Now you watch him in repose and feel protective of this strong man with the lousy lungs. You know that if you slip into bed next to him he will probably reach for you, but what if he doesn’t? The possibility of humiliation sends a warm flush through your stomach and groin. In the suspended quiet you can feel your husband listening from the room next door.
Finally, you slip into bed and nestle into Mike’s back. You’re hyperaware of every creak and rustle, every sound a message to your husband. Mike shifts, still sleeping. You stroke his arm and press yourself against his ass. It’s enough. He stirs, then rolls around to face you, grabs your ass with one hand and reaches into your panties with the other. What are you doing? he asks, and it would sound like a reprimand if he didn’t already have a finger in your pussy. It’s OK, you say. He sent me in here, you say, your fingers combing through his hair, bringing him toward you. He kisses you hard and pulls you on top of him. He’s already pulled his cock out and it’s straining against your panties, which are damp from the two of you. When he squeezes your nipples, you gasp.3 He twists them harder and a drop of milk emerges. He pulls you down and licks the droplet, then bites the nipple. It almost sends you over the edge. You want to fuck him immediately, but guess that your husband has a blow job in mind, so you pull back and scoot down between Mike’s legs.
You grab his hips and breathe in the humid tang of his groin. You exhale softly and his cock twitches in response. You tongue his inner thigh, his balls, the length of his cock. The tip of his cock is wet, and you indulge in one full mouthful of him, pulling the whole length of him into your throat. He groans and grabs at the back of your head, forcing himself still deeper so that you can feel his balls against your lips. You pause, filled with all of it – the smell of Mike and the heat of his cock, the sound of your husband quietly masturbating in the other room, the memory of having your husband in your mouth just an hour before. It’s dirty, and it’s love.
You slowly pull Mike’s cock out of your mouth and shift down to suck on his balls. The skin is smooth-soft and papery; his balls are firm but he resists keeping them in your mouth. You can’t remember if he likes this, but as he pulls your head closer you know it’s OK. You’re squirming and would have fucked and come already if it weren’t for your husband, who deserves whatever experience he’s craving. You grip Mike’s hips and run your tongue along the length of his cock. He grabs your head, pushes himself deep into your mouth. His hips gyrate as his cock reaches into the depths of your throat. He pulls out, plunges back in, over and over, his hands gripping your hair, fiercely pulling your head into his groin.
Then he pulls your head up and looks in your eyes. He pulls you to him slowly and kisses you. The kiss has the silkiness of his pre cum. It’s a slow deep kiss, all tongue and teeth.
Suddenly, he’s pulling you up off him, and flipping you onto your back. He hovers over you and his eyes say: Yes. The head of his cock presses against your cunt, which is slick and swollen. He stares into your eyes while he slowly pushes himself into you. He pulls your hair hard as he moves deeper and deeper into your cunt. It’s excruciatingly slow and you tilt your pelvis up to take in more of him. When he slips a finger into your anus, you moan. He begins to rock into you, faster and faster, until he is pounding you so hard that your body is all pain and heat and desire and you, who are so used to keeping sex quiet so as not to wake the children, lose yourself completely.
After, you kiss and you make your way back to the living room. You are sweaty and achy and filled with Mike’s cum. You lie down next to your husband, who slips a finger, then another, and another into your cunt. You reach down and slide in one of your own fingers alongside his. You kiss and grope and he fingers you until you both start to lose focus and fall asleep.
In the morning, your husband nudges you onto your stomach, spreads your legs, places his finger in your mouth, pushes your head down into the cushions, and fucks you. You come quietly, then drift back to sleep.
When you wake up, the two of them are at the kitchen table. The French press is drained, but your empty cup is set out. Their hushed tones abruptly end as they both meet your gaze and stand up to make another pot.
1 Actually, you try to smoke a joint, but between the three of you no one remembers how to roll a proper one. So you improvise a pipe.
2 Followed by another act, your husband coming on your ass. Neither scenario is good for the children to stumble upon, but you’re stoned and happy enough to feel like they’d survive the experience and even possibly go on to be productive adults.
3 You hear a faint echo of this gasp from the other room.
From INTRUSION
Charlotte Stein
Charlotte Stein is the acclaimed author of over thirty short stories, novellas and novels, including the recently DABWAHA nominated Run To You. When not writing deeply emotional and intensely sexy books, she can be found eating jelly turtles, watching terrible sitcoms and occasionally lusting after hunks. She lives in West Yorkshire with her husband.
He gets more daring after that. Not by much at first, but enough to make everything just that little bit more electric. His hand might brush my ass when we kiss, and he has absolutely no problem telling me to touch myself when I get to that overheated point. I even suspect he’s starting to like it. That this is a nice, safe space for him to have some kind of sexual experience. He drives me to the brink of insanity...
And then I just take the edge off, while he watches.
Because he does watch now. I can tell that his eyes are open for himself, as much as they are for me. The idea of someone looking at me as I do the lewdest thing possible is starting to excite me, and the more it excites me the better he seems to enjoy it. He makes comments without prompting, and sometimes his voice doesn’t seem so detached.
Or is that just my imagination? Mostly I think it must be – I’m in no fit state to judge by the time he starts talking. Sometimes, I feel like my skin is about to burn off my body. My face gets so red and so flushed I could almost call the cause embarrassment.
If it didn’t feel so good at the same time.
Everything feels good with him. Even his most innocuous offers make me shiver – like the offer to let me lean against him while I stroke my clit. “Just lie back,” he says, and I do. “Just let yourself relax,” he says, and I do that, too.
“Take your panties down,” he says.
Though he really doesn’t have to. The moment the words are out they practically melt right off me. I freeze in the middle of what I’m doing – just sort of barely stroking underneath the material, primed from a kiss that had a lot of tongue and a ton of moaning in among it – and try to think. I need to get my mind in order, because seriously. Did he just say that?
Of course, I can tell he likes to direct me a little. But usually the direction is aimed at making it better for me. It skirts the edge of whatever he might want, never quite crossing that line. Most of the time, it seems like he never wants anything at all – but this, this, this. It means he wants to see, right?
He knows I kind of like to be covered up, to hide myself just a little – even from my own eyes. But somehow he seems to be asking anyway.
So what should I think here?
Apart from, oh my God, that is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me?
And then he goes and says it again.
“Take them down,” he says. “And open your legs a little.”
I swear, I come so close to looking at him. The urge is enormous – I would kill to see the look on his face right now. But I fear that any slight movement might break this spell, and I don’t want it to. I don’t care why he wants me to do this. No long-held streak of shame is standing in my way. How could it possibly when he asks for so little and gives so much?
When I feel so safe, lying here in his arms?
Not to mention how arousing it is to ease those little cotton things down over my thighs. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, trembling and terrified, standing on the brink of so
mething I’m sure will be so amazing. That newfound thrill is back, and it makes my breath hitch. I fumble with the elastic and shake at the thought, and when I’m done my legs don’t really want to part.
But I part them anyway.
And I look, even though I’ve never looked before. I see how wet I am and how swollen, my clit like a taut little bead between soft, flushed folds. Nothing horrible about it, or shameful in any way – on the contrary. The sight makes me shiver, and I get this good hot bloom in my lower belly, and when he strokes the back of his hand over my cheek, I do something I would never have dared to before.
I kiss his fingers. I lick his fingers – which seems like way too much for me. As soon as I realize what I’ve done, I expect him to pull back or put a stop to things. He did the other night when the kissing got a little too much, and his hand strayed kind of close to my backside. But this time he doesn’t.
He lets me do it.
More than that, in fact.
“Bite down,” he tells me, the request so sudden and so strange that I do a double take. I even turn my head to ask – or maybe give him an incredulous look – and stop short only when he gets there before me. He reiterates in no uncertain terms, with a little added extra just to make sure I understand.
“Sink your teeth in while you stroke yourself,” he says.
How could I possibly misinterpret? He even turns his hand so I know where he means, and the moment I do it I know what he really meant. He wasn’t trying to please me.
He was trying to please himself.
He was obviously and completely trying to please himself. I can tell by the way he reacts – I bite and he kisses the side of my face in a manner completely unlike him. His mouth is all open and hot and greedy, and the hand he has on my waist definitely seems to move up a little. Some might even categorize it as groping the underside of my right breast.
Though I try not to. It seems better not to get my hopes up, considering they’re already sky-high. He’s kissing me and saying things, and my hand is between my legs... what more do I need? Nothing, nothing, and yet when I bite down again I get why I’m doing it.
I want to see what happens.
I want to see if that hand will move up a little farther, if his guard will drop down another level, though it shocks me to feel him actually do it. To hear him sigh against the side of my face and just ever so slightly cup my breast with that one big hand...
It makes me wild. Suddenly I can’t seem to stroke myself fast enough, and my hips don’t want to stay still. He doesn’t even have to tell me to fuck my pussy – I do it all on my own. I slide two fingers in as deep as they will go, and rock against that delicious pressure. I do myself the way I want him to do me.
And in my most excited moments, I come close to telling him that. I think of filthy ways to ask and words that I could never actually say to him – like use and cock and fill me. I think of him coming inside me, making me sticky and wet, and all over the barest touch I’ve ever had on my body.
I still have most of my clothes on. He doesn’t even graze my stiff nipple.
Yet somehow, I’m at this delirious point where all my boundaries suddenly don’t exist. Thinking of him making a mess of me is really the least of my wild fantasies. I imagine his tongue where my finger is, making slippery circles around my stiff clit. And when he gets a hold of my face, when he kisses me as the pleasure reaches some terrible crisis, I see myself doing the same to him.
I kiss him, and kiss him, and think about sucking his cock.
But can I really be blamed when he asks me things like, “Are you going to come?” He even looks me right in the eye as he says it, watching me in that assessing way of his, waiting for some spark of telling pleasure. The second it hits he will know, I think – and I’m right.
“That’s it, that’s it – go on, honey, take it, take it,” he says, at the exact moment I feel my orgasm start to bloom low down in my belly. Then just as it really takes hold – as every muscle in my body tenses and a thousand trapped moans and sighs press up against my gritted teeth – he does the thing that always pushes me higher.
He puts his hand over mine. He presses my slippery fingers over my clit, just as the pleasure gets kind of scary and I want to pull away. In truth, I’m desperate to pull away – any more of this and I’m going to make some really awful noises.
Never mind screaming – I need to grunt.
But he keeps it going. He carries on until I’m almost sobbing, drenched in sweat and near delirious, each thick pulse of pleasure so intense I want to tell him to stop. Instead, I find myself begging him to carry on. I babble about how good he makes me feel and how much I like this, always edging closer to words I know I shouldn’t say.
What difference will it make if I do? He knows he can have me if he wants to. He can see how much I want to – so no offer is going to tempt him. He’s incapable of being tempted, if this isn’t enough to put him over the edge. I was practically a nun before I met him and look at me now: legs spread, pussy all glistening with my excitement, body arched as though someone just fucked into me.
*
No, no... he will never, he won’t, he can’t, I think.
And then just as I’m sure – that’s when I feel it.
I feel his hard cock against the curve of my ass.
*
I promise myself I won’t try testing any theories out. Yet the second he kisses me goodnight sometime around eleven the next night I just want to go for it. He had an erection, I know he did, and if he had one that means I did something to make it happen. Or he did something to make it happen. Maybe both of us together made it happen, in which case I simply have to find the right combination and I could give him some of the same things he’s given me.
He makes me feel so sexually free. Not to mention satisfied.
And if all I have to do to help him is maybe bite him a little bit... well, I can do that. Of course I have no idea if the bite was the reason. The only thing that makes me think so was that urgency in his voice and the memory of his reaction. Neither is evidence of anything.
But I can’t see any harm in trying.
He kisses me, I turn my head a little and just... nip him a little. Just enough to get a reaction, if he’s willing to offer one. And to my great delight and overwhelming excitement, he is. He doesn’t even hesitate or shift gears slowly. His hand immediately goes to that danger area it was in the other day – right on the underside of my left breast.
Maybe even squeezing it a little, if I’m being completely honest.
Though that isn’t what excites me exactly. I don’t flush hot and fire up for the cupping of it or the sense that he kind of wants to try me out – maybe get a little taste of my plump tits so he can consider them later. No, no, it’s the heat that rolls off him. The fever he seems to descend into. I graze him with my teeth and his lips part, his lids lower, most of him goes all loose and lax.
I want to call it something silly, like horniness.
Yet somehow, it doesn’t seem silly at all to do so. A great gush of sensation goes through me the second I think of it. Horny, I think, eager, I think, like some teenage boy suddenly set free, and my pussy swells against my already damp panties. My clit jerks, as though he has a little string around it and just tugged, hard.
Really, it’s no wonder I pant his name. Or rub myself against him. Or go straight from mild kissing to wild moaning in under thirty seconds. I think somewhere in there I call him baby, which seems completely at odds with everything he is.
But it feels good to do it.
And he appears to have no objections. On the contrary – as soon as the word is out he goes up another level. He claims my mouth with his, and when even that isn’t enough he pushes me back. He pushes me back onto the bed and puts my arms above my head.
Not in a forceful way, you understand. He kind of laces his fingers with mine and shifts almost as though the whole thing is a mistake. But I feel it all the same. I know it for what i
t is. He wants to get as close to the moves as possible, without really doing them at all. Tiny little rolls of his hips that echo the wild hump of a good fuck. Hands together the way that every limb on our bodies probably would be, if we went for it.
And that hot, wet mouth.
God, does he know how hot and wet his mouth his? How soft those lips are, with just that background hint of his thick stubble...
That alone would be enough.
But then I feel it, oh, fuck, I feel it against my thigh. So thick and hard and completely unmistakable. He definitely has an erection, and, good Lord, that knowledge is so much more intense than I thought it would be. I was sure I processed it the other day, but now I know I didn’t at all. I still imagined it might be nothing.
I still thought he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or that it was just wishful thinking.
And as soon as I have conclusive evidence I go all still. I pause midkiss, doing my best not to rub or press at that solid shape but wanting to more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. The very idea of doing it gets me groaning. I say his name and it comes out with twenty syllables, and when I pull back just a little way and see it...
That’s the moment I lose the rest of my control.
I mean, obviously I try to hold on to myself. I kind of look without really looking, so he won’t be made uncomfortable by my goggling eyes. And I don’t loudly exclaim, or start asking a bunch of awkward questions, or tear his pants off immediately and hump him into oblivion. But I can’t deny how intense the urge is to do all of those things.
Just the sight of it cleaves my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I think I start shaking, and I know I wish for him to be wearing anything but what he actually has on. If he was in something more modest I could probably deal with it a little better. Jeans would probably help – or at least help more.
Sweatpants are a fucking nightmare.
Why did I never realize what a nightmare they are? I suppose they usually seem so innocuous and innocent, on any other random gym-going person. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen a guy hard while wearing that soft, jersey-like material? I can’t say for sure. I only know it looks... it looks... oh, it looks...
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