Friday Afternoon (8 page)

“Fuck!” I yell as her orgasm overtakes her. I know she’s coming because her ass cinches down so tight on my cock it feels like she’s going to snap it in half. Every swimmer I have is being wrung out of me. I fall forward, resting my forehead on her sternum. My cock jumps one last time before I pull out and turn off the Butterfly.

“I’ll be right back.” My legs are wet noodles as I walk to the bathroom to get a washrag and then return, collapsing next to her on the bed.

I’m near sleep, with Mia in my arms when she says, “We can’t let ourselves fall asleep. The girls will be home in half-an-hour.

I hold her as close to me as possible. “You okay?” I know she is but I feel compelled to ask anyway.

She sighs. “Better than okay. Life is perfect here with you,” she says with shining eyes and pink cheeks.

I can’t reply. I agree with her to the depths of my being. My throat constricts and I know if I say a word, my voice will betray me to the point of embarrassment.

“I’m so glad we found each other,” she says, looking out into space as if she were in another time or place. She smiles.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on.” I poke her with a finger.

“Okay, well, when we first met, I wasn’t sure about your name. I have this odd way of–” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

“No, tell me.” I begin to attempt tickle torture.

“Stop! Okay, Jeez.” She’s giggling. “I think it’s possible to determine by a person’s name whether they’re a good fucker or a bad fucker. You know…” She wrinkles her forehead “It’s kind of like stripper names. Here, I’ll give you a name and you’ll know immediately if it’s a stripper name or a non-stripper name. I’ll start with an easy one. Candi with an i.”

“Stripper name.”

“Good.”

“Amy?”

“Non-stripper name?”

“Yes.”

“Ahh, okay. So what are the good fucker names and bad fucker names?”

“Well, any man who goes with the y version of their name, like Timmy, Davey and Joey? All bad fucker names.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. They just are.”

“Okay, what about good fucker names?”

“Good fucker names are ones that sound like the man’s hung well and a good fucker, like Hank, Dylan or Jack.”

“So you mean to tell me if my mom would have named me Larry instead of Levi–”

“I probably wouldn’t have even gone out on a date with you.” She giggles.

“You are insane.”

“Come on. Don’t tell me you would’ve brought a girl named Bambi home to meet your mother.”

She has a point.

Mia

I’ve made sure to make it home before Levi this Friday afternoon. It’s the last one before the girls are off school for the summer. The weather is warm and I can’t wait to get the Adirondack chairs looking out over the lake again. The grass is vivid green due to all the spring rain we received this year. It’s probably too early, but I’m hoping to hear the familiar concerto from the bullfrogs making the shores of our large lake home.

I lug the last chair from storage and drag it down the slope toward the lake. They sit side by side on the wooden platform anchoring the dock. I settle into one of the chair’s slight recline and a great sense of renewal washes over me.

This time of year holds a special place in my heart. It’s a time of planning and possibilities. It brings with it a sense of anticipation for all the special moments sure to come this summer. I know, eventually, those memories will become treasured keepsakes that sustain me in my old age.

But more important than even that, our summers contain all the makings of an idyllic childhood for my girls. I hope they look back on these summers and draw on them to perpetuate a sense of wellbeing to the next generation.

These are the good old days. I’m living them right now, and they’re fucking fantastic. I’ve never felt so much joy before. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to even imagine what it feels like to have these feelings bubble out of me. Now, I simmer and fizz through my days. When I take time to reflect upon the life I’ve built for myself, my inner self sings a song of triumph.

The sense of peace and happiness is so consuming that occasionally trepidation skips through me, tamping down the good feelings with a dose of reality. Sometimes, it feels too good to be true, and I’m fully cognizant of the fact it won’t remain this way forever. One thing in life that’s guaranteed is change.

I don’t want anything to change–ever.

I lean back and look up at the powder-blue sky, feel the sunlight kiss my face and appreciate the precious right now of my life. I inhale a few deep breaths, trying to release my tension from the workweek and from what’s coming.

I’m nervous about the plan I’ve cooked up. Snickering to myself, I recognize this has the potential to morph my life into a bad
I Love Lucy
episode, but I have to take action.

I was affected by the fucking I got last week, and even though he didn’t restrain me for it, I can’t stop thinking about how I would have felt if he had. We’ve been doing a lot of bondage, and I love it. But before we continue down this road, I feel like Levi needs to know what it feels like to be tied up, to give up all control over your own body and have to trust someone won’t make you say your safe word.

I need him to know.

My eyes refocus on the landscape as I hear Levi’s loafers combing through the long grass. Turning to look over my shoulder, our gazes meet.

“Hi, beautiful.” He smiles at me as he closes the gap between us.

I manage to get out, “Hi, handsome,” right before the soft pillows of his lips touch mine. His kiss is forceful. He’s in full-on fucking mode. I feel it in his smoldering perusal of my body as he reaches down a hand to pull me out of the chair.

The next kiss is even more demanding than the first as his palm cups the nape of my neck, controlling the length of the kiss.

When our lips part, I wrap my arms around him and rest my cheek on his chest. Our hands trail warm caresses up and down each other’s backs and then, well, I think I’m getting nervous about my plan.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. Actually, I’m not, I guess. I’m feeling so many different things inside myself, the giddy girl I once was emerges. I run my fingers firmly up and down the seam of his suit pants. They’re loose enough on him that I get pretty far into his ass crack. I know he doesn’t like it but I’m doing it anyway. And then, while simultaneously pressing my fingers into the area of his asshole, I blurt out, “So how do you like it?” His spine straightens.

He steps away and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You picked the wrong day to start acting bratty.”

I should quit while I’m ahead. I’m not sure what comes over me, the summer sun, the willies in my stomach, whatever. It doesn’t matter. I stick my tongue out at him and give him my brattiest attitude. “You have to catch me first.” I turn and run toward the house, giggling and squealing like a toddler. At first, I don’t hear anything behind me, but then I do. The deep
thunk
of Levi’s footfalls follow me on the lush grass. I sprint through the back door of the house. It slows me down and he almost catches me there, but I manage to twist away and get a few steps in front of him. I’m all out sprinting down the hall to our bedroom and I hear the
smack
from the soles of his shoes against the hardwood floor. Closer, and then closer still.

He rushes in the bedroom door, but I’m standing behind it, out of view. He’s lost me, and looks around quickly, searching. By the time his head turns enough that I’m in his line of sight, the handcuff is already snapped around his wrist. The other end of it is attached to the bedpost. His gaze meets mine, and then he looks down at his wrist.

“What are you doing, brat?” His eyes blaze.

“I thought it was time for you to fully understand what it’s like to be utterly relieved of control over your own body.”

“Let me go.” He says calmly but with authority. His Dom voice. I snicker.

“I’m swooning at your power and control.” I dramatically place my forearm over my forehead, tossing my head back. Then I force my features to turn hard as stone and I cast him my most icy glare. “Take your clothes off, Levi.”

He stands there, unmoving. He’s thinking. I see the split-second flashes of thoughts tumbling through his mind. I’m capable of reading him as easily as he reads me. Little stays hidden after so many years of marriage.

The merest tic is all I need to be able to distinguish between angry or just irritated, or the slight slackening of a muscle to differentiate between tolerant or indulgent. After all these years, everything is seen when looking. Irritated, he doesn’t want to follow my instructions. I’m sure I’ve thrown a monkey wrench into his plans for our afternoon. But after a few seconds, he toes off his shoes and removes his clothes, from the waist down. He doesn’t remove his shirt because of the cuff.

I curl my lips and flash my best slow, wicked smile, open my bedside drawer and pull out a pair of scissors.

Levi’s eyes fix on the sharp metal in my hand. His muscles are taut. He stands still.

“You ask me to give you my complete trust. I want you to know what that feels like.” I step forward, aware I am vulnerable to his physical strength the closer I get to him. “It’s important to me you know.”

His muscles relax, slump ever so slightly, as if caught. He knows he must submit to me today to gain insight regarding what he asks of me on a fairly regular basis and ensure I’ll continue to submit to him without resentment in the future.

“Lie on the bed, Levi,” I order him, inspecting his body. His cock is not hard. He’s breathing heavily, huffing air in and out in long drags. He looks away from me toward the bed. “Do it.” I glare at him “Now!” I’m not fucking around, and he knows it. I use the exact words he spoke to me last Friday afternoon. “Bed. Now.”

He climbs into the bed. On his knees, flashing me a slutty shot of his ass.

“You fucking tease,” I scold. “You’re going to pay for that.”

And then he growls at me, low in his throat. I reel my arm back and swing hard, swatting his ass with my wide-open hand.

“I’m expected to ride whatever wave you want to give me and you refuse to reciprocate? You don’t trust me,” I accuse.

He turns his head and meets my steely gaze with one of his own. I don’t back off or avert my gaze from his even though, after an uncomfortable amount of time, my mind is screaming for me to look away.

“Just this once,” he hisses.

I nod. “Just this once.” I try to squash the smile that wants to transform my face. “Sit in the middle.” I swat his ass on the other cheek as he follows my direction and then handcuff his free wrist to the other side of the bed. “You’re going to need a safe word.”

He raises his eyebrows in a brief glance of surprise and then lifts his chin. “Okay. How about bitch?” The word escapes through his clenched jaw. He’s seething, trying to provoke a reaction from me. Trying to gain emotional control of the situation.

I chuckle. “It won’t work.” Again I see the waterfall of thoughts crashing through his head. I’ve thought a lot about today, and he’s surprised.

“Okay then, bitch it is,” I say, stepping toward the bed and then kneeling close to him. I guide the sharp edge of the scissor metal as it travels,
bump, bump, bump
,
leaving a hissing red trail over his abs. I continue over an edge of his nipple. I fucking want to die when I see my man taking pain without a flinch or a sound. A series of sensations rush down my spine, and the power makes my breathing accelerate. His ability to take pain and his willingness to experience it for me, even if it’s the only time, captivates me.