Maybe he realized what a stupid thing he had been proposing earlier and wanted to apologize. Well, he would have to work for it. And explain many things.
He reached out to my hands from the back. His fingers threaded through mine, guiding them softly on the clay on the wheel.
“Let me help,” he murmured.
His chest pressed against my back. His breath stirred my hair. And slowly, gently, he started kissing behind my ear—that spot that always made me shiver.
“Mark—” My voice came outchoked.
“Shh. Just feel.”
His hands guided mine, shaping the clay between our fingers. The wheel spun. Our hands moved together, creating something from nothing, the way we always had.
He kept kissing my neck, soft brushes of his lips against my skin, and I felt my body responding despite everything. Despite the hurt. Despite the confusion.
His wet, muddy fingers began tracing up my forearms, leaving dark streaks as they kept going up my arms. The sensation was cool, slick, and surprisingly sensual.
“Keep working,” he said, his voice dropping into that commanding tone he sometimes used in our bedroom, during our role plays.
My breath caught. “Mark—”
“Don’t stop.”
His hands started moving upwards, tracing patterns up my arms, across my shoulders. The clay was everywhere on my arm now —cold and sticky and messy. The more he smeared dirt on me, the more turned on I got.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered between soft gasps.
He traced the curve of my neck with one muddy finger, then another, making broad strokes across my skin. The cold stickiness of the clay made me want the same stickiness inside of me and at that thought my panty got soaked with sexual anticipation. I felt heat pooling low in my belly, and I just wanted him inside of me right that moment.
This. This connection. This was real, wasn’t it?
My hands kept shaping the clay because I had been ordered to, and I loved giving into pure submission in the bedroom. I loved the sensation of giving up every bit of me and being controlled completely by him. We had set roles that satisfied both our fantasies. When the bedroom doors locked, I became his submissive little slut. We loved having rough sex, but since we had kids, it was not easy to do that without making it loud, so we both had toned down the roughness quite a bit.
Is that why he wanted to sleep with other women?
Mark’s fingers were smearing me dirty, claiming me, marking me, and I wanted all of it. I was loving the filth and the dirt. I imagined how muddy, dirty, and slutty I must be looking right now, and the image made me soaking wet in between my legs. If Mark thought he would get this perfect sexual sync with anyone else, he was wrong. Tonight I’d make sure he knew what a stupid idea it was.
He kissed the dip at the base of my throat. The strap of my nightgown slipped off my shoulder. I wanted to fix it but my hands were occupied. I let it hang.
Mark leaned forward over my shoulder from behind, and pushed the other strap down forcefully. He looked at the points of my nipples and smiled. I was horny, I wanted him inside me, and he was pleased with it. His mouth found my breast, sucking slowly, and I gasped.
The wheel jerked under my hands. The vase I’d been ordered to shape collapsed, falling sideways and splattering us both with more clay.
I didn’t care. I was loving this dirty, messy game with my husband, and I was determined to show him how much I was loving this.
I couldn’t control myself anymore. I was gasping, burning, needing him with an intensity that made everything else disappear. I wanted only Mark. I loved him and only wanted him. He tugged hard at my hair from behind. The sensation shot straight through me and I whimpered, biting my lip to keep from crying out.
“Mark,” I breathed. “Please—”
“I love you, Amelia,” he whispered against my ear. “Only you.”
“I want you,” I managed. “God, Mark, I want only you.”
He came around to face me then, his eyes dark with desire. He lifted me in one smooth sweep from the stool. My silky nightgown strap dangled loose in front of my smooth, bare tits. My filthy, soiled hands dropped lifelessly as he carried me across the pottery table. My tits bounced at every dip of his movement, and he stared at them with deep desire in his eyes and a faint smile on his lips. What was he goingto do next? I was sweating despite the comfortable temperature of the basement, droplets trickling down my neck to disappear into the sharp points of my tits.
I was panting. I could see a large mound of mud next to the table on the floor. Mark dropped me hard on top of the mud. My back hit the cold, slick mud with force, but it didn’t hurt. It just made me feel like a sexy, filthy goddess, riding on my throne. There was wet, sticky clay everywhere around me. I drowned my hands in it as I saw Mark coming closer.
Mark knelt, pressing both hands into the messy pile of clay on the floor, then cupped my face with his muddy palms. His touch was reverent, worshipful even as he smeared clay across my cheeks.
