The Den of Inequity

As you’re pouring egg mixture into a buttered pan, Jack enters the kitchen with Scout, who is huffing with glee at both of his parents being home simultaneously, following closely behind. Scout drops to the floor like a fluffy pancake with newfound satisfaction, heaving a sigh as he settles to watch.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets, and his voice is already raspy from the tiredness that always hits the second he steps over the threshold of your home. You smile to yourself as you can sense the warmth of his body before he even touches you, the heat of it teasing you before you even get the satisfaction of his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. 

“Good morning, baby,” you respond warmly and lean back into the soft kiss that he plants on your neck. He runs the tip of his nose along the pulse point there, inhaling the perfume that you applied half an hour ago. He makes a sound in the back of his throat. 

“Yeah, mhm, good morning to me indeed; you smell fucking fantastic,” he murmurs into another kiss there, nibbling just a bit afterwards before staring over your shoulder down at the pan, “You making breakfast for me too, boss?”

“Yeah, this whole wife gig is pretty easy. I dunno why I didn’t marry you sooner,” you joke as you stir the eggs exaggeratedly for show, “I hope you like your eggs scrambled, I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning. Work at nine-thirty.”

“Looks good,” he comments, but there’s no clear evidence that he’s actually looking at the food anymore because his mouth is peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses. He caresses your stomach with the broadness of his palm, a smile evident from the tone of his voice. He gives you another kiss as if the first ten haven’t made your belly do somersaults, “You know me, though. I prefer your eggs fertilized.”

The familiar sound of Scout’s pants comes to a halt at that, and the two of you raise your heads in the way one does when you first notice a noise when it stops. Jack turns his head towards him, squeezing you tighter when you try to do the same, as if he’s scared that you’ll slip away. 

“This is happening whether you are here or not,” he announces to the dog. He holds his gaze like a cowboy squaring up in the beginning of a duel in the town square. Scout gives him the canine equivalent of crinkling one’s nose in disgust, gets up from the tiled floor, and leaves, as if the two of you having a sex life is a personal insult to his existence. 

“Big baby,” Jack adds when he’s gone.

“Doctor Abbot, he has more sense than you. You know, I don’t have time for this,” you remind him, speaking as though this is a conversation about the weather, but you still absentmindedly turn down the heat of the burner. You stir again.

“Got it, boss, I’ll stop,” he hums in agreement, but there’s no follow-through at all. In fact, you feel the previously mentioned palm slip down until it is joined by his other hand. 

You laugh his name in surprise and divert your hips from his grasp when both his hands start fiddling with the button and zipper on your jeans. He unfastens them like breakfast isn’t at risk, like there’s no responsibility on his part if you are to ruin the most important meal of the day. 

It’s not even when he stuffs his whole hand into your underwear that you gasp, but rather when he cups your cunt in his palm like it belongs to him, and you can feel the warmth of his wedding ring rest against you. Heat swirls and pools below your belly button, and as much as you really don’t have the time to do this, your body betrays you by going tingly. 

“Jesus, you. I have work in less than an hour. Get your hands out of my pants. We’re not fucking,” you scold with no real fight to it. He steps forward until you feel the outline of his cock at the small of your back. The stove brushes the front of your thighs, and it makes you mewl, pressing them together. You swallow thickly because you steadily smear his palm in wetness, all the while clenching around nothing and trying to avoid the heat of the stovetop. 

“Don’t wanna fuck right now. I can fuck you later. Right now, I just wanna make you happy,” he draws his calloused hand back a little to first run two fingers through your folds before spreading you open. You can tell that he is reaching up with his unoccupied hand to wet his fingers with his mouth, and God, you want those fingers joining the others right this instant or you’ll make an embarrassing noise. He chuckles as if he’s reading your mind, “I know you love my hands, so you just scramble those eggs. I can work from here, and lucky you don’t have to do a thing.”

“I do love your hands,” you try to joke, so that he can’t tell how much you are at his mercy when the second hand slips into the front of your jeans and panties. Might as well already schedule the time it’ll take to go change underwear after this, “Even if they didn’t go into surgery.”

“Oh, I know you just didn’t say that,” he huffs and gets competitive despite no one in this house ever being able to one-up him. In mere seconds, he finds your clit expertly, and it’s like he tries to make a point of his talent for precision. You can’t control the moan that tumbles out of your mouth mid-stir, the spatula nearly dropping down below the grid of the stovetop. 

“Fuck,” you tilt your hips greedily into his touch to get more. He starts touching you just how you like it, with two fingers on either side of your clit, going back and forth until you get the feeling that tugs deep in your gut. 

“Fall back, c’mon,” he orders, and you surrender without shame, letting the spatula clatter into the pan so you can collapse back into his chest. He withdraws the hand that’s been holding you exposed for the other to do its work unbothered, wipes the sticky fingers on his scrub pants, and then removes the pan from the active burner. 

“Hurry,” you whine feebly while electric currents replace your veins, yet he still avoids directly touching where you need it to make the fireworks happen. It’s cruel, and it’s exactly how you love it the most, the fact that you let him in on knowing that, for you, good things come to those who wait. Or maybe even… Those who wait come good? Really fucking good. 

“Don’t worry about your breakfast. We’re just working up your appetite, Mrs. Abbot,” he growls quietly into your ear, clearly enjoying this in a way that makes you feel like he has thought about it through at least half his shift. It makes your body go nuts, hands desperately scrambling for purchase on the oven door handle. 

His fingers descend into your cunt in the next moment, curling just right until he can tap rapidly against your G-spot. It’s so good that you start to sweat, your top clinging to your warm skin along your neckline and tits. He is building up to something that will inevitably be torn down again, and it will be in a way that’ll make you a better person throughout your workday. 

As you are getting warmer from pleasure stacking steadily, your perfume must be getting stronger too. The scent of it must go straight to his brain, and he is crazy about it, you think to yourself, because his breath changes, his cock resting rock hard and aching for attention against you. He is wet at the tip, the slightest hint of a drag of it against your ass. 

“Jack,” you moan loudly for the first time because no other words will be sufficient right now. Your orgasm feels within reach, unable to be ignored when it feels like a ball of fire in your lower half, getting bigger. 

“Fuck my hand,” he groans into your ear, his breathing having gone ragged and strained. He pushes his hips against you less subtly now, only to moan a little more high-pitched himself, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

You don’t have to be told twice. Fuck the time, fuck the job, the colleagues that could probably use this as an appetizer for breakfast more than you. You start rocking down on his digits, seeking out the heel of his hand to shamelessly grind against it with your sensitive, needy clit. 

However, the first flutter of your orgasm makes your knees buckle without warning. You wince as they knock against the glass window of the oven, your toes curling in your socks, “Ow, for fuck’s sake, Jack.”

“Power through, soldier. Ten ccs of natural painkillers coming right up,” the words curl in a way that tells you he’s smirking. He sounds so smug that you want to hit him, but you forgive him as he makes it easier for you to get there by holding his hand in place. 

You meet it with tiny little pushes of your hips, fast movements that make your thighs ache. By now, your head is so fuzzy that all you can do is chase the feeling right to the finish line, all the while concentrating on not putting your hands on the burners by accident. 

“Yeah— oh. Fuck, Jack, I’m gonna come. Don’t move a fucking inch,” you announce with just a tinge of meanness to it that Jack knows far too well simply means that it’s right there, that there’s no worry it could be fake because of how you hiss at him in the moment of desperation. 

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as you fuck his palm, concentrating on tipping the scales of pleasure. A whine forces its way up your throat, you react by holding your breath, and then you come so hard that you fly forwards without warning as everything releases into relief that sings. Luckily, Jack wasn’t lying about not letting you fall. He has quick reflexes, catching you by pressing his palm against your chest. 

A gibberish version of his name, along with a string of bad words fall from your panting mouth as it peaks, your cunt choking his fingers while he presses down on your G-spot as if he wishes to have a wife made out of Jell-O. 

Your climax is a full-body-shake one that crashes over you in waves. Wetness seeps past his fingers, soaking the fabric of your underwear to the point where you fear your jeans are a lost cause, too. 

In the end, you find yourself in the confusing juxtaposition between raw overwhelm, tears, and smiling softly. Were it not for Jack, you would probably have collapsed into a pile of afterglow on the floor right now. Your thighs tremble slightly through the softer squeezes of aftershocks. Your breath tries to even out to no avail because he eases his fingers out of you slowly, unavoidably making your knees tap against the oven again. 

“Christ, you really let me have it, didn’t you, Mrs. Abbot?” Jack murmurs from behind you, his voice having dropped into that tender and patient register that melts you. He almost sounds in disbelief of being able to achieve anything like this in the last hour before post-shift collapse. 

You laugh breathlessly, but it doesn’t even feel like yourself. Jack takes it as the cue to calm your body down again after it’s been pushed so far, stroking his hand carefully across your mound to soothe you. When you whimper, he switches to just holding you in his hand again. 

“This was so fucking rude of you,” you breathe when it has ebbed enough to make you coherent once again. You’re still in your half-bend position against the kitchen table, still trying to make sense of how you gave in so quickly. 

“Sure, I’m a terrible monster,” he huffs, but still sounds unbelievably smug and pleased with himself. He uses the hand that’s still splayed across your sternum to straighten you to your full height again. You let yourself be manhandled, a leftover shred of desire lighting up as said hand glides up to rest against your throat. He draws you back into his chest.

“You good?” He asks a little softer, his thumb against your carotid and his other hand withdrawing from your pants. Your heartbeat is still going faster than a jackrabbit but still, you find the strength to turn around in his arms. 

His hand stays on your neck, but it turns lazy, so it’s not a grip anymore. He stares at you as he waits for a response, chin lifted slightly, and his mouth curling up in a dirty, tired smile. It’s the first time you see his face today, you realize, and the sight of his brown, scanning eyes makes you grin in that lazy, affectionate way. 

“Mhm. Absolutely,” you reassure quickly. There’s an embarrassingly goofy smile on your face, one that you know won’t go away on its own until Jack’s gone from your line of sight, “Almost would’ve needed a toe-tag there— instead of new underwear.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Dead upon arrival,” he deadpans and makes you giggle louder than the joke calls for. You feel hot all over from your orgasm, floating in a dazed state where the claustrophobia of your jeans and feeling like you’re wrapped in a blanket made of cotton and dopamine exist at the same time. 

You respond further by leaning in to get yourself a kiss. His mouth is soft, his five o’clock shadow scratches lightly without being uncomfortable. He wipes the fingers that were inside you on his other scrub leg so he can reach behind you to turn off the heat on the stove. He melts into the kiss by stepping forward and pressing your ass into the edge of the stove. 

The act results in your lips parting in a gasp when you feel his cock against your thigh, even moreso when he holds you close by the waist. Admittedly, you were too selfish a moment ago to be as aware of it as you are now. He’s hard enough for it to be uncomfortable, the kind where you know it won’t go away on its own. 

“Jack,” you pull back to get his attention, looking down between your bodies instead of stating what’s clearly obvious from how his pants are tenting, “You’re…”

He shakes his head when you try reaching for the hem of his scrub bottoms. He taps out by patting the top curve of your ass and then takes a single step back to stress his decision, “Don’t even think about it, boss. You’re gonna be late if I let you touch me.”

“Maybe the boss wants to be late,” you flirt back, now the one who smirks for once. Still, you’re half-serious, bordering on turning around to offer the most effective relief to his predicament.

“Yeah, I know, gorgeous,” he says with the most lovable and annoying gentleness to his rejection. He tugs the waistband on your jeans up around your hips, “But you’ll hate yourself for it by lunch, and then I’ll have to hear about it when you come home.”

You click your tongue at him, “Spoilsport.”

“Someone has to be,” he mumbles. He starts to fasten your jeans for you, and when the button slips through its hole, he lets his eyes flick down your button before meeting your gaze again. 

You nearly whimper. His mouth is so close, his cock is right there in his scrubs and not inside of you. Your knees wobble again, and he steadies you without thinking. 

“Besides,” he adds too casually, “You look like you’ll have to call in sick if I make you come again. So go upstairs. Take a breather, change, and I’ll make sure there’s breakfast to go when you come back.”

“You’re sending me away?” You complain like a toddler who is fighting having a tantrum when they don’t want to leave the playground. 

“Uh-huh, like a fair maiden to a monastery,” he mocks and already starts guiding you towards the door that leads to the stairs by grabbing your shoulders. 

“But what about you?” You try one last time. Maybe.

“I’ll soldier on,” he tells you over your shoulder because out of the two of you, he actually has the ability to do that, “And once you’re out that door? I’m going upstairs to take care of this like a gentleman; by which I mean a NyQuil-level treatment for the little situation you’ve put me in. I’ll be out cold until you come back to me.”

You stop in your tracks, “Little isn’t how I would describe it.”

He sighs as if he hasn’t just made the state of your underwear worse at that mental image. 

“Go,” he orders like he isn’t right on the edge of getting a crack in his composure. It has happened before, you want to retort, but he beats you to it, “Go before I pull you back here and bend you over the counter.”