And again and a few more times. Essentially, I’m knocking.
When nobody answers, I rear back and slam my head into the wood. It cracks.
Good.
Blood trickles over my eye, down the side of my face, and now I’m just pumped for more ramming. Calmly, I walk back to the start of the hallway and shout my battle cry, then sprint toward the rustic gray door full speed ahead and ready to ram it, break it, and enter, when my wife opens the door and steps aside.
Forward motion strong, I can’t stop. Full speed, I barge into the bedroom, jump over the stupid and totally useless ottoman bench at the end of the king bed, and, like a swimmer ready to jump, spread my arms and dive for the bed.
The mattress bounces me off and forward, silk sheets offering no friction, and my entire face hits the headboard. Movement stops there. I’m plastered, face-first, into the leather cushioned headboard while sprawled on my bed. Cursing, I quickly push up on my arms and hop off the bed, then stand there staring at my wife in her yellow nightgown and a toothbrush in her right hand.
“I came,” I say, because I gotta say something, you know.
“I saw,” she says and walks back to the bathroom. Cursing again, in Russian now because I’m so done with the damn suit, I yank the tie and briefly wonder if I should wrap it around my neck and choke the dumbassery out of myself, but opt to remove the suit altogether.
Down to boxers, I stare at my dick that’s pointing toward the pussyland who walks back into the bedroom with a towel. She reaches up and starts cleaning my face. The white towel comes away smeared with blood.
“It needs a bandage,” she says.
“Leave it.” My dick is resting on her belly. I’m sure she notices, and she’s ignoring it like she’s ignoring myleave itorders when she cleans up the cut, dries it by blowing at it, of all things, and slaps a huge bandage on my forehead.
“Why is it so big?” I ask about the bandage. “Do we not have smaller ones?”
She smiles. “Smaller ones don’t do much for me.” With that, she crawls over the bed and starts scrubbing the blood from the headboard, and I stay there watching her ass. She wears no underwear.
She didn’t have panties under that horrid nun attire, and I don’t know why she’s not wearing them, but she’s my wife and she’s in my bed and there’s a wet pussyland to conquer.
I climb on the bed after her, and she pauses scrubbing. I take the towel out of her hand and throw it on the floor, then put both her hands on the headboard. I grab her hair and turn her face toward me to kiss her.
She likes kissing me back while I push my boxers down under my balls and grab my dick, then guide it over her entrance to get it nice and slick before I enter her, slowly, because she’s tight as fuck and warm and plush and I’m gonna be inside there for a while, fucking, exploring, seeding her until she’s sore and not gonna walk to work tomorrow.
I grind my hips, never moving too far out, just enough to keep her full of cock while inwardly reciting the Russian alphabet backward and forward, stroking her clit and kissing her.
Her body is mine already, bending and yielding to what I want, so when I grab one side of her face and push it against the soft headboard, she’s not surprised. And when I lift her one leg and position the foot flat on the mattress so I can thrust deeper into her, she just takes it.
One hand on her hip, I use it as leverage and pound her as I press her face against the board and watch myself slide in and out of her wetness. She’s so wet and horny that her pussy leaves glistening white cum all over my dick.
Seeing the juice makes me lose it. I shoot a load into her, my body locking up, my back arching, and I snarl, snapping my mouth shut so I don’t scream her name.
Kaya.
6
Sleep. The necessary time-wasting activity I have a love/hate relationship with. I love it when I’m well rested. I hate that I miss out on shit. I’m hating this morning when I don’t find my wife in the bed with me so I can fuck her some more and maybe watch the History channel—where I received my education from—with her.
Nobody watches that shit with me, and I wonder if she would if only to humor me. It’s nice to share something I like with someone I like.
My wife is an addiction, and soon, she will consume me. Every waking second, my brain will think about her or think about how I could get closer to her.
When I like something, I want more of it, and I become obsessed with it and don’t quit even when I have it because I think there’s always the next level of more and, in the case of love, more depth.
I throw the sheets off and, after my bathroom business, head out to the kitchen, where I check the contract on the bar for the signature that’s not there. I already know she’s not in the house,but I’m gonna holler anyway. “Kaya!” Oh, this feels good.Let’s do it again.“Kaya!”
The coffeemaker hasn’t been used, so I figure she didn’t even make a cup this morning. Maybe she doesn’t drink coffee, but I doubt it. Chances are she does.
Most people do. I don’t know about the ones who don’t. I can’t understand them, but to each their own. I make a cup and scratch my balls on my way out to the patio, where my men stand on alert, all twenty-one of them lined up before the steps to the house. They all heard me hollering for her, and I wave them off and dial my wife’s bodyguard.
A man must know where his wife is at all times. I’m old-school, and I gotta know because I’m also a control freak and my men know me. Rosti answers, and I bark, “Where is she?”
