Sinful pleasure

The back storm door creaked on its hinges and fell closed with a crack. The actual door came behind it with a room-shaking thud. His slow stride. Boots thudding against the floor.

For just a second, she had the thought what if it's not him? What if it's not her husband? What if a stranger has made their way into her home, found her like this, what if—

He was finally in the room with her. She heard his sharp intake of breath, the pleasing hum that followed. The heat of his body as he crossed the room and bent over her. Devoid of sight, it was like everything else, every other sense had been cranked up beyond 100, beyond normal. She could smell him. Not his cologne, but the laundry detergent they used. Faintly, his deodorant. She could sense the gentle examination he gave her. First one side of her body and then the other.

With pressure that made her gasp, he pressed the pad of one finger to her sternum. Traced a line first down, between her breasts. Just having him that close they felt heavier, hotter, her nipples standing at aching points, already begging for his touch. His finger ventured back up, bringing a shiver along with it. It went first left and then right, smearing through the lipstick on her chest. It read, in big letters: USE ME.

She'd used a bright red lipstick. It had come out in a slightly wobbly hand, but her own message was clear too: however you want, as much as you'd like. Any doubt that the man in front of her might not be her husband was erased when he laughed. She would know that laugh anywhere. Even when it was a rasping, dark, mocking thing.

"Cute," he said. "I think I'll take you up on that."

He squeezed her nipple, making her yelp, then pant as he grabbed her whole breast, fingers tightening so she could finally feel the leather. Her instructions, delivered hours before, had been simple: Get ready. Wait for me. And now, he was here, his touch against her skin. Gloves. He was wearing gloves. The leather was smooth and supple as he played with her, as he pinched harder and harder until she arched toward him, gasping already, unsure whether she wanted to ask him for more or ask him to stop.

"Oh, don't make all that noise," he said, voice too sweet. "I thought I had an open invitation?" She whimpered and he said something that sounded suspiciously like so dramatic.

He let go of one and moved to the other, giving it the same treatment, manhandling her until she was lightheaded, and on the verge of tugging at his wrist. He released her just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, and gave each of her nipples a slap.

"There. A matching set."

She felt like she was vibrating from the inside out. It was already so much. Trying to figure out what he might do next with no indicators, no warning. Just shaky excitement.

His fingers closed around her throat, tilting her head up by the jaw. Kissing her. Really kissing her. Taking the kisses from her mouth. Nipping, sucking, stolen things that made her reach for him. She wrapped her hands around his neck to pull him deeper. To taste more of him. He indulged her for just a moment before chuckling against her lips.

"Alright, desperate girl, alright. Open your legs. Let me see you." It was like her thighs fell open of her own accord, she was so eager for him. He hummed again.

"Desperate and messy. I can see how wet you are from here."

She murmured her surprise when he took another kiss from her unready mouth. It was an exercise in trust as she went pliant when he tilted her body backward, pulling her ass to the edge of the cushion.

There was no warning when he slid not one, but two fingers inside her. That was okay. She didn't need one. She was sopping, dripping. He usually did this to help her along, to fuck her open, to ready the way for his cock. But even he makes a slightly surprised sound at how easily his fingers find their way inside her. How deep, so quickly.

"How long have you been wet like this?"

"All day," she whispered.

He made a tutting noise. "Poor thing. Be quiet and let me help."

She's had this version of his help before. He played with her cunt like it was just that: a plaything. A toy. Like it was something that existed to fascinate him. Or, at least, that's what he pretended, what they both pretended. In reality, the way he moved his clever, skilled fingers was premeditated torture. He knew her well enough to make this hard on her. To bring her to the edge long enough to make her think he was really going to let it happen, that he was really going to make her come.

All before pulling away and taking her release with him.

"Listen to you," he said, voice dark and devilish. "Can you hear yourself whimpering? Begging?"

She shook her head. As if she could have focused on anything other than the feelings of his fingers moving inside her.

"That's a shame," he said slowly. Each of the words stretched long with a hint of saccharine menace. "Because I told you to be quiet." A sigh. "That's okay, I have something that helps noisy girls."

She only had a second to wonder before she felt the silky wet tap of his cockhead against her lips.

"Open," he commanded.

She let her mouth go slack and imagined the spectacle she made for him: red lips, pink tongue, and wet, another place all wet for him. He made a soft noise as he pushed the tip inside. The head was as slick as she felt. His precum dripped like saltwater on her tongue. The familiar stretch of him filling her mouth was enough to make her shiver. "Hands behind your back."

She did, resting an elbow in each palm. There was a gentle rumble of approval and then her entire world became, for a moment, his cock. Without being able to see anything around her, everything else became more intense: The sound of him hitting the back of her throat. The gagging, the swallowing, his encouraging grunts and words. "Yes, sweetheart, just like that." His cock was all the things they said in books. Thick, heavy, and velvety smooth on the outside. Warm and pulsing and hard. Thrusting so intently, that drool pooled in her mouth. Dripped down her chin. Onto her collarbone, her tits.

She jerked when he slid his fingers through the mess on her chest, and used it to tweak her nipples again. Left them hard and cold.

"These are too fucking hot. I can't keep my hands off them. A fucking distraction is what they are." He took a break long enough to slap at each one, a slightly wet sound between her spit and the leather. "That pretty little mouth needs to work a little harder so I can stop thinking about your—oh, fuck yes, again like that."

Somehow, she'd redoubled her efforts, to the tune of his encouragement: that's it, messy girl and shit, you're so good at this.

She coughed as he withdrew, trailing thick, sticky strands of saliva that coated her chin. He wrapped each of his hands around her biceps and hauled her to her feet. Where she would have stumbled, he bore her weight. Any fear she might have had about moving around without sight, he was able to alleviate. Just by being himself. By being someone who she could trust to lead her away from disaster.

Which was why it was easy to allow herself to sink deeper into the fantasy as he bent her over the arm of the couch. As he tilted her hips up, lifting her toes off the floor. She was face-first in the mess she'd made on the cushion. Then, he went perfectly still.

For so long, sweat cooled on her skin. That the sounds of their home began to bleed back in beneath the rushing in her ears. The ticking of the clock in the hall. The soft whoosh of the furnace kicking on. The hum of the refrigerator. If she listened very, very hard, she could hear traffic out on the street. And lower than that even, more detectable by feeling than sound, was his breathing. Steady. Waiting. Like some mythical creature, deep in slumber. That is, until it was ready to eat.

It started with his fingers. Finding and tapping the ridges of her spine with whispery gentleness. Even so, his touch put her on incredibly high alert. Sensitive even to just that sensation. Never mind when he spread his strokes down her sides, over places that made her ticklish. Places that made her horny. When he grazed her asshole, making her moan and wriggle toward him, he just laughed.

"Not today."

He shoved his knuckle against her pussy. "Yep, still fucking soaked," he said with cheeriness. Then without any additional preamble, he put the head of his cock to her cunt and pushed. He was right. Soaked. That meant very little resistance as he went, and he kept going through it. Even so, it always took a moment to adjust to the way he stretched her out. The slight, flickering spark of too much before their bodies settled together.

She might have asked him to move, but he didn't make her wait long. The first thrust drew an ugly grunt from her mouth. The second made her swear: "Oh, shit."

He spanked her hard enough to make her yelp. "What did I say about being quiet?"

That only made her whimper and move again, wordlessly asking for more. She felt him more completely, without being able to see him or anything else. The way he fucked her open. Deeper, with each stroke. The drag of his head, in and out. With an aggrieved noise, he grabbed her hips, tilted them in a different position and pushed back inside her.

She couldn't help the string of curses that fell from her lips then. He was hitting that spot inside her relentlessly. Hard enough that she kicked out a little with his movements. The tension needed to go somewhere, and it was building too fast in her pelvis, an orgasm rushing up on her with frightening intensity. It worsened when just another slight shift brought her clit in contact with the arm of the couch.

"You're so wet and tight it's like you're trying to force me out," he said, sounding vaguely amused.

It was only that this, all of this was so crazy hot, that she couldn't help being so wet. That she couldn't help wanting him so much. That she was seconds, just seconds from what might be the most intense orgasm of her life. She didn't know it would be such a turn-on to be at his mercy and be unable to see what his next move would be. He always liked to keep her guessing. This was just that game cranked up to a thousand.

The whole time, he held her fast, made her think of all the little bruises she might have to look at later. The feeling of his hips smacking into her. She could hear it every time he fucked into her. Not just that they were going hard enough to make the couch creak and slide. But that together they were so wet, anyone who could have heard them would know what was happening.

Silence was beginning to feel like an impossibility. She was shaking, she was so close. Tension coiled through every limb. It was such a powerful, imposing pleasure that she almost wanted to stop, try to hold it at bay. To beg him to leave off, change tactics, let her down gently.

Except, in the exact moment she might have, he picked up the pace. Machine-like. The reason someone had thought of the phrase pistoning hips. His sweat dripped onto her back, mixing with her own.

"Baby," she said, "please, please, I can't—"

She felt as scraped raw as a match struck against its box. Like it the second before fire: smoke wisp, sulfur, the first beginning spark of light. And then she went up. She broke. She came like a woman made of flames. Bright, white core, burning out from her cunt and spreading wildfire through the rest of her. Making her toes curl and her fingers fist. Tears leaked from her eyes and her mouth fell open, wetting the fabric underneath her cheek. He just kept going, like he knew she could take more. Driving into her, each thrust like kindling. Making the fire burn on longer and longer when it was meant to have burned out. Until she was left gasping, begging, not even his name just baby baby baby, a slurred plea for mercy.

A few sloppy, erratic thrusts and then a groan. Loud, caveman-ish, and followed immediately by his own orgasm. The familiar throbbing and a flood of warmth she also knew very well. He slumped over her back. Gusts of warm air ghosted across the back of her neck, her cheeks, her shoulder as he worked to catch his breath behind her. More of that stroking. Sweeter. Over her hair and down the line of her nose. Over the curve of one abraded breast and the soft skin at her hip. Anywhere he could reach without moving from his position, lodged inside her. She wasn't sure how long they laid there, sticking together with sweat and sex and contentment.

Then, his fingers gently caressed the soft fabric over her eyes. "You ready?" he asked.

She barely managed more than a vague mumble and nod, but it was enough. She kept her eyes closed as he peeled off the fabric. Let in the light. She still felt boneless when he drew her up and turned her so that she sat on the arm of the couch, her arms around his neck, and his around her back, keeping her upright.

"Open," he whispered.

Blinking slowly, she let herself come back to sight. The sun had gone down since they'd started and light streamed in from the kitchen, though the living room was still dark. She was staring almost directly into his black-clad shoulder. When she finally tilted her head back to look at him, she was greeted with a black mask that didn't show anything but his eyes and grinning, silly mouth.

"What—" she broke off and he shrugged.

"Made it more fun for me. Want a bath?"

She shook her head. "Want to sit here a little longer."

He chuckled. The sweet one she knew from sharing stories and plates of nachos and stupid movies. "Okay, sweetheart. No problem."