I look down and cringe at my ugly nursing bra and the full brief underwear I bought on a whim because my pre-pregnancy underwear still doesn’t fit—it might never again—and the thought of wearing sexy lace that’s too tight anyway just to hang around the house doesn’t make any sense. “I would have worn better underwear if I’d known.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I think you’re beautiful in everything.”
When I look up at him, I know he’s telling the truth. I see all that love and arousal in his eyes, but just in case that’s not enough, I can also see the heavy bulge of his growing erection in his trousers. That wasn’t there before, and I can barely remember the last time I saw it, clothed or bare.
I take my underwear off quickly before I lose my nerve. Then I lick my lips. “Are you going to get undressed?” I ask nervously.
“Not this time,” he says and for some reason those three words make me shiver.
He starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, slowly, and I watch him, mesmerized. My body warms. Maybe it’s the heat; we keep the house warmer now for Mae. Maybe it’s embarrassment because I’m fully naked in front of him for the first time since I gave birth, and he can see all the ways pregnancy has changed my body. Or maybe it’s just lust, pure and simple.
He folds his sleeves neatly up his forearms and then reaches for the vibrator.
I raise my eyes in confusion, and he smiles. “I’m going to wash it first. Lay down,” he says.
“I can do it,” I say. I’m not sure why. I think I just need something to do, something to take my mind off of this moment. And Damon knows me so well that he probably knows that.
“So can I,” he says. “Lie back. Relax. This won’t take long.”
It doesn’t, not really, but I swear hours pass as I lay naked on my back in the middle of the bed, listening to the bathroom faucet turn on and off. I’m clutching the small bottle of lube to my chest like a lifeline.
“It’s okay,” Damon says when he steps back into the bedroom. I turn and see him wiping the small vibrator off with a towel. It’s a strange sight. I’m nervous but also excited.
He moves to the foot of the bed and toes off his shoes. I look down my body, and startle at the new contours of this angle. My breasts are heavier now and they droop toward my armpits. My stomach is smaller than when I was pregnant but bigger than it was before. It’s softer than it used to be too. But I can see my toes again, and that’s where Damon starts, smiling up at me as he kisses each one.
I giggle. I’m ticklish and he knows it. I have to drop my head back onto the pillow and breathe through the tears that form in my eyes. My hormones are still all over the place.
Damon kisses slowly up my shins, using his hands to massage my calves. He places a small peck on each of my knees and then drags his tongue up the crease of my legs, but he keeps his hands on my outer thighs, pressing my legs together even though I want to open up for him. He’s not in a rush, not even after all this time, and it’s yet another reason to love him, yet another reason to breathe through tears.
I look again when I feel his tongue move over the curve of my lower belly. I vaguely remember wanting to watch him lick these stretch marks, and he’s giving me my wish. His eyes are on me as he traces each light brown mark from my hips over the curve of my stomach and back again.
I squirm underneath him. I want him to touch all of me.
He’s still smiling at me, but it’s different now, hotter and intimate. His mouth meets his hands under the curve of my breasts and he cups them gently, but when he rubs his thumbs over my nipples, I flinch.
“Sorry,” he says quickly.
“It’s okay, they’re just . . . you know, still sore.” They’re not as bad as they used to be when I first started breastfeeding, cracked and painful, but like every other part of my body, they’re not the same.
For a second, Damon looks left and right, terrified, searching for a way out of this moment. My mood starts to sink, and no amount of deep breaths will stem these tears.
But then his eyes catch on my left hand. It takes a second for me to remember that I’m holding the lube in a death grip. He moves his hand to mine and cups it. “Can I?” he asks.
I nod and release even though I’m not entirely sure what he’s asking me. I watch with more than mild curiosity as he tears the plastic seal off the cap and then tries to pour some into his hand. He rolls his eyes and then unscrews the cap. I watch him struggle to get the seal over the spout open.
“Give it here,” I say, sitting up.
He moves from above me so that I can sit up fully and then hands it over. Our breaths sound loud in our quiet room as I grab the tab with my nails, pull the piece of thin plastic open, and then hand the bottle back to him. I have to scoot to the edge of the bed to throw it away, but then we’re back on track.
Damon crawls back on top of me when I lie down. He pours a bit of lube onto his fingers and then carefully moves his hands back to my breasts.
I don’t want to, but I brace myself for his touch. This time it’s good and I exhale with a soft moan. He doesn’t pinch or pull, just circles them with the pads of his fingers and rolls them back and forth.
I feel that tightening and clenching in my stomach, and my hips begin to circle again. Soon enough, I’m panting and moaning. This is the best I’ve felt in ages.
“Is that okay?” His hands still.
I put my hands on his thighs and squeeze. “Yes,” I whisper. “Keep going.”
His face is flooded with relief again, and it’s hard not to feel the same. I wonder if this is it, if this is all we needed, but as soon as I think that, I realize that it’s not. I might be aroused, but there’s no slick wetness between my legs, no warmth flooding my sex.
My brow begins to furrow with frustration, but Damon cuts off that turn in my mood when he lowers his mouth to my breasts. When his tongue joins his fingers over my nipples, I groan so loudly that I’m worried I’m going to wake Mae. And so is Damon. We both stop and turn our heads to the baby monitor on the bedside table and wait. His fingers and mouth are still on my breasts but we’re both frozen in fear as we stare at the small device, hoping she’s still asleep.
The whole situation would have been comical if this moment hadn’t been preceded by so much emotional turmoil.
After a few tense moments, Damon’s fingers begin to move again. He licks all over my breasts and nipples with careful swipes. I cup the back of his head, desperate to hold on to this feeling, willing it to continue to grow, because we’ve been here before. My body still wants him, but no amount of foreplay can seem to get us to my finish line. I worry that this is all there will ever be now—just a slowly growing desire that fizzles to nothing— and not for the first time I’m overcome with frustration.
But then Damon moves to lay at my side and traces his hand over my stomach.
His fingers graze over my mound and I spread my legs. His slick fingers skim over my lips, the lube making up for my dryness. They glide where they should, and the chafing I was terrified about seems like a distant memory. My hips shoot up from the bed, and I cry out before clapping a hand over my mouth.
“Oh god, yes. Yes,” I whisper, softly cupping my abandoned breast as he licks at the other and rubs my pussy with the gentlest touch.
I feel his lips over my chest and up my neck, and then on mine. I open my mouth and let him push his tongue inside. The fake vanilla taste of the lube is...not my favorite, but I don’t care. None of it matters when I feel closer to an orgasm than I have in nearly seven months; when that electric feeling is so intense, I’m pumping my hips up and down trying to get Damon’s fingers inside me.
“You ready?” he whispers against my lips.
I nod. Desperate. Eager. I so am, but I whimper when he takes his mouth and hands away.
He smiles down at me. I pant up at him. I’m so ready.
I watch him grab the vibrator and the bottle of lube and then crawl to the foot of the bed. I open my th
ighs and bend them at the knee as he settles his face right in front of my pussy. He pours some lube onto the tip of the vibrator and then spreads it down the small cylinder.
“I got you,” he says to me. I believe him. I love him.
He leans forward to place a quick kiss to my clit, and I groan. His thumb covers my clit. I moan loudly again as he strums it like a guitar string, plucking to create a sensual ballad. He lowers his head and begins to lick my lips, tasting my pussy, with new artificial vanilla flavoring.
Soon enough, my hips are circling and I’m groaning loudly again, my desire cresting toward the unknown. But I still when I feel the cool tip of the vibrator at my opening.
“It’s okay,” he lifts his head to say, his beard glistening from the lube.
I nod and he lowers his mouth, replacing his thumb with his lips. He suckles at my clit and pushes the vibrator inside of me. I have to cover my mouth with both hands to muffle my scream. “Oh my God.”
Damon moves the vibrator slowly in and out. I watch him suck and fuck me as he watches me come as close to undone as I’ve gotten since I gave birth.
Then he turns the vibrator on, and I’m gone.
My head falls back to my pillow and my hands grab at the comforter beneath us. The vibrations ripple from my sex throughout the rest of my body in gentle waves that get more and more intense as Damon plays with the settings, trying to figure out which ones I like, which ones make me shudder or whimper, which ones make me scream.
I’m too far gone to care if I’m being too loud. My entire body is shaking, and my eyes are rolling around in my eye sockets.
“Fuck, I’m close,” I eventually gasp around a deranged laugh, because I am. I’m closer than ever. I’m almost there. For real this time.
Damon doesn’t respond. Unless the hard suction of his mouth and turning the vibrator all the way up is a response. I think it is.
And my orgasm is another kind of answer, a grateful and relieved thank you. I shout and then groan so loud and long, I wonder if I’ll ever stop. My back bends, and my left foot lifts from the bed a few inches before I freeze in orgasmic rictus. My muscles spasm, every single one. I feel the comforter rip. I don’t care, because I’m finally coming, ripping open at the seams like our comforter.
When I finally stop, I’m shaking and I have to push Damon away. My entire body hurts. But it’s a great hurt. It’s a relieved hurt.
Damon’s hovering over me, half of his face wet with lube and a huge smile on his mouth.
I want to tell him how amazing I feel and thank him properly, but I just smile back at him and pass out instead.
We’ll have to buy a bigger bottle of lube and more toys, but I’ll tell him that when I wake up and come again.
BELTS HAVE TONGUES
Velvet Moore
The slicing sound of the knife blade echoes in my ears, remembering how you honed the edge between water stones, dimpled and rough.
I picture the tension in your forearm, the way the muscles lengthen and contract, like when you grip my wrist and force my hands above my head in bed.
This particular instance of seduction took place outside of the bedroom, and quite unexpectedly at that. I had wanted ice cream for dessert; you insisted on something healthier. We settled on pineapple.
With precision, you sharpened the blade before slicing the fruit’s tortoise-like skin, the sweet, tropical smell pouring from each slash. I’m so glad I watched you.
I lick my lips remembering the taste of the sticky, sugary juice as you slipped a slice between them, lingering at the tip of my tongue, a perfect bite.
Ding!
The sound of the hotel elevator reaching my floor yanks me from the memories of dinner before I left. Two days into this trip and I’m longing for home. I push off the elevator wall I had been leaning against and maneuver past the others headed to the upper floors.
I trudge to my room, my pace slow partly due to fatigue and partly because I’m uneager for what’s next. The worst part about traveling alone is having dinner alone.
I push open the door to my room and dodge the small, black trashcan in the entryway that I forgot to put back in the bathroom. I deposit my shoes, jacket, and purse upon and below the chair in the corner and toss the door key on the dresser, below the television. The items join existing piles of clothes, makeup, and receipts accumulated during travel.
You would be unimpressed. If you were here, the dresser drawers would be filled with the guts of your luggage, each item meticulously positioned for convenient access.
Here I am, life spilling over.
Well, just fuck it. There’s something about staying in a hotel room alone that’s permissive. I decide I’m allowed to ignore the decorum that routine life demands, despite what you would think. Hotel rooms offer a break from reality.
Ignoring the inevitability of dining alone, my stomach interrupts and I am hungry for more than the memory of our dinner together. I see the room service menu on the top of the sheets and head toward the bed. How bad is it really to eat dessert first I wonder, a thought that is quickly interrupted by an angry step.
Hidden beneath a towel on the floor by the bed is a belt, its buckle propped crooked like a tumbled boulder. Unexpectedly, I heave the weight of my step onto it, sounding in a crunch of the belt and an expletive from me.
I sharply suck air through my front teeth, hop, and balance precariously on one leg and curse, fueled by surprise and pain. This interruption was not on the menu.
The pain in my arch subsides enough to return my foot to the ground, and I regain balance. Fatigue has shifted to impulsive irritation, and I seek revenge. I dig my fingers into the rubble and grab the belt by its copper head, eager to punish the offender. It snaps back.
I’ve given it enough momentum to fling upward into the air, but close enough for the tip to catch the top of my inner thigh, singeing a kiss of fire along my skin.
Fucker.
How quickly things have gone south unexpectedly.
Unexpected is not unfamiliar. The lick of fire on my skin isn’t foreign, having before been smacked with a belt on my thighs, my ass, my pussy.
It’s one of your favorite indulgences, in fact. You may not have a sweet tooth, but you have one hell of a craving for a leather strike. Strip me down, bend me over, and whip repeatedly. Yes, please, may I have another?
Still, tonight’s unexpected singe caught my senses off guard. The balance is off when a lover isn’t on the other end of the belt. Unlike strikes from you, tonight tides bubble more toward pain than pleasure. Despite that fact, my brain whispers of sensory dusted memories of sexual past.
I remember the room service menu, and I sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the belt next to me. I open the menu and scan the pages. Reading is possible, but comprehension is not. I’m distracted.
Panini and pasta. Mac and cheese. On my knees. Dick du jour.
My thoughts are jumbled, as untidy as my belongings. Dinner mixes with memories mixes with the sensation on my thigh from the tango with the belt. I’m not yet focused enough for dine-in ordering. I’d rather be eaten out.
The menu sails to the bed as I give up and toss it. It lands insecurely on top of the belt, which is enough to throw the menu off-balance and push it to the floor.
I sigh.
This belt is certainly interested in making itself known. Maybe we should get to know each other.
I pick up the belt and hold it at arm’s length, gripping the shining buckle by the neck, allowing the long, black strap to hang slack. I admire its reach before gripping the end and wrapping the free end twice tight around my wrist.
I push my skirt up to my waist and hold my tethered hand between my legs, knuckles of my fingers press firmly along the length of my clit. My mind focuses on the pressure through my tights and through my panties. I unfurl the length, with the weighty buckle reaching toward the floor, like a sprawling cock hanging its swelling head.
I imagine how it must feel to have a cons
tant hanging strap of flesh come alive with the rub of a palm. See its thick, buckled head rest its weight between your thighs. Feel the pleasurable pinprick-like tremble as your hand passes along its length and squeezes.
I stand and admire my reflection in the mirror across the room. I look like a ceiling fan with my skirt bunched above my hips and cord hanging down. I flick my hips back and forth, the belt swaying between my thighs, like a chiming clock.
I chuckle at the sight. This is fun.
I shimmy to the mirror to get a closer view. “I would get down on that,” I think to myself, posing sideways for a more extensive view.
A few more glances this way and that, before I notice that my hand is tingling from having the strap wrapped too tightly. I pause my posing and unwrap the belt.
Despite the shift, I’m not done with this belt. It reminds me too much of you.
I pull tight a few inches of the strap and bite down on it, the edges pushing back the corners of my mouth. My molars press against soft leather, and I open-mouth-breathe earthy flavors.
Belt biting has always been an effective way to distract from pain, so I introduce some by snaking a free hand into my bra and squeezing my nipple. Nerves must get lost in translation, running from nipple to clit, because pain triggers pleasure, and I moan. I clench my teeth tighter so the belt doesn’t slip from my mouth and free up the other hand for symmetrical squeezing. My hips auto-grind into an invisible force behind me, and I mourn the lack of reciprocal pressure.
I’m fucking horny.
Clothes have become cumbersome and have to be dealt with. I stand straight and pull the belt from my mouth; I drape it across the back of my neck and over my shoulders, a rawhide boa. Zippered teeth part as I undo my skirt and remove it, seconds later piling tights and panties on top. I unclasp my bra, careful to not let the belt slip from my shoulders, and I wrestle as straps tangle with straps, belt against bra. Soon, a defeated brassiere joins the textile heap, and I step back to leave it all behind.
All but the belt. That comes with me back to bed.
I lie back against the mattress and clench the belt in my hand again. Closing my eyes, I focus on the windy sound of my nasal inhaling and slowly puff air through pursed lips. I snake my hand upward, the belt tickling the inside of my thighs as it ascends.
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