Fornication Friday

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The Present

I’m on my knees and a tiny pebble is digging itself into my kneecap. My housekeeping skills are for shit—I’d swept the hardwood floor of the kitchen just that day. I’d reach down and remove the sharp stone from my skin, but my hands are bound behind my back with the soft rope John had dug out of the garage. No silk scarves or handcuffs here. We don’t have those things on hand but my husband is nothing if not resourceful.

I’m about to say something about the rock but he stops the words by sliding his cock across my lips. He tastes like Dove soap and warm skin and as I press my bound wrists against the small of my back anticipation courses through me. How ironic that the scent and flavor of him are part of my pleasure, that this is how my love has manifested itself.

He directs himself around the roof of my mouth, across my tongue, brushes the inside of my cheeks. I’m already wet and on edge from earlier and now I’m trembling from wanting him deep insides my throat. My moan sounds buried in my chest. He prods further. I swallow, hoping to coax him in, and finally he takes a fistful of my hair in each of his hands and guides my head until he’s deep, so deep I almost gag but I don’t.

I brace myself on the floor and now the sharp pain of the stone isn’t so bothersome. Instead it becomes another sensation in my heightened state of arousal—nipples, pussy, knee—all are throbbing and it’s adding up to me getting off on a blowjob.

Six months ago I hated giving blowjobs.
Six months ago I hated my husband.
Six months ago I hadn’t discovered domestic bliss.