Mission accomplished.
The only things running through my mind right now as I arch my back and flex my hips are the pleasure of the wet heat of Daniel’s mouth encircling my aching cock, the delicious softly scratchy feel of his scruff against my thighs and abs, and the orgasm quickly coiling deep in my balls.
We’ve traveled many dark paths together and come out stronger, more connected to each other, and practically able to read each other’s thoughts. Shame has never played a role in our marriage when it comes to what gets us off with each other.
The only thing close to that I’ve ever felt is when I write an e-mail I might or might not send. He knows that was a part of my recovery process, once upon a time.
He doesn’t realize I still have the account, although he hasn’t asked me lately if I do. I only access it from an old burner phone I keep in the desk in my home office. It’s not activated and is only connected to Wi-Fi, and has a security code. I store the old pictures on it, too. I keep copies on a thumb drive in my fireproof safe, but with them on that phone, I’m not tempted to page through them randomly if a memory hits me. I have to make a conscious effort to get the phone, make sure it’s charged up—all of that.
Ditto writing an e-mail to my ghost, draft or otherwise.
He’s never asked me about the phone, because we don’t pry into each other’s privacy like that. It could be about work or personal phones. I might be his Master, but I refuse to be an asshole. If I want to see his phone, I can ask.
I never do. I don’t need to. I have no reason to suspect him of doing anything that would make me not trust him. Just like he doesn’t ask to see mine, but if he did, I’d show him.
As I fuck his mouth, I let memories of our wedding day play through my mind. Of him saying “I do.” Of carrying him over the threshold of our house and fucking him in our new bedroom.
Of spanking him on our couch.
Of tying him up and fucking him.
Of putting him on his knees in the kitchen to suck my cock while I sipped a drink.
All of this and more flashes through my mind.
Of a deliciously dark play party where we watched others engaging in all sorts of sadism and masochism and then I fucked him on a spanking bench after striping his ass with canes and crops.
Of the stash of relatively mild sex toys safely locked in our closet here, and the many mundane pervertibles which are also here in the townhouse. Such as the many silicone spatulas in our kitchen.
Compared to the extensive collection of implements safely stored in the hidden compartment in the back of our walk-in closet. It’s supposed to be a locking gun safe, but canes and riding crops and other miscellaneous implements fit well, too.
Tonight, he’s wearing stainless chainmail necklace that’s his “DC collar.” We can’t risk our privacy by him being locked in a leather collar, even in the townhouse. This is by his decree, not mine. That’s a risk I’d be willing to take, but since it ties back to his job, I will not overrule him being careful.
His warm hand cups my balls as he sucks my cock. His tongue expertly knows where and how to flick and lick, when to suck, how to build my tension until I feel like I’ll crack apart at the seams if I don’t come soon. That sweet agonizing ecstasy, a blazing perfection of sensual torment that he’s mastered through our years together.
He keeps me hovering there, edging me now, knowing he’s got me where he wants me.
“Please, baby,” I gasp. “I need it.”
Maybe that’s all he wanted to hear. He goes deep again, sucking on the withdraw, and that triggers my release. I hold his head as I pump into his mouth and he keeps up with me, until I fall still.
He releases my cock from his mouth just as I’m about to crest the point of being too sensitive. When he crawls back up the bed, I flip him onto his back, kiss him, and take his cock in my hand.
He’s already leaking pre-cum. Sucking my cock always makes him horny, even if it’s in the middle of the night. I squeeze, making him moan. “Lube.”
Waving a hand at the nightstand, he finally lands on the lube and grabs it, squirting some on my hand and his cock.
I slowly stroke, kissing him as I do, loving and envying the way his brain immediately unplugs. He humps my hand and my previous need to come is now eclipsed by my need to make him come. I love having him helpless and needy, wanting me.
Wanting only me.
“Give it to me, baby,” I whisper against his lips. “Don’t hold back. Come for me.”
He grinds against me in response, harder, faster, while I try to keep up a tempo with my strokes that I know will get him off.
Making love to him has always felt beautifully perfect, whether it’s long and loving, or quick and messy and dirty.
It only takes a few minutes before his cock hardens even more in my hand, growing hot and then exploding and adding his cum to the slick lube. Shuddering, he falls still and kisses me.
“Can we go back to sleep now?” he mumbles, nearly there already.
I chuckle. “Yes, baby.” By the time I return from the bathroom with a warm, damp washcloth, he is asleep.
I clean him up, lob the washcloth into the bathroom, and crawl back into bed next to him. When I close my eyes, I quickly feel sleep taking me again.
My next first day doesn’t start for a few hours yet. I can use the sleep.
And I think maybe I will give serious thought to not running a third time, even if Daniel won’t quit yet.
