the past few months. Now it’s going to take care of my morning problem, too, alone, in the bathroom.
* * *
I grab my earbuds and my phone and rush across the hall, through the spare bedroom, and into the private bathroom. Locking the door, I turn on the fan and strip out of my sheath. The mirror reflects my pink cheeks and my heaving chest. My boobs are nice. They’re not huge, but they’re certainly not small. They’re a very reasonable, ample C cup.
I slap my fake penis on the vanity, along with my phone and earbuds and grab the edge of the counter, trying to calm down. I’m really worked up, and not just in a clit-throbbing kind of way. The ability to come may very well be a challenge based on my level of irritation. But I’m going to try. Forget the shower-before-sex rule. Is it too much to ask for a little spontaneity?
I turn on the shower, not because I’m planning to get fresh for Armstrong, but to drown out the sound of my vibrator and hopefully the sound of my orgasm. I slip my fingers between my legs. I’m barely even wet. Which makes sense, because I’m more angry than I am turned on. My clit is almost as angry as the rest of me.
Snatching my plastic dick from the vanity, I decide the showerhead is going to be my friend. Sliding the glass door open, I’m mindful not to be too rough, since shattering it won’t help my situation, even if the destruction will make me feel good.
I am rough with the removable showerhead, though. Making sure the water isn’t too hot, I lift it from its resting place and lower it between my thighs, adjusting the stream so it pulses against my clit. The warm, direct pressure makes my eyes roll up. It’s almost like being licked, but better, more consistent.
Leaning against the tile I let the rhythmic pressure do its job. If I had my clit sucker this would be over in two minutes. My agitation is going to make this take longer, but that’s fine, I have time. Plenty of it.
Reaching for my vibrator—waterproof of course—I turn it on and slide the thick, warm plastic inside me. I don’t imagine that it’s Armstrong fucking me, because I’m too pissed off at him for that to help me get where I need to go, which is the land of Orgasmia.
The vibrations inside, combined with the warm pulse against my clit, cause my knees to buckle. “Fuck. Yes.” It echoes in the enclosed space, louder than I mean it to. But, God, it feels good. So good.
A knock at the bathroom door dulls the tingle spreading from the center of my body outward. “Amalie?”
I close my eyes tight and press the showerhead harder against my clit. Lowering myself to the floor of the tub I rock on the vibrator. And I moan.
“Darling? Are you crying?” Armstrong’s voice rises at the end with panic. “I’m sorry—” The doorknob rattles. “Why is this locked?”
I bite my bottom lip, picturing the confused expression on his face. His hard-on tenting his pajama pants. It makes me smile and brings me closer to the orgasm I’m chasing down. I groan as sensation builds in waves, water pulsing over my clit, streaming down my legs, and the buzz of the vibrator makes a heavy, tinny sound against the tub.
“What is that? Is that the pipes? Darling, are you okay?” The door continues to rattle.
I’m so close. So, so close. And knowing he’s on the other side of the door, unable to get to me, confused and unsatisfied, helps push me to the edge and hold me there. I move the showerhead a few millimeters to the right. “That’s it. Fuck me.”
I’m so engrossed in the pleasure that I fail to notice the silence on the other side of the door. The orgasm hits me, clit throbbing, muscles contracting hard
, waves of satisfaction sweeping through me, draining out my anger, replacing it with bliss. I chant the words fuck and oh god and yes over and over again.
A loud click is followed by an even louder bang as the door slams open. Armstrong stands at the threshold, one hand on the jamb, his expression morphing from panic to confusion to disbelief. “What’re you doing?”
The reflection in the mirror across the room draws my gaze away from his. His toned back flexes as his arm lifts, fingers running hard through his hair. Armstrong is a very attractive man. His features are regal, his body is toned, though not heavily muscled. He’s taken his shirt off, so I watch the sinew pull and tighten with his movements.
I look beyond him, to my own cloudy reflection. My expression is exactly the opposite of his, heavy lids and parted lips, satiety clear on my face. On my knees, legs spread with the showerhead still pressed firm against my pulsing clit. I drop it and turn off the faucet.
Rising up on my knees, I ease the vibrator out; the whirring grows louder, and then echoes through the room as I lose my grip and it drops into the tub, bumping its way across to the drain.
“Are you masturbating?” His incredulity is only offset by the lump in his pajama pants.
“Not anymore.” I grab the bar and pull myself up. The bottom of the tub isn’t very nice to my knees, which are a little on the wobbly side. But at least that took the edge off. I’m slightly less angry now.
“You were masturbating.” He blinks several times. It’s very strobe-like.
I don’t know why he’s so surprised. “Don’t you masturbate?”
His brow pulls down, causing a crease to form between them. I wonder if he knows that happens and whether it will make him want the Botox injections his mother is so fond of.
He lowers his hand to his crotch and strokes his erection through the fabric. “Well, of course, on the days I don’t see you, I take care of myself, when it’s necessary.”
I don’t know what that means. He’s in his twenties—late twenties, but still. I would think every day would necessitate a lone-love session to keep constant hard-ons from happening. But then I do have a higher drive than he does. Maybe he doesn’t need to come every day like I do. I suppose I’ll find eventually out if this is the case, once we’re married and living in the same space. And then maybe he too will want to have sex every day.
“But you—” he flails a hand in my direction. “I’m right here and you locked the door.”
I prop a fist on my hip, intent on making my annoyance clear. I don’t think I’m very convincing what with my being naked and wet from the waist down. “You turned me down. I wasn’t fresh enough, remember?”
“But you’ve showered now.” His expression grows serious. “I want you to come for me like that. Like you just did.”
“Guess you better get to work then.” I hold my arms out, inviting him to take on the challenge.
His face registers shock first. Then determination. Here’s an interesting thing about my fiancé. He cannot resist a challenge. I don’t know what it is that drives him, but when he’s taken to task over something, he likes to be the best at it. Which is part of the reason I initially faked a few orgasms. I think I suffered from orgasm performance anxiety, which drove his.
Also, sometimes the friction gets to be too much when the licking or rubbing becomes excessive. But I’m already primed. I’ve come once. The second time is always faster and easier. I might as well get something out of his current remorseful state.
He grabs me by the wrist and tugs me out of the bathroom, his strides purposeful as he brings me over to the bed. He quickly shoves all the pillows to the floor and turns down the sheets. The mattress sinks as I climb up and stretch out. Pajama pants drop to the floor. His erection bobs as he follows after me.
I keep my legs together. As intrigued as Armstrong might be by what he witnessed, he prefers demure to brazen. Warm, gentle fingers trail up my shins. When he reaches my knees he carefully pries them apart. I provide just a hint of resistance and he glances up. His tongue peeks out to wet his lip.
Armstrong is a gentle, considerate lover. Which is nice. It’s lovely to be worshipped. But sometimes I’d like to be ravaged. Fucked. Sometimes I’d like to be pounded into the mattress, sweaty and sticky with afterglow.
Sex with Armstrong is sweet and tender. There’s no profanity, no dirty talking, no ass slapping or hair pulling. When I whisper a quiet, accidental fuck his eyes lift with their telling disapproval. I censor my pleasure. I try to come. I really do. I get close, but it’s taking too long and I’m too preoccupied with watching my language.
So I fake it. I try to mimic what happened in the shower, but the censored, PG version. I need to figure out how to make this better for both of us. This is what I want. Armstrong is what I want. We’ll have a beautiful life together. He just needs to relax a little. It’s just going to take time; either that, or I’ll have to bury Anarchy Amie forever. And maybe I should, because all she ever gets into is trouble.
* * *
“Hold this for me.” The words are garbled as Ruby hands me a pincushion. She has three pins poised between her lips. It makes me nervous. I imagine her inhaling them and accidentally swallowing one.
She plucks one from between her lips and threads it carefully through the fabric, then does the same on the other side. “Can you do me a big favor and not lose any weight between now and the Halloween party?”
She’s well aware that this is not a promise I can make. We have two weeks to go, that’s fourteen days of hot yoga. As the party gets closer and my soon-to-be mother-in-law’s involvement in this event escalates, I become increasingly aware of how much more involved she’s likely to become with the wedding as the date approaches. It’s causing me stress. She’s already overly involved. You’d think it was her getting married, not me. So I’ve been doubling up on hot yoga sessions and cardio. I’ve accidentally lost four pounds in the last week and a half. I’ve been adding protein to my morning smoothie to make up for it, but to no avail.
Ruby pats my butt. “You’re going to look gorgeous.”
I smile. “The dress is going to look gorgeous.” The dress is stunning. How she’s managed to make an old costume from the basement of a now-closed theater into something so incredible is beyond me. Ruby has a hidden talent. She can sew. I think if she hadn’t been on the stage she might’ve been behind it, designing costumes. Her personality is too big to be confined though.
My dress is huge, blue, and puffy. It’s going to be incredibly uncomfortable. But I’m used to uncomfortable clothes. I can deal with it for an evening. I would’ve preferred to go as a more interesting couple, like Harley Quinn and the Joker, but Armstrong would never agree to color his hair green, even temporarily, so I’m stuck being Cinderella.
“Have you decided what you want to be?”
“I think I’ve narrowed it down. Wonder Woman is a strong contender, but I need to try on the costume and see what you think. It might be a little too . . . revealing.”
“Well now I really need to see it.”
“When I’m finished with you.”
“You can take a break from stabbing me to death with pins.” I nudge her in the direction of the bed, where all the costumes are laid out.
Ruby doesn’t seek privacy. We’ve seen each other naked probably more times than Armstrong and I have at this point. Which is a little disconcerting, but then Ruby and I have been friends for more than a decade and Armstrong and I have been together for less than a year.
She strips down to her underwear, which happens to be a lacy little thong in hot pink zebra print with little black bows at the hips. I miss wearing fun underwear. Armstrong thinks anything that isn’t pale lace or satin is trashy. I turn back to my reflection and my high coverage dress. I can’t move much or I’ll end up with more holes in my skin.
“Okay. Check it out.” She jumps in front of me.
“Okay. Wow.” Ruby has an unbelievable dancer’s body. It’s
almost infuriating how toned and muscular and just fit she is, especially with all the junk she’s constantly shoving in her mouth.
“Is that a good wow, or a bad wow?”
“Well, I suppose it depends. Your ass looks damn well fantastic, but I’m not sure Gwendolyn will survive seeing you in that. I’m also concerned that Bancroft will have zero blood flow anywhere in his body apart from his penis.”
“It rides a little high in the back, doesn’t it?” She checks out her own rear end in the mirror, wiggling it around a little.
“Just a wee bit.” Half of her butt is on display. While it definitely would’ve been something she’d wear to a party back when we were in college, there will be far too many influential people for either of us to attempt something quite so risqué.
She frowns. “I guess this is more like a bathing suit than a costume.”
“Or lingerie.” I’m sort of being sarcastic. Sort of not. I remember the way Bancroft reacted when she was in the fairy outfit. He couldn’t keep his hands off her the entire night.
“Oh my God! That’s a fantastic idea. Bancroft will go crazy.” She repositions me, still wearing the costume, and resumes the pinning. “I could do the same with the Harley Quinn costume if you want.”
“Don’t bother, it’s not really Armstrong’s thing.” I purse my lips at my accidental sourness.
“Don’t be silly. All men like lingerie. Even the Armstrongs of this world.”
“What does that mean?” I try to look at her over my shoulder and a pin digs into my side. “Ow!”
“Stop moving and I won’t stab you.”
I suck my teeth but turn around and remain still so I don’t bleed out before she even manages to alter the dress. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“What question?” she says distractedly.
“About the Armstrongs of this world.”
“He’s just a little uptight, right? Not much of an out-of-the-box guy from what I’ve seen. Traditional.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess.” That was a nice way to put it. Those things are what drew me to him initially. He was just so different from the guys I normally dated.