Untitled

The Marriage - Part IV: Be Gentle

She asks you to run her a bath.

Not unusual. She likes baths — always has. Candles, a book, the lavender bath bomb from the shop on Elm Street. You've run them for her before, weekends mostly, a small domestic kindness that costs you nothing and makes her happy.

But tonight is a Thursday. And she's already told you she's going out.

Not where. Not with whom. Just: "I'm going out tonight, sweetie."

The same neutral tone she uses for everything now. Going out. The words have lost their need for decoration. She goes out. She comes home. You eat her pussy. You wash her panties. The cycle turns. The world spins.

You run the bath. Check the temperature with your wrist. Drop in the lavender bomb. Watch it fizz and dissolve, turning the water milky purple. You set out a fresh towel. Light the candle on the ledge.

"It's ready," you call.

She appears in the bathroom doorway. Robe on, hair up. She looks at the bath. At the candles. At you.

"Perfect. Thank you, sweetie."

She drops the robe. Steps in. Sinks down. The water rises around her — her breasts lifting, her stomach disappearing, her legs folding beneath the surface. She leans back. Closes her eyes. A sigh that comes from somewhere deep.

You turn to leave.

"Stay."

You stop.

"Will you do my legs for me?"

She says it with her eyes still closed. Casual. A wife asking a small favor. She's already reaching for the razor on the ledge, holding it out to you without looking.

You take it. You kneel beside the tub. She lifts one leg out of the water, resting her ankle on the edge. The skin is warm and wet. You lather with the soap. You draw the razor in long, careful strokes — ankle to knee, knee to thigh. The blade gliding through foam, revealing smooth skin underneath.

She watches you now. Her head tilted back against the rim, her eyes half-open. Watching your hands on her leg with a detached, approving attention.

"You're good at that," she says.

You do the other leg. Same care. Same slow strokes. Her thigh under your hand, the muscle relaxing as you work. You're kneeling on the bathroom floor beside your wife's bath, shaving her legs, and your cock is hard in your sweatpants and neither of you acknowledges it.

"Sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to do my bikini line too. Will you help?"

She shifts in the tub. Lifts her hips slightly. The water level drops and her pubic hair surfaces — trimmed but not bare. She parts her legs. Not wide — just enough. You can see her pussy through the milky water. Her lips. The triangle of hair above them.

"I've been thinking about going shorter. Maybe just a small triangle. Or bare — what do you think?"

She's asking you. About her pussy. About how she should groom the part of her body that you haven't been inside in weeks. The part that comes home swollen and tasting of more than her. The part that you clean with your tongue.

"What do you prefer?" you ask.

She smiles. "I'm asking what you prefer, sweetie."

Your cock is throbbing. Your hand is trembling around the razor.

"The triangle," you say. "It suits you."

"The triangle it is."

You shave her. Carefully. Gently. The razor moving around the edges, defining the shape, clearing the skin at the crease of her thighs. Your fingers holding her skin taut while you work. You are inches from her pussy. You can feel the heat radiating through the water. The intimacy is staggering and the distance is absolute — this close, this careful, this forbidden.

She watches you the entire time. That warm, cataloging look.

"Thank you," she says when you're done. Runs her own fingers across the result. "That's exactly right."

You dry her off. The towel around her shoulders, then down her back, her legs, between her thighs. She stands on the bath mat and lets you work. Lifts her arms. Turns when you guide her. You're drying your wife and it feels like worship and she receives it the way a woman receives worship — graciously, without surprise.

The bedroom. She sits at the vanity. Moisturizer. Perfume. You sit on the bed. She hasn't told you to sit on the bed. You just sat. The way you sit now, in her presence, when she's getting ready. Watching. Attending.

She opens the underwear drawer. Pulls out two bras. Holds them up.

"Which one do you think?"

Black lace. Navy silk. She's holding them by the straps, one in each hand, showing you the way a saleswoman shows options to a customer.

"The black," you say.

"The black." She nods. Puts on the black bra. Reaches into the drawer again. Two pairs of panties.

"And these?"

Black to match the bra. Or a deep burgundy with a scalloped edge you've never seen before.

"The burgundy," you say. Your voice is thick.

"Good choice. I got those last week."

She steps into the burgundy panties. Pulls them up. Adjusts them in the mirror — their mirror, the one with the pivot, the one you cleaned the thumbprint from. She turns. Checks herself from behind. Smooths the lace over her hips.

"How do I look?"

"Beautiful."

"You always say that." She smiles. But it's softer now. She's looking at you on the bed. At your face. And she can see it — the thing you're trying to hide under the compliment. The tightness in your jaw. The way your hands are gripping the edge of the mattress. The sheen in your eyes.

You're not angry. You're not confrontational. You're not the husband who demands to know where she's going and with whom and when she'll be back.

You're pouting.

Your lower lip. The slight withdrawal of your shoulders. The way you've pulled into yourself on the edge of the bed. A boy whose mother has announced she's going out for the evening and he's not invited. Not fury. Not accusation. Just the quiet, helpless sulk of someone who can feel the door closing and doesn't have the words to ask it to stay open.

She sees all of it. She crosses the room. Sits beside you on the bed. Close. Her thigh against yours. She's in the black bra and the burgundy panties and the perfume and nothing else and she puts her arm around you and pulls your head against her shoulder.

"Hey," she says softly. "Hey. Look at me."

You look at her. Your eyes are wet. You don't know why. Nothing has happened. Nothing has been said. She's going out. She goes out. This is how it works now. But tonight — the bath, the razor, the panties, the mirror — tonight the architecture is too visible and the sight of it has overwhelmed the part of you that keeps the questions at bay.

"Sweetie." Her hand on your cheek. Her voice low. Warm. The voice she uses when everything else has been stripped away and only the truth between you remains. "It's okay."

"I just—"

"I know." She pulls you closer. Your face against her neck. Her arms around you. "I know, sweetie. It's a lot."

Your hand finds her waist. Grips. Holds on.

"I love you," she says. "That hasn't changed. That will never change. Do you believe me?"

"Yes." Muffled against her skin.

"Good." She shifts. Turns toward you. Takes your face in both hands. "Now lie down for me."

She guides you back onto the bed. On your back. She's beside you, propped on one elbow, looking down at you. Her free hand moves to your sweatpants. Slides inside. Finds your cock — hard, leaking, confused, needing.

"There he is," she murmurs. "Your poor little guy. He's all worked up, isn't he?"

She starts stroking. Slow. Soothing. Not the purposeful stroke of the couch sessions or the kitchen counter. This is gentler. A hand calming a frightened animal.

"You want to know why you can't just… have me tonight."

It's not a question. She's reading your face. Reading your cock.

"I know what you want, sweetie. I know you want to be inside me. But that's not what you need right now. And it's not what I need."

She shifts closer. Her breast is near your face. The black bra. She reaches behind with her free hand — still stroking you with the other — and unclasps. The bra falls away. Her breast is right there. Full. Warm. The nipple already tight.

"Come here," she whispers. "It's okay."

She guides your head to her breast. Your mouth finds her nipple. You close your lips around it and you suck and something inside you — something knotted and anxious and terrified — releases. Like a fist opening. Like a breath you've been holding for weeks.

She holds your head against her breast. Her hand on the back of your skull. Her other hand stroking your cock. The rhythm matched — her hand and your mouth moving together. Suck. Stroke. Suck. Stroke.

"That's it," she murmurs. "That's my good boy. Just let me take care of everything."

Your eyes are closed. You're sucking her nipple and she's stroking your cock and her voice is in your ear and the three — breast, hand, voice — are braided together into a single sensation and nothing else exists. Not the bath. Not the panties. Not the mirror. Not wherever she's going tonight. Not whoever is waiting for her. Not the questions you can't ask and the answers you already know.

Just her. Her breast in your mouth. Her hand on your cock. Her voice telling you it's okay.

"You're safe, sweetie. I've got you. I'll always have you."

You come. Not violent — tender. A slow, shuddering release that moves through your whole body. Your cum spilling over her fingers while your mouth stays on her nipple, still sucking, still drawing comfort from her even as your cock empties in her hand.

She lets you stay. Lets you suckle through the aftershocks. Doesn't rush. Her hand leaves your cock and moves to your hair, stroking, smoothing, while your breathing slows and your mouth relaxes and your body goes heavy against her.

She reaches for the tissues. Wipes your stomach. Wipes your cock. Gentle, thorough, maternal. She doesn't usually clean you up — that's always been your job. But tonight she does it. As if you're something precious. Something small.

Her finger touches the last trace of cum on your stomach. She brings it to your lips.

"Open."

You open. Her finger slides into your mouth. The taste of your own cum on your tongue — salt and warmth and something familiar you can't quite place. Familiar because you've been tasting it for weeks. On her pussy. In the bath water. In the panties at the sink. Cum on your tongue. Always cum on your tongue.

You suck her finger clean.

"Good boy." She slides her finger out. Kisses your forehead. Pulls the blanket up to your chest.

She stands. Puts her bra back on. Reaches for the dress hanging on the closet door — black, simple, the kind that moves. Steps into it. Zips. Checks the mirror. Adjusts.

She comes back to the bed. Leans over you. You're tucked in. Drowsy. Emptied.

"I won't be late," she says. "Sleep, sweetie."

A kiss on your forehead. Her perfume. The click of her heels on the hardwood. The stairs. The front door.

The house is quiet.

You close your eyes. You don't sleep.

---

You hear the car at one in the morning. The front door. The careful sounds of a woman returning — heels removed, bag set down, the soft pad of bare feet on the stairs.

She enters the bedroom. You're on your side, facing away. Breathing evenly. The practiced rhythm of a man pretending to be asleep.

She knows. She always knows.

She undresses in the dark. You hear the zipper. The fabric dropping. She slides into bed behind you. Her body warm against your back. Her arm over your waist. Her breath on your neck.

She doesn't smell like perfume anymore. She smells like exertion and skin and the musky, heavy scent underneath that you've been cataloging for weeks. The scent that arrives when she comes home from wherever she goes. Tonight it's stronger. Closer to the surface. As if she didn't shower. As if she came straight home and straight to bed, still carrying the evening on her body.

You lie there. Her arm around you. Her breathing slowing.

And then you move. Not because she asked. Not because she mounted you or guided your head or straddled your face. You move on your own. You turn in her arms. You slide down the bed. Under the covers. Down past her stomach. Down between her thighs.

She inhales when your mouth reaches her. A sharp, surprised breath. You haven't done this voluntarily since before the first night. Every time, she's come to you. She's climbed on your face. She's instructed. She's ridden.

This time you're going to her. Choosing her. Crawling under the covers to find her pussy in the dark with your mouth because you need to. Because the hours of waiting and the taste of your own cum on your tongue and the sound of the door closing and opening have built a pressure inside you that can only be released by this. By tasting her. By tasting whatever she brought home.

"Be gentle, sweetie." Her voice is quiet. Tender. Her hand finds the top of your head through the blanket. "My pussy is a little sore tonight."

The sentence hangs in the dark bedroom. Sore. From what. From whom. She doesn't say. You don't ask.

But the sentence is the most honest thing either of you has said in weeks. And you both hear it. And neither of you pretends it means anything other than what it means.

You're gentle. Your tongue moves softly. No urgency — not like the face-rides where she grinds and bucks and uses you. This is different. Slow. Reverent. You lick her the way you'd tend a wound. The way you'd clean something precious that has been handled roughly.

She's swollen. You can feel it — the puffiness, the sensitivity, the way she flinches when your tongue grazes certain places that have been worked over by something much larger than your tongue. You avoid those places.

You stay soft. You trace the edges. You lap gently at the cream that has gathered at the seam of her and the taste is rich and layered and you swallow without thinking.

She comes quietly. A slow wave. Her hand pressing your head closer. Her thighs trembling but not clamping. A soft moan that sounds like relief, not ecstasy. The orgasm of a woman being put back together by a gentle mouth after being taken apart by something else.

You climb back up. She pulls you close. Wraps around you. Your face against her chest. Her heartbeat slowing.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her lips against the top of your head.

You don't speak. Your cock is hard against her thigh but neither of you reaches for it. It doesn't matter. Not right now. Right now there is only this — her body around yours, the taste on your tongue, the dark bedroom, the quiet house, the marriage that has become something neither of you named but both of you chose.

She falls asleep first. Her breathing deepening. Her arm heavy across your back.

You stay awake a little longer. Listening to her. Tasting her. Feeling the weight of her against you and the weight of everything that has been said without being said and everything that has been given without being asked for and everything that has been taken without being missed.

Your cock softens against her thigh. Your eyes close.

You sleep.

This is the fourth in a series about a wife, her husband, and the marriage she decided to rebuild — on her terms, in her time, with her hand.

Previous: Part I: Don't Wait on Dinner | Part II: I Had a Dream | Part III: I'll Let You Take Care of That

Next: Part V: The Gift

The Marriage - Part III: I'll Let You Take Care of That

It starts with the dishes.

Not a conversation. Not a negotiation. She comes home on a Tuesday and the kitchen is a mess. Not just yours. Both of yours. The breakfast neither of you cleaned up. The coffee mugs. A pan from the eggs you scrambled for her before she left for work, before you left for work, before the day unfolded into whatever it unfolded into. You got home first. You didn't clean up. You sat on the couch.

She stands in the doorway. Looks at the kitchen. Looks at you.

She doesn't say anything. Just looks.

And you feel it — a heat in your face that has nothing to do with arousal. Shame. Her disappointment.

"I'll clean up," you say. Already standing. Already moving toward the kitchen.

"Thank you, sweetie."

Two words. Settled. Unsurprised. As if she expected this. You aren't offering to help. You're reporting for duty. And she's accepting your report.

You wash the dishes. She pours herself a glass of wine and sits at the table and watches you. Not supervising — just present. Something pleasant to look at while her mind is elsewhere.

When you're done, she looks around the kitchen. "I noticed the bathroom needs a clean too."

That's it. Not a request. Not "when you get a chance." A statement. The bathroom needs a clean. The implication settles over you. Not next week. Not if you feel like it. The bathroom needs a clean too.

"Okay," you say.

She smiles. Finishes her wine.

You clean the bathroom the next morning. Before work. Before she wakes up. You scrub the tub, toilet, sink. Wipe the mirrors. And then you drift into the bedroom, Windex in hand. Quietly so as not to wake her. You start wiping the big mirror. Floor to ceiling.

The one from her dream. You've started thinking of it as her mirror. And lately, their mirror. The one she stands in front of getting dressed, the one that catches her body when she walks from the shower to the closet, the one you sometimes watch her in when she doesn't know you're looking.

You spray. Wipe. And then you notice — or think you notice — that the angle is different. The mirror is freestanding, on a pivot, and it tilts. You've never adjusted it. She adjusts it sometimes when she's checking a hemline or putting on heels. But the tilt seems wrong. Steeper than usual. Angled down, toward the bed, as if someone repositioned it to see —

And there, on the edge of the frame, where a hand would grip to adjust the angle — a thumbprint. Clear in the Windex. Too large to be hers.

You wipe it. Your cloth erases it in a single pass. Gone. As if it were never there.

Was it ever there? Are you imagining things? Seeing prints that don't exist, angles that haven't changed?

Your cock is hard.

You finish the mirror. You leave the bedroom. You don't mention it.

That evening she comes downstairs. Sees the kitchen. Sees the bathroom.

"The bathroom looks great, sweetie." A kiss on your cheek. Her hand briefly on the back of your neck. "Thank you."

Your cock stirs. You've been half-hard since the mirror and the praise sends blood rushing south.

She notices. She always notices.

"Come here," she says. Takes your hand. Leads you to the couch. Sits down. Pats her lap. "Lie back."

You've learned this position. Head in her lap, your body extending along the couch, your legs over the arm. She reaches down and pulls your waistband and you lift your hips and she slides your pants and boxers down and your cock springs up, eager, grateful, already leaking.

She wraps her hand around you. Starts stroking. Slow. Easy.

"How was your day?"

She asks about your day while she strokes your cock. You tell her about work — the meeting, the email chain, the deadline. She listens. Mmhms at the right moments. Her hand never stops. Not fast — not building toward anything. Just present. Maintaining.

You come. Not dramatically — a quiet, domestic orgasm. Your cum pooling on your stomach. She hands you the box of tissues from the side table.

"Good boy," she says. Smooths your hair. "Dinner?"

This is how it works now. You come home. You clean. She comes home. She notices. If she's pleased — if the house is right, if you've done enough — she takes you to the couch and strokes your cock while she talks about her day or asks about yours. You come in her hand or on your stomach. You wipe up your mess. You make dinner.

If you haven't done enough, she doesn't punish. She doesn't scold. She just doesn't take you to the couch. You eat dinner. You watch television. Your cock is hard all evening and nobody touches it.

You start cleaning more.

Saturday.

You're in the bedroom vacuuming the rug when you hear the front door. She went out first thing — something about errands, something about Laura. It's almost noon.

Footsteps on the stairs. Fast. Purposeful.

She appears in the bedroom doorway. Flushed. That look. The one you've cataloged a dozen times now without naming. Her hair is slightly different. Her lips are full and pink. She's in her Lululemon leggings and a loose t-shirt and she's looking at you with an intensity that stops the vacuum mid-stroke.

"Turn that off."

You turn it off.

She crosses the room. Pushes you — not hard, but firmly, hands on your chest — and you fall backward onto the bed. She's pulling at your sweatpants. You lift your hips. She yanks them down with your boxers in one motion. Your cock is already hardening, responding to the urgency, the unannounced want.

For a moment — one bright, hopeful moment — you think this is it. This is the return. She's going to climb on top of you and slide you inside her and you're going to have sex with your wife the way you used to, her pussy around your cock, her weight on your hips, the thing you haven't had in weeks.

But she's not taking off her shirt. She's stripping from the waist down — the leggings peeled off, the panties sliding down her thighs. She leaves both in a heap on the bedroom floor and climbs onto the bed and she's swinging her leg over your face and you can see her pussy descending toward you.

Swollen. Thick. The lips flushed and puffy. Wet — visibly wet, a sheen on her inner thighs, and at the center, at the crease where her lips meet, a pearl of white. Thicker than her cream. Heavier. It clings to her, trembling, about to drop.

She lowers herself onto your mouth before it falls.

The taste. Immediate. Overwhelming. Her and the other and the warm, heavy, salt-sweet flood that fills your mouth the moment your tongue pushes between her lips. There's more this time. More volume. More of the other. The ratio has shifted — less her, more of the taste, the one that makes your cock jump and leak and strain toward the ceiling while your tongue works and your throat swallows.

She grinds. Hands gripping the headboard. Thighs clamping your ears. She's not gentle. She rides your face with the urgency of a woman who needs to come again, and your tongue finds her clit and she gasps and bucks and the sounds — those deeper, rawer sounds that she never makes during your sex — fill the bedroom.

She comes. Hard. Her pussy clenching against your mouth. The tight ring of muscle against your nose spasming in waves. The flood across your tongue. You swallow.

She collapses beside you. Breathing hard. Staring at the ceiling.

Your cock is rigid. Pointing straight up. Pre-cum pooling in your navel. You reach for it —

She takes your hand. Holds it. Interlaces her fingers with yours. Brings it to rest on the mattress between you. Two people lying on their backs, holding hands, staring at the ceiling. Like lovers on the grass at a park. Like a couple who just shared something tender. Your cock straining, untouched, while her thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand.

She lies there for a minute. Two. Catching her breath. Then she rolls onto her side. Props her head on her hand. Looks at your cock. At your wet face. At the whole arrangement of you.

Her free hand finds your cock. Not stroking — just holding. Her fingers around your shaft, resting. Idle. Your cock twitching in her grip.

"I've been thinking about the laundry," she says.

Your cock throbs. She's holding it and talking about laundry.

"It makes sense for you to take it over. You're doing everything else. And I'll show you my system — what goes in the machine, what needs hand-washing."

"Okay."

"Come on. I'll show you now."

She gets up. Pulls you up by the hand. Neither of you puts anything on below the waist. She walks you to the bathroom — the en suite — where the upstairs laundry hamper sits beside the sink. You follow. Your cock bobbing in front of you. Her bare ass ahead of you, her thighs still glistening.

She shows you. The hamper. The sorting — darks, lights, delicates. The machine settings. She's standing beside you at the sink, showing you how to fill the basin with cold water, how much soap, how to press the fabric gently — not wring, not twist. Press. Squeeze. Rinse.

"My delicates can't go in the machine. Bras, panties. The nice ones need hand-washing."

Her hip is touching yours. You're both naked from the waist down. Your cock is inches from her thigh. She hasn't touched it since the bedroom.

"Go grab our clothes from the bedroom. I left mine on the floor."

You go. You pick up your sweatpants, your boxers. You pick up her leggings. And then you pick up her panties.

They're warm. Not from the dryer. From her. From the last few hours of wherever she was. The gusset is heavy. Damp. A visible white smear in the center — not dried, not crusted. Fresh. Still tacky. Still warm.

Your hands are trembling. Your cock is so hard it's twitching between your legs.

You carry everything back to the bathroom.

She's waiting at the sink. Water running. Soap ready.

"Hand me my panties."

You hand them to her. Your eyes on the gusset. Her eyes on your eyes.

She takes them. Holds them up. Doesn't look at the stain. Looks at you.

A smile. Small. Warm. Not cruel — satisfied. The same smile she gave your cock that first night on her knees. Confirming something. Filing something.

She puts the panties in the water. The white dissolves. Clouds the basin.

"Like this," she says. Presses the fabric. "Gentle. See?"

She puts your hands in the water. Hers over yours. Your fingers on the lace. On the gusset. The soap and the water and the white swirling between your fingers.

"That's it. Press. Don't twist."

You're washing them together. Her hands guiding yours. Your cock pressing against her hip. She can feel it. She doesn't acknowledge it.

She talks. About a work event. About hosting a dinner party she's been planning. About whether the backyard needs new string lights. Domestic patter flowing over a domestic act — two people doing laundry, one of them hard, both of them silent about what is dissolving in the water between their hands.

"Rinse," she says. "Then lay them flat on the rack. Never the dryer."

You rinse. You lay the panties flat. Black lace on the white rack. Clean now.

She kisses your cheek.

"Thank you, sweetie. You're a natural."

The weeks fold over. The world spins.

She comes home. You eat her pussy. Your tongue finds the taste. You swallow. She comes on your mouth.

You clean the house. She notices. She takes you to the couch. Her hand on your cock. Your head in her lap. You come while she talks about her day. Good boy.

You do the laundry. You sort the hamper. Certain days produce panties with the heavy stain — the white crust, the tacky residue. You wash them by hand in the sink. Cold water. Gentle soap. Your cock hard the entire time.

The image from the dream plays behind your eyes every time your hands are in that water. Her pussy in the mirror. Stretched. Gripping. Her lips clinging to a cock. The residue dissolving between your fingers as the dream unspools and your arousal soars and your cock leaks. These quiet, domestic, devastating moments at the sink.

She never mentions the stains. You never mention the stains. The panties appear. You wash them. The cycle turns.

A Thursday evening. You've been baking. Her favorite — lemon cake, the one with the glaze, the one you taught yourself from a YouTube video because she mentioned once, months ago, that her mother used to make it. The kitchen smells like sugar and citrus. The cake is cooling on the rack. You're whisking the glaze.

She comes home. That look. She walks into the kitchen and stops.

"You baked?"

"Your mom's lemon cake. Or my version of it."

She looks at the cake. At the clean kitchen — you cleaned as you went. At the glaze you're whisking. At the apron you're wearing because you didn't want to stain your shirt.

"Come here," she says.

You set down the whisk. She steps close. Puts her hands on your chest. Looks up at you with an expression so tender it almost breaks you.

"You're incredible. You know that?"

Her hand slides down your chest. Your stomach. Under the apron. Finds the waistband of your sweatpants. Dips inside. Her fingers close around your cock — hard, waiting, ready. Standing on parade. Eager for her hand.

"Does your little guy need some attention after all that hard work?"

Little guy.

She's never called it that before — but the name fits. The name has always fit. Your cock in her hand, small enough for her fingers to overlap, quick enough that her grip is all it takes — is a little guy. Has always been a little guy. You just never heard anyone say it.

"Yes," you whisper.

"I bet he does." She strokes you slowly. Right there at the kitchen counter. The cake cooling behind you. The glaze unfinished. The apron still on. "He's been pressing against your sweatpants all day, hasn't he? While you were baking. While you were cleaning. Getting all excited."

"All day."

"Poor little guy." She squeezes gently. "All worked up with nobody to take care of him."

She strokes faster. Her mouth near your ear.

"I'll always take care of him for you, sweetie. You do your chores. You take care of the house. And I'll take care of your little guy. That's how it works now, isn't it?"

You're thrusting into her hand. The counter pressing into your lower back. The smell of lemon cake. The clean kitchen. The panties drying on the rack in the bathroom. Her hand on your cock. Your little guy in her grip.

"Isn't it, sweetie?"

"Yes."

"Good boy. Do you want to come for me?"

You groan. Still humping her hand, sawing back and forth, rushing toward release. "Yes."

"Come for me. That's it. Good boy."

You come. Into her hand. At the kitchen counter. In the house you cleaned for her. Your cum spilling over her fingers while the cake cools and the glaze waits and in the bathroom her panties are drying on the rack — the ones with the heavy stain, the ones you washed by hand, the ones you don't talk about — just like you don't talk about wherever she was this afternoon before she came home to find her good boy in an apron with a hard cock and a lemon cake.

She wipes her hand on the kitchen towel. Picks it up. Looks at it. Drops it in the hamper by the laundry room door.

"I'll let you take care of that," she says.

She walks to the table. Sits down. Looks at the cake.

"Can I have a slice now or do I have to wait for the glaze?"

You pull up your sweatpants. You finish the glaze. You slice the cake. You serve her.

She takes a bite. Closes her eyes.

"This is perfect, sweetie."

She reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And you do. More than ever. The clean house. The lemon cake. Her hand on yours across the table. The cum drying on the kitchen towel in the hamper. The panties on the rack. The taste on your tongue. Her little guy in your sweatpants, soft now, spent, tended, taken care of.

This is your marriage now.

It works.

This is the third in a series about a wife, her husband, and the marriage she decided to rebuild — on her terms, in her time, with her hand.

Previous: Part I: Don't Wait on Dinner | Part II: I Had a Dream

Next: Part IV - Be Gentle

The Marriage - Part II: I Had a Dream

Three days later she brings you a glass of wine.

This is unusual. Your evenings have a rhythm — dinner, clean up, the couch, something on television, the negotiation of bedtime.

She doesn't usually bring you wine on a weeknight. She doesn't usually curl into you on the couch with her legs tucked underneath her and her hand on your thigh and her head on your shoulder and the warmth of her body pressed against yours with what feels like intention.

But she has been different since that night. The night she came home late and pushed you to the floor and sat on your face and you tasted — whatever you tasted. Since then, three days of a wife you almost don't recognize. More present. More physical. More here. She touches you constantly — not sexually, just contact. Her hand on your back when she passes you in the kitchen. Her fingers in your hair while you read. A kiss on your neck from behind while you're washing dishes that makes you drop a plate into the sink.

You haven't had sex since that night. But the charge of it is still everywhere. In how she looks at you. In how your cock stirs when she walks into a room. In the taste you can still almost find on the back of your tongue if you concentrate, the taste you've replayed a hundred times without ever naming what it was.

The television is off. She turned it off before she sat down. That detail registers.

"I had a dream last night," she says.

She says it the way you might mention a strange bird you saw on the way to work. Casual. Offhand. Already looking at you to gauge your reaction.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm." She takes a sip of her wine. Sets it on the coffee table — the same coffee table where her panties sat three nights ago, the stain on the gusset visible in the dim light. You looked at them for a long time after she went to shower. You didn't pick them up. By morning they were gone. Neither of you mentioned them.

"It was one of those dreams that feels completely real," she says. "Like a memory, not a dream. Do you know the kind I mean? Where you wake up and for a few seconds you can't tell if it actually happened?"

"I know the kind."

"I woke up wet." She says it simply. No blush, no coyness. A fact. "Like, really wet. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all day."

Her hand is on your thigh. Not moving. Just resting there. Warm through the fabric.

"What was the dream?"

She looks at you. Direct, warm, a little amused. Deciding how much to share. Except you get the feeling she decided before she poured the wine.

"I was watching myself. Like there was a mirror — a big mirror, floor to ceiling — and I was watching myself. And there was a cock inside me."

Your cock stirs. She hasn't looked down but she knows. She always knows.

"Not like — it wasn't a face. It wasn't a person, really. Just a cock. And me. And the mirror." She pauses. Takes another sip. "And I could see everything."

The word hangs. Everything.

"I could see my pussy. How it was stretched. My lips — God, sweetie, my lips were gripping. Have you ever seen that? Have you ever watched a woman's pussy grip a cock?"

She's asking you. Looking at you. The question sounds like curiosity — a woman comparing notes. A wife asking her husband about porn the way she might ask about a documentary. Have you ever seen…?

Of course you've seen it. Thousands of times. On your phone, in the dark, your hand moving. Close-up shots. The stretched rim. The pink pull of flesh around a shaft.

You've watched women's pussies accommodate cocks that looked impossible and you've watched the lips cling and pull and your hand has always moved faster at that part, the part where the fit is tight and the stretch is visible and she is reshaping herself around someone.

"In porn," you say. "Yeah."

"In porn." She nods. Not judging. Filing. "But have you really looked at it? Not the performance — the mechanics. How the skin pulls taut. How her pussy opens to let him in and then closes around him like she's trying to keep him there."

Her hand has moved from your thigh to the inside of your thigh. Higher. Not on your cock — near it. You're hard. She's close enough to feel the heat of you through your pajamas.

"In my dream," she continues, "I could see it so clearly. The head of the cock pushing in and my pussy just… accepting it. And the stretch — sweetie, the stretch. I've never felt anything like it. Like being filled past the point where I should stop and then I just don't stop. I keep opening. Keep taking more."

She's not looking at you anymore. She's looking past you. Remembering. And the expression on her face — you've seen it before. Three nights ago. In the doorway. That look.

"And I could see my lips wrapped around the shaft. Pulled tight. Shiny. Pink turning white at the edges because of the stretch. And every time the cock moved — in, out — my lips moved with it. Clinging. Like they didn't want to let go."

Your cock is rigid. Pressing against the cotton. A dark spot forming where the pre-cum has soaked through. She glances down. Sees it. Her hand moves — not to your cock, but to the waistband of your pajamas. She hooks a finger inside. Tugs.

"Take these off for me."

You lift your hips. She pulls them down. Your cock springs free, slapping against your stomach. Hard. Wet. Leaking.

"There he is," she murmurs. She wraps her hand around your shaft. Starts stroking. Slow. That same rhythm from three nights ago — idle, proprietary, tending to you while her mind is elsewhere.

"Do you want to hear more?"

You hesitate. Not because you don't. Because the yes is too eager and the no is impossible and both answers expose you.

She reads the pause. Squeezes gently. "It's ok, sweetie. I want to share this with you."

"Yes."

She smiles. Not at all surprised. She continues. "In the dream, the cock was — it was big, sweetie. Not cartoonish. Not a joke. Just… big enough that I could see it in the mirror and know that my pussy was full. Completely full. Every inch of me stretched around every inch of it."

She's stroking you while she says this. Your cock in her hand. And you are seeing it — the image she's painting. A cock inside your wife. A mirror. Her pussy stretched, her lips gripping, opened and filled and reshaped around a shaft that —

That isn't yours.

She hasn't said that. She hasn't said it isn't you. She said "a cock." Indefinite. Unspecified. It could be anyone. It could be yours. She's describing a dream. Dreams don't follow rules. In a dream, your cock could be the one filling her, stretching her, making her lips pull white at the edges.

But the cock you're seeing isn't yours. And you know it. Not because she told you — because your own imagination supplied the image and the image is not of your cock.

Your cock is in her hand right now, her fingers wrapped easily around it, her thumb and forefinger overlapping, and the cock in the mirror — the one her pussy is gripping, the one that fills her completely — that cock would not fit in her hand the way yours fits. That cock would require a different grip. A wider stretch. Like her pussy.

She knows you're seeing it. She hasn't asked. She doesn't need to.

"The best part," she says, her voice lower now, her hand moving steadily, "was watching myself come. In the mirror. I could see my own face. My stomach clenching. My thighs shaking. And my pussy — God, sweetie — my pussy was pulsing around it. Squeezing. You could see the muscles working. Milking it."

Your hips are rocking. Pushing into her hand. She lets you.

"Have you ever seen a woman come like that? Really come? Not the sounds — the sounds can be anything. But her pussy squeezing in waves and you can actually see it happening?"

You have seen it. In that video. The woman who walks back into frame looking filled and done. There's a moment before the cut — when she comes, when her pussy convulses, the muscles visible, working, clenching — and your hand always speeds up at that moment.

"Yes," you say.

"I think that's the most honest thing a woman's pussy does," she says. Almost to herself. Her hand still working you. "The orgasm she can't control. The one where her pussy takes over and she has no say in it."

She tightens her grip. Strokes faster.

"I woke up from that dream and I was so wet I thought I'd come in my sleep. Maybe I did. I pressed my fingers inside myself and my pussy was swollen. Open. Like I'd actually been stretched."

She turns to look at you. Flushed. Eyes bright. The same look. Always the same look.

"Do you think dreams can do that? Make your pussy respond as if it really happened?"

"I don't know."

"My pussy felt like it had been fucked, sweetie. Really fucked. Not—"

She stops herself. Takes a breath. Her hand slows. Resumes.

"Not the way we fuck. Different. Something that left me open and swollen and wet for hours."

There it is. The first cut. Not the way we fuck. She didn't say better. She didn't say bigger. She said different. And the word sits between you, small and exact, and your cock surges in her hand because different means everything she didn't say.

"I'm sorry," she says. "That came out wrong. I just mean — in the dream — I've never felt that full. Does that make sense?"

It makes terrible, perfect sense. Your cock is throbbing and you're nodding and she's stroking and the image in your head — her pussy, a mirror, a cock that isn't yours — is playing on a loop.

"I think you're close," she says. She can feel it — the tightening, the pre-cum flooding her grip, your breath shortening. "Are you close, sweetie?"

"Yes."

"Are you thinking about it?" Her voice drops. Her mouth near your ear. Her hand gripping your shaft on each upstroke, her thumb pressing the ridge on each downstroke, and your hips are pushing up to meet her, fucking her fist. "What I described. The mirror. My pussy stretched around a cock. My lips gripping it."

"Yes."

"Can you picture it, sweetie?" She strokes in time with her words, each sentence timed to a full stroke the way a woman times a lullaby to a rocking chair. "Can you see how full my pussy is? Can you see my lips glistening as the cock thrusts in and out of me?" Your cock sliding through her grip, wet, slick, the same rhythm, the same motion. "How deep I'm being penetrated with each upward plunge?" Her hand tightens on the upstroke. Your hips thrust. Her hand. His cock. The mirror. "Can you see me impaled, sweetie? Split open? My pussy stretched so wide?"

"Yes — God — yes —"

"Good." She grips harder. Strokes faster. "Come for me, sweetie. Come while you're watching my pussy take a cock that fills me completely."

You come. Violent. Your cum arcing over her hand, over your stomach, your whole body convulsing while she strokes you through it and the image behind your eyes — her pussy, a mirror, a cock, stretched, full, gripping, her lips clinging — burns into permanent memory.

She holds your cock through the aftershocks. Gentle now. Slowing. Waiting until the last shudder passes. Then she lifts her hand — wet, streaked with your cum — and looks at it. At the mess you made for her. She closes her fingers around it. Opens them. Watches the strands stretch and break between her fingers. Then she wipes her hand on your stomach. Adding your cum to the pool already cooling there.

"Good boy," she says quietly.

She gets up. Picks up the wine glasses. Pauses by the couch. Looks down at you — on your back, cock softening, cum cooling, the image still playing behind your eyes.

"Sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"I hope I have that dream again." She says it simply. Like a wish. Like a woman hoping for good weather. "If I do, can I share it with you?"

"Yes."

She bends down. Kisses your forehead. Her lips warm. Her hand briefly on your cheek.

"I love you," she says.

She walks to the kitchen. You hear the water running. The glasses being washed.

You're on the couch. Your cock is soft. Your stomach is sticky. The image is still there — the mirror, the cock, the stretch, her lips gripping, your wife's face watching herself be filled by something you didn't supply.

She never said it wasn't your cock.

You never asked.

And your cock — soft, spent, already beginning to stir in the cool air of the living room — knows which cock it was. Has known since the first sentence. Saw what your mind refused to see, and responded the way it always responds to the things you can't admit.

With hunger. With helpless, desperate, shameful hunger.

The taste from three nights ago is back in your mouth. You're not sure if it's real or if your body is conjuring it — pairing the memory of her pussy on your face with the image of her pussy in the mirror. The two images are merging, becoming one, and in that merged image there is a cock and it is not yours and her lips are gripping it and she is coming and you are underneath her swallowing everything and your cock is hard again.

Already. Again.

You don't touch it.

Not because she told you not to.

Because it feels like something you should ask permission for.

This is the second in a series about a wife, her husband, and the marriage she decided to rebuild — on her terms, in her time, with her hand.

Previous: Part I: Don't Wait on Dinner

Next: Part III: She shows you have to take care of her things.

The Marriage - Part I: Don't Wait on Dinner

Your wife's text came at seven-forty.

Running late. Don't wait on dinner. xx

Two kisses. No explanation. Not that she needed to give you one. You weren't that kind of man. And yours wasn't that kind of marriage. Yours was the kind where you eat dinner at the table most nights and she asks about your day and you ask about hers and the answers are honest enough. You have sex twice a week, sometimes three times. You initiate. She accommodates. It's fine. You think she comes — she makes the right sounds. You cuddle after, just the way she likes it.

And you don't fight. You barely even argue. You did once. Early on — over what, you can't remember. You were raising your voice, getting heated, and she reached across the table and touched your arm and said, "Sweetie, stop." And you stopped. Just like that. The argument dissolved. That's how disagreements work in your house. She touches your arm. She says the word. You stop.

Fourteen months of a good marriage. A fine marriage. She tells you she loves you and you believe her because she does.

But there is something about those two kisses. She usually sends one. Two isn't evidence — more a ripple on a pond than a wave on an ocean.

But there have been more ripples lately. Nothing dramatic. Just a shift. A Thursday three weeks ago when she came home from drinks with colleagues, her cheeks flushed, her laugh a half-beat too bright. Her phone lighting up with texts she reads and doesn't mention. A Saturday where she spent forty minutes getting ready for what she said was brunch with Laura, and came home four hours later with her hair different and a look on her face you couldn't place. Small things. The kind you'd feel crazy saying aloud.

You notice the ripples because you notice everything about your wife. How she tilts her head when she's pretending to listen. The specific sigh before she says something difficult. The fact that she sleeps on her left side but wakes up on her right. You know her coffee order at three different cafés. You know which shoes give her blisters and which earrings she saves for days when she needs confidence. You've been tracking her small data since your first date, quietly — without announcement, without expectation of credit. Because you love her. Deeply. Unconditionally. And she loves you. It's fine. It's all been fine.

Two kisses. You filed it.

It's nine-thirty. She isn't home.

You're on the couch. The television is on. You're not watching it. You're watching the door — not anxiously, not accusingly. Patiently. Expectantly. A dog at a door.

You hear the car.

Engine off. Door. Her heels on the walkway — not the work flats she left in, you realize. Different shoes. When did she change shoes?

The front door opens. Keys on the hook. Bag on the counter.

She doesn't call out. She walks straight to the living room. Stands in the doorway.

And she looks — you don't have a word for it. Not drunk, not giddy, not mussed. Radiant but subdued. Like a cooking element that has just been turned down to simmer. Her face is serene but her lips are glistening and her eyes carry a hunger you haven't seen in months. Maybe ever. You feel certain you've seen this look before on a woman but you can't place the memory or the image.

You don't make the connection. Not yet. It's a flicker — your brain trying to overlay two images and then letting go. But your cock stirs. Your cock noticed.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey. You're late."

"I know. It ran long." She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't apologize. She crosses the room. She doesn't sit. She stands in front of you — close, looking down at where you're sitting on the couch. Her hand finds your hair. Fingers combing through it. Slow.

"What are you watching?"

"Nothing."

She takes the remote from the arm of the couch. Turns off the television. The room goes quiet.

"Good. Because I don't want to watch anything."

She takes your hand. Pulls you up from the couch. For a moment you think she's leading you to the bedroom — but she doesn't move toward the hallway. She's standing right there. Right in front of you. Her eyes on yours.

Then she drops to her knees.

Your breath catches. She's on her knees in front of you, hands already on your belt, working the buckle with efficiency. Your button. Your zipper. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and your boxers together and pulls the whole rig down in one motion. Your cock springs free — already half-hard, already responding to the energy radiating off her like heat from pavement.

She looks at your cock. Doesn't touch it. Just looks. A small smile crosses her face — not a smirk, not cruel. Private. Satisfied. As if she's confirming a thought she had on the drive home.

Your cock is fully hard now, bobbing in front of her face. You're waiting. She's on her knees. This is the geometry that means one thing in every video you've ever watched alone with your phone and your hand and your fantasies.

But she doesn't take you in her mouth.

She looks up at you from her knees. Warm. Certain. Amused by something you're not in on.

Then her hands find your hips and she pulls you down. Firmly. The way you'd guide a child to sit. You go to your knees, facing her. Your jeans and boxers tangled at your ankles. Naked from the waist down. She's still fully clothed — the blouse, the skirt, the different shoes.

She kisses you. Deep. Her tongue in your mouth. She tastes like wine and arousal and something electric underneath. She kisses you like she's been storing it up. Like you're the reward at the end of a challenging day.

She pulls back. Puts her hand on your chest. Pushes — gently, steadily — and you go down. Onto your back. On the living room floor. The carpet rough against your shoulder blades, the ceiling above you, the coffee table at the edge of your vision.

"The bedroom—" you start.

"No. I need you right now. I can't wait."

She stands and hovers over you. You're looking straight up at her — the underside of her jaw, her throat, the buttons of her blouse. She's backlit by the overhead light and she looks enormous. Her hands are working at her hips under her skirt, and then the panties slide down her thighs. Black. She steps out of them, one foot then the other, and tosses them onto the coffee table behind her.

In the half-second before she moves, you see. Looking up from the floor — her standing over you, her skirt hiked, her legs parted — you catch a glimpse. Her pussy. And it is different. Swollen. Thick. The lips puffy and flushed in a way you haven't seen — not from your foreplay, not from anything you've done together. And there — you're not sure, it's just a flash — a pearl of white at the crease of her pussy that could be her cream, could be her arousal, could be —

She lowers herself.

She turns as she descends — facing your feet, not your face. Her knees land on either side of your head. Her skirt falls like a curtain. The light disappears. You're under her skirt, in the dark, and then her weight settles and her pussy presses against your mouth and the taste fills your world.

The taste.

She is wet. Wetter than you've ever known her. Not the familiar slick warmth from going down on her in bed after fifteen minutes of kissing and touching. This is thicker. Richer. A saltiness underneath, a heaviness that coats your tongue. Her and more than her. Layered. Like tasting a sauce and knowing there's an ingredient you can't identify but your mouth keeps searching for.

She grinds against you.

"That's it, sweetie. Right there."

You can't see anything. Her skirt has sealed you in. There is only her pussy, her weight, her taste, and the muffled sound of her breathing above you. You work your tongue against her — find her clit, press, circle. She gasps. Swollen there too, the bud thick and sensitive. She flinches when you suck, then pushes back against your mouth. More. Deeper. Harder.

"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

You don't stop. She's riding your face — rolling her hips, using you — and her thighs are trembling against your ears and the sounds she's making are not the sounds from your bed. Not the polite, measured, this-is-nice sounds. These are deeper. Rawer.

Her pussy is grinding against your face, pressing herself onto your tongue, urging you deeper, past her lips, and you're rooting around inside her hunting for that taste, that warmth you can't name but your cock registers — twitching, leaking, untouched, rigid, straining toward the ceiling while you swallow everything she gives you.

She comes.

Not the way she comes when you have sex — the held breath, the quiet shudder, the controlled finish. This is a different woman. She cries out. Her hips buck against your face. Her thighs clamp your head. You feel her whole body convulse — her stomach, her thighs, the tight ring of muscle pressing against your nose clenching and releasing in spasms she can't fake and isn't trying to. Her pussy clenches against your mouth. A fresh flood of that taste — her, and the other, and all of it — spills across your tongue. You swallow.

She goes limp. Her weight settles fully onto you. Breathing hard. You can hear her — muffled through her skirt, through her thighs, through the wet seal of her body against your face. For a long moment she stays there. Pinning you. Recovering.

"Oh my god," she whispers.

She lifts herself. The light returns. She swings her leg over and sits beside you on the floor — legs extended, back against the couch, breathing still ragged. She looks down at you — your wet face, your swollen lips, your stunned expression — and she smiles. A real smile. The kind you haven't seen in weeks.

"You're so good at that." She brushes the hair off your forehead. "Why don't we do that more?"

She's sitting with her feet near your head, her hip aligned with yours. She can see your cock — rigid, flushed, leaking a thread of pre-cum onto your stomach. It's been straining since she walked through the door and nobody has touched it.

She reaches over. Her hand closes around you. Warm. Firm. Proprietary.

"Oh, sweetie. Look at you."

She starts stroking. Slow. Almost idle. She's gotten what she needed and now she's tending to your cock without urgency. Secondary. Manageable.

"You liked that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I could tell." Her thumb swipes across the head. Your pre-cum slicks her grip. "You were so hard the whole time. Every time I moved, your cock jumped."

She pauses. Looks at you lying there — flat on your back, naked from the waist down, your shirt rucked up, knees bent, feet flat on the floor.

"Open your legs for me, sweetie."

You hesitate.

"Go on. Knees apart. Let me see you."

You let your knees fall open. Heels together, legs spread. Your cock standing straight up from your body. Your balls exposed, drawn tight. Completely open to her.

She looks. Not at your face — at your cock, your balls, the whole exposed arrangement of you. Assessing. Cataloging. An expression you can't read.

Her hand slides from your cock down to your balls. Cups them. Warm fingers weighing you, rolling you gently. She's never held you like this — not with this kind of attention, this deliberate focus. Your normal sex doesn't include her studying your testicles the way a woman might study a piece of fruit at the market.

"You're so eager," she says quietly. Her hand moves back to your cock. Resumes the stroking. Firmer now. "I love how eager you are for me."

She leans over. Her mouth near your ear. Her hand working steadily.

"I'm going to do that more, sweetie. Come home and sit on your face. Would you like that?"

"Yes."

"We've been in a rut. Both of us. I've been thinking about it — about how we can make things better. And I think…" She strokes faster. Her grip tightening. "I think I know what we need."

You're close. So close. Your hips are lifting off the floor, pushing into her hand, and she lets you — lets you fuck her fist the way she just fucked your face — and her voice is in your ear, low and warm and certain.

"Just like that. Good boy."

You come. Hard. Your back arching off the carpet, your cum spurting over her hand, over your stomach, your whole body jerking in helpless pulses while she strokes you through it — firm, steady, unhurried. She milks every spasm. Waits until you're shaking. Waits until you're done.

She wipes her hand on your shirt. Casually. The way you'd wipe your hands on a napkin.

"I'm going to shower," she says. Stands. Stretches. Satisfied. Settled. Looks down at you — spread open on the living room floor, your cum cooling on your stomach, your face still wet with her.

She pauses in the doorway. Looks back.

"Sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"This was a good night." She smiles. "I'm going to sleep so well tonight."

She disappears down the hall. The shower starts.

You're on the floor. Your legs are still open. Your cock is softening against your thigh. Your face is drying. The taste is still in your mouth — her, and the other, and the thing under the other that you can't name.

You stare at the ceiling. And the earlier image comes back. Her face when she first stood in the doorway. You know now where you've seen that look. In a video. The video. The one you watch again and again. Late at night, your hand moving, the one you return to more than you'd admit — where the woman walks back into frame after being completely filled and fucked, hair wrecked, lips swollen, and she has that look. Not smug. Not performative. Just done. Completed. Satiated.

You didn't make the connection when your wife walked in. You're making it now. Lying on the floor. Your cum on your stomach. Her taste on your tongue.

The connection isn't a thought. It isn't words. It's a pulse — a hot, sick, electric jolt that runs from your brain to your cock, and your cock twitches even though you just came, even though there's nothing left, even though your body should be done.

Your head rolls to the side. Her panties are on the coffee table. There's a dark stain on the gusset visible even in the dim light.

You don't pick them up.

But you don't look away.

This is the first in a series about a wife, her husband, and the marriage she decided to rebuild — on her terms, in her time, with her hand.

Next: She tells you about a dream she had.

The Marriage - Part V: The Gift

The box is on the bed when you get home from work.

Not wrapped. Not ribboned. Just a small white box, the kind that might hold jewelry or a wallet, sitting in the center of the duvet. No card. No note.

She's in the kitchen. You can hear her — the clink of ice, the pour. She's making herself a drink, which means she's been home for a while, which means the box has been sitting there waiting for you while you drove home and hung up your jacket and took off your shoes.

"There's something on the bed for you," she calls. As if you might have missed it.

You pick up the box. Open it.

Panties. Folded neatly in tissue paper. Burgundy with a scalloped lace edge and a small bow at the front. Delicate. Feminine. Women's panties.

And not just any shade — the same deep burgundy as the pair she wore that night. The night you chose them for her. The night she stepped into them at the mirror and turned and asked how she looked and you said beautiful and she smiled and went out and came home smelling like someone else.

The same panties. A matching pair. His and hers.

She appears in the doorway. Drink in hand. Watching you hold them.

"They're a gift from Jack."

Five words. Said the way you'd say there's mail on the counter. The most ordinary sentence in the world containing the most extraordinary fact of your marriage. Jack. In your bedroom. In a sentence about a gift. For you.

You stare at the panties. At her. Your mouth opens.

"Try them on," she says.

"I don't — these are—"

"Sweetie." She crosses the room. Sits on the edge of the bed. Sets her drink on the nightstand. Takes your hand — the one holding the panties. "Jack picked these out for you. He put real thought into it. The color. The size. The fabric."

"But they're women's panties."

She pauses. Looks at you. Not surprised — she expected this. She's been managing you for months and she knows exactly where the wall is and exactly how to walk you around it.

"Jack understands this might be a lot. He wanted you to have something to help. Something to remind you. Something to comfort you."

"Remind me of what?"

She tilts her head. That puzzled look — as if you've asked the most obvious question in the world and she can't quite believe you need it answered.

"That there's only one real man in our marriage, sweetie."

The sentence hangs in the bedroom. One real man.

"There's only one man who wears men's underwear," she continues. Gently. Patiently. "And Jack was so thoughtful — he thought it would be sweet if our panties matched. Mine and yours. And now they will."

She touches the lace edge. Runs her finger along the scalloped trim. The same gesture she used on her own pair when she pulled them from the drawer that night.

"I'm still a man," you say. Your voice is thin. Your cock is rigid in your work pants.

She looks at you. Tender. Certain. Kind.

"Stand up for me, sweetie."

You stand. She reaches for your belt. Unbuckles. Unbuttons. Unzips. She pushes your pants and your boxers down together — the plain cotton ones you've worn every day of your adult life — and they drop to your ankles. Your cock springs free. Hard. Leaking. Pointing at her.

She wraps her hand around it. Sits on the edge of the bed with your cock in her grip, looking up at you. Not stroking yet. Just holding.

"Of course you're a man, sweetie. But not in the bedroom. Not between my legs."

She starts stroking. Slow. That idle, proprietary rhythm. The rhythm that has replaced sex in your marriage. Her hand moves along your shaft while she talks.

"Jack is right about this." A slow downstroke. "Your boxers confuse things." Her thumb over the head. "They confuse you." An upstroke. "They confuse your little guy." Her grip tightens at the base. "You put on boxers and some part of you still thinks you're the man who goes inside me." Downstroke. "And that just makes it harder for everyone."

Your hips are rocking. Pushing into her fist. She lets you.

"Panties help, sweetie." Upstroke. "They remind you that when it comes to sex, you're not a man." Downstroke, slow, her thumb smearing the pre-cum that has pooled at the tip. "You're like me. A girl." Upstroke. "And Jack is our man." She holds you at the base. Squeezes. "The only man with a cock that's designed to stretch and fill my pussy."

She resumes. Steady. Patient. Her eyes on yours.

"Your little guy is different. He's sweet and he's eager and I love taking care of him. But he's not designed for pussy. He's never been meant for pussy."

Your cock is throbbing in her hand. Your legs are trembling. You're close — dangerously close — and she can feel it. The tightening. The urgency. The way your hips have started those short, desperate thrusts.

She slows. Almost stops. Holds you at the edge.

"And that's okay," she says. "That's not a failure. That's just who you are. And these—" She nods toward the panties on the bed beside her. "—these will help him feel settled. Comfortable. He won't have to pretend in boxers anymore. He can just be your little guy, in his panties, where he belongs."

She takes her hand away.

You gasp. Your cock bobs in the air. Wet. Rigid. Abandoned. The orgasm was right there — one more stroke, two — and she pulled back.

She stands. Picks up the panties. Holds them in the hand that was just around your cock. The fabric against her wet fingers.

"Jack wanted you to have these panties because he cares about our marriage. He knows how important you are to me. He knows that what you give me — the house, the care, the way you tend to everything — he can't give me that. Only you can."

She touches your cheek with her dry hand. "But he doesn't want you confused about your role. He'll be the man in our bedroom. His cock is the only one that goes between my legs. That stretches and fills my pussy. Not yours. Not ever again. The panties are his way of saying that — I'll tend to her needs in bed. You see to her needs in life. He wants you comfortable. Positioned. Settled in your place so you can be the best version of yourself. For him. For me. For all of us."

She holds the panties out to you. Your cock is still hard. Still wet. Still desperate for the hand that isn't coming back.

"Your little guy wasn't designed for pussy, sweetie. And a penis that doesn't go inside pussy belongs in panties. Like a girl." She kisses your forehead. "Your place is right here. With me. In our home. That hasn't changed. It won't change. Now let's get these on you. You'll feel better. I promise."

You take them. The fabric is soft between your fingers. Feminine. Delicate. Designed for a body that doesn't need room. Designed for a little guy.

She kneels in front of you. Takes the panties back. Holds them open.

"Step in."

You step in. One foot, then the other. She slides the fabric up your legs. Over your thighs. Settles the waistband on your hips. Her fingers tuck your cock — your little guy — into the front. The fabric is cool against your skin. Thin. The front panel barely contains you. Your cock presses against the burgundy and the outline is visible — every ridge, the wet spot already forming where the tip meets the fabric.

She stands. Steps back. Looks at you.

Then she turns you toward the mirror. Their mirror. The one from the dream. The one with the thumbprint.

You see yourself. In burgundy panties. Matching hers. Your little guy making a modest tent in the front. The lace edge on your hips. The small bow at the front.

She stands behind you. Her chin on your shoulder. Her arms around your waist. Both of you looking at your reflection.

"They suit you," she says quietly.

And they do. The boxers were a costume — packaging for a man you were pretending to be. These are honest. These fit what you actually are. Your little guy in his feminine wrapping. Your narrow hips in the delicate cut. Your body in panties that were chosen by the man who fucks your wife, delivered by the woman who loves you, worn by the boy who just surrendered the last piece of his manhood at the bedroom mirror and felt — not grief. Not shame.

Relief.

She studies you in the glass. Her eyes moving from your face to your chest to the panties to the small bulge they contain. That assessing, cataloging look.

"Jack has good taste," she says. "He picked the right color. The right size." She adjusts the waistband at your hip. Smooths the fabric over your thigh. "He knew you'd look good in panties."

The sentence sits. He knew. Past tense. Jack looked at your wife and pictured you in panties and decided: yes. That one will look good.

"He asked you to send him a photo."

Your stomach drops. Your cock surges against the fabric.

"As a thank you. As confirmation that you accept your role." She says it simply. The way she says everything now. "I told him your little guy would love them. He can't wait to see how you look."

She steps away from you. You're standing at the mirror. Alone in your reflection.

"Turn around for me, sweetie."

You turn. Face her. Your cock straining against the burgundy, the wet spot visible.

She's holding your phone.

Your phone. From your pants on the floor. She must have fished it from the pocket while you were looking at yourself in the mirror. She's already unlocked it — she knows your passcode, she's always known it, the way she knows your coffee order and your shoe size and every other piece of your small data.

She raises the phone. Frames you.

"Stand straight. Hands at your sides."

You stand straight. Hands at your sides. She takes the photo. Checks it. Nods.

"Now turn to the side. Profile."

You turn. She takes another. You can hear the shutter sound — your phone, your camera, capturing you in Jack's panties.

"And face the mirror. I want to get you from behind."

You turn. Face the mirror. See yourself — and behind you, reflected, your wife with your phone raised, framing the shot. The panties from behind. The lace across your hips. The bow at the small of your back. She takes the photo.

"Perfect."

She sits on the edge of the bed. Your phone in her hands. Her thumbs moving on the screen. Typing. You stand there in your panties, watching your wife compose a message to her lover on your phone, attaching three photos of you in the gift he sent.

She types. Reads it back to herself. Smiles. Hits send.

The whoosh sound. Your phone. Your message thread. Jack's name now in your contacts, put there by your wife's thumb. Three photos of you in burgundy panties traveling from your device to the man who fucks her.

She sets your phone on the nightstand. Looks up at you.

"Come here."

You cross the room. She's sitting on the bed. You stand in front of her. The same geometry as before she knelt to put the panties on you — except now you're the one in feminine underwear and she's the one looking up at you with that warm, steady, devastating calm.

She reaches for you. Her hand finds the front of the panties. She doesn't pull them down. She doesn't slip her hand inside. She presses her palm flat against the fabric and starts rubbing. Slow circles. Her palm against your little guy through the thin, smooth material.

"Jack said something when he gave me these," she says. Her hand working in slow circles while she talks. "He said he wants you to wear them every day. He said that every time you feel the fabric, you should remember that there's one man in my life and it isn't you."

She rubs. Steady. Your hips rocking into her palm.

"But you know what I told him?"

You shake your head. You can't speak. Her hand on your panties. Jack's words in her mouth. Your cock pressed flat against your stomach through the burgundy fabric, every stroke of her palm sliding the material across your head.

"I told him that you're not less. You're different. That what you give me — the house, the care, the tenderness, the way you eat my pussy when I come home — Jack can't give me that. Only you can. You're my husband. You're my foundation."

She rubs faster. Pressing harder. The fabric sliding against your cock with each circle.

"So wear the panties. Wear them for Jack because he asked. Wear them for me because they suit you. And wear them for yourself because this is who you are."

Her hand grips through the fabric. Rubbing fast now. Your hips thrusting, humping her palm, the friction of the material against your cock building and building —

"My sweet husband. In his burgundy panties. With his little guy making his little spurts—"

You come. Inside the panties. Before she finishes the sentence. The orgasm rips through you — your cum pulsing against the fabric, soaking through, warm and wet against your skin. You watch it happen — the dark stain across the front panel, spreading, your body shuddering while her palm keeps rubbing, milking your little guy through the soaked material.

She holds her hand there until you stop trembling. Then she pulls back. Looks at the wet stain on the panties. At your cock softening inside the damp fabric.

"Good boy," she says.

She stands. Picks up her drink from the nightstand. Takes a sip. Looks at you — standing in your stained panties, your cum cooling against your skin, Jack's gift christened.

"Sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"I was reading something the other day. And I came across a phrase." She pauses. Looks at you. That warm, steady gaze. "Pussy-free."

She lets the word settle. Watches your face. Then she smiles — not a smirk, not triumphant. A genuine, delighted smile. As if she's found exactly the right word for a feeling she's been trying to describe for months.

"Pussy-free. I love that. Don't you think it's perfect? It's so soft. So warm. Not aggressive. Not mean. Just… accurate."

Your cock twitches inside the damp fabric. The word in her mouth. The smile on her face.

"Now you say it, sweetie. Tell me what you are."

Your throat tightens. The bedroom is quiet. Your cum is cooling against your skin inside Jack's panties and your wife is looking at you with so much tenderness that it almost doesn't feel like what it is.

"I'm pussy-free," you say.

The words come out small. Almost a whisper. But you said them. From your own mouth. In your own voice. You named yourself.

She touches your cheek. Her fingertips light against your skin.

"Good."

A pause. Her eyes holding yours.

"I'm so proud of you." She means it. You can hear it — the sincerity underneath, the relief, the love. She's proud of you for saying the thing she's been building toward for weeks. The thing your cock already knew. The thing your tongue already tasted. The thing the panties already confirmed. You just gave it a name.

"That's not a punishment," she says. "That's not because you failed. It's because our marriage works better this way. I'm happier. You're happier. And your little guy—" She glances down. The stain. The softening bulge inside the burgundy fabric. "—is taken care of. That's what matters."

She sets her drink down. Heads for the door.

"I'm going to start dinner. Why don't you clean yourself up. Wash your panties. You know the routine."

She pauses in the doorway.

"And sweetie? You'll wear a fresh pair tomorrow. Jack sent three."

She disappears down the hall. You hear her in the kitchen. Cabinet doors. A pan on the stove. She's cooking tonight.

You stand in the bedroom. In your stained panties. Your cum against your skin. The mirror behind you. Jack's gift on your body. Her words in your ears. Three photos of you in burgundy panties now living on Jack's phone, sent from yours.

You peel the panties off. Walk to the bathroom. Run the cold water. Add the soap.

You wash your panties by hand. The same routine you use for hers. Cold water. Gentle soap. Press. Don't twist. The cum dissolves in the water, clouds the basin. Your cum this time. Not Jack's. But the ritual is the same. The same sink. The same hands. The same man — the same boy — washing fabric clean.

You lay them flat on the rack. Burgundy lace on the white surface. Next to a pair of hers from earlier in the week.

Matching panties. Drying on the same rack.

His and hers.

You go to the kitchen. She's at the stove. Stirring something. She looks over her shoulder when you walk in.

"Feel better?"

"Yeah."

She smiles.

"I love you, sweetie."

"I love you too."

You set the table. She finishes dinner. You eat together. She talks about her day. You talk about yours. Her hand finds yours across the table.

This is your marriage now.

It works.

This is the fifth in a series about a wife, her husband, and the marriage she decided to rebuild — on her terms, in her time, with her hand.

Previous: Part I: Don't Wait on Dinner | Part II: I Had a Dream | Part III: I'll Let You Take Care of That | Part IV: Be Gentle

Next: Part VI: The Correction

Good Friday, Tumblr world! Dominant Men and Ladies, submissive men and girls! This gif was taken from some picture on BDSMLR, and under it was a long quote about her forcing her subby boy to lick her feet.

First of all, that would tickle me so bad that kick in the face would have left a bruise.

Second of all, my husband loves to kiss my feet. But I want to talk about HOW he does. It's in this... worshipful way. Deep. He breathings, kisses slowly and caresses me with his lips. It's sensual.

And the point I'm making is, it's not subservient. It's not that he's some pathetic dog that needs to lick my feet. The energy is one of devotion, or worship, let's call it that. And depth. He's usually got a smile on his face, and a grimace, because kissing my feet makes his cock throb in it's cage.

There is a price to worship my feet...

My husband introduced me to Male Chastity.  He brought to my attention there was something called a Cock Cage.  I thought that sounded immediately fun, and told him to go ahead and order one.

A week or so later this plastic CB-600 cage showed up! Yes, let’s put it on right now!

I immediately thought it was great fun, and loved to make him wear it and torture him with teasing.  What was not to like? I just thought it was fun. It immediately put a smile on my face, but then again, I didn’t take it more seriously than that. It was fun.

But he always wanted ‘more’… and I admit I saw it as just ‘another thing to do’.  It’s not that I didn’t want to do things for my husband, I did, I just started to see it as something more I had to do, and we were both busy.

But what changed was when I saw that Male Chastity games were for ME TOO. I wanted him locked, because I got what I wanted.  And I really liked getting what I wanted.  I was good at receiving what I wanted.

I just didn’t want to work for it as if it were a burden!  But then I saw it as a co creative game between the two of us. And I started to really look at what I got from this arrangement. 

What do I get from Male Chastity?

A Body Servant -  My husband daily rubs my shoulders, or my feet.  At least once a week he sets up the massage table and I get a deep, full, 2 hour massage.  When we watch TV, he sits behind me and rubs my shoulders.  I don’t get tired of this. I don’t rub him back, though I am affectionate with him. I’ve gotten used to his strong hands giving my body the work it needs, daily.  This is just the way it is, and I love it.  I hear from other women whose men hardly ever touch them, and I’m shocked. I’m spoiled for usre.

A Sex Slave – My husband’s focus is on pleasing me sexually.  I don’t care about pleasing him sexually. We have sex when I want, and I get the orgasms.  There is an old Quinn Klaxon caption that says: Only She Cums. Yep.  I have as many orgasms as I want, and I want far more now that we have this arrangement, and he doesn’t have any, or very few.  Doesn’t bother me at all. My sexual pleasure first, and really… only my sexual pleasure.  He serves me fully in this regard. (And yes, I realize he gains great sexual pleasure from serving me, and touching me, and seeing me in pleasure).

Cook/Housekeeper – My husband does a lot of housekeeping, and most of the cooking.  I clean dishes once in a while, and the house, because I enjoy helping out and I’m a part of the family.  But he does the most of it, and I’m happy about that. The best part is that he does it the WAY I LIKE IT.

Gentleman – My husband treats me with deep masculine respect, and takes care of me like a true gentleman. In speech, in attention, and in service. He’s there for me, he’s strong, he’s mostly silent, he’s still, and he’s my rock upon which I am secure.  I love his deep masculine strength and how he takes care of me. 

Fun – It’s a lot of fun to keep your man locked and focused on you. The power, the teasing, the love, the service, sometimes even the sadism (just a little!). Yeah… I get a lot of fun and creativity from the whole thing.

So What Does He Get?

Writing that out it sounds very one sided, but it’s actually not.  To understand that let’s look at something I read years ago. 

A Submissive wants to told what to do. 

A masochist needs pain. 

A slave is pure service to his/her Domme/Dom.

While we have fun with me telling him what to do, and punishing him and torturing him and teasing him… deeply my husband loves me and channels all of his sexual energy into a depth of connection through service. It’s kinky weird, but it really isn’t. It’s love. Deep service not just to me, but to the FEMININE.  He’s powerful man who chooses to channel is love in a certain way.  He’s not unlike Taoist sexual masters who avoid orgasm and circulate their energy in full body orgasms.  Again, we are kinky, and have a shit ton of fun with that stuff… but deep underneath it all, this is a loving partnership relationship that keeps the spice going long, long, after most people’s has faded.

He also gets a shit ton of sexual energy from me.  We play like we were kids.  Still. Year after year.  Something about teasing the shit out of him…

So What Are My Duties?

This was the part that got me started writing. You see, I wanted him to do all of the things above without me having to do anything.  I know.  Kind of shitty, but it went back to old stuff in my head about sexual duties. I’ve got to do all this stuff… FOR HIM.  Then I realized A) I like doing things for him, and B) keeping him in chastity actually is a FUN sexual duty and C) It pays off (see above list).

Keep Him In Slave Mode

There is a place he goes to in service to me, that is slave, it’s an emotionally charged depth of love and service, and it’s what keeps him going.  It sexually charged submission slave service. It’s not the submission I was talking about above, it’s the SLAVE offering, of a man willing to die for his family to protect them.  Intimately connected to death in some ways.  But this is a ‘sexually charged’ submission, a state of being. That’s my job, to feed that state. Keep him in this ‘submissive’ state.  That requires me to be dominant, and these are the things I do to stay dominant, and keep him submissive.

One – Control His Cock With a Cock Cage – Control the orgasm, control the male. He is kept in chastity longer and longer now.  It works. He enjoys it, it’s a fun challenge for him, and I enjoy, it gives me power and pleasure, and it deepens his submission.  Gives him access to a deeper masculine focus on the feminine.

Two –Service – He wants to do things for me. Give him things to do, and do it in a sexy way.  Part of the game is MAKING him do it.  FORCING him to do it. Now of course, he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, he’s grown man, but if I TELL HIM to lick my pussy, or clean the house, in a dominant sexy way, we both have a lot more fun.  I used to think it was a job to give him things to do, but then I realized I was doing that all the time anyway. Can you take the trash out? Can you pick up eggs on the way home? Can you call your Mother and tell her we are going to be late for Sunday dinner?  Can you give me a footrub, my heels are killing me from walking in them all day at work?  Can you change the oil in the car? I ask him for things ALL THE TIME… anyway.  So why not making it a game and TELL HIM he has to do it because he’s a slave?  Yes, it’s more work, but it works, and it’s actually fun. And why not make taking the trash out fun?

Three – Discipline – My husband benefits from being beaten once in a while, I think it’s a BODY thing, not that he needs it, and I have a bit of a sadist streak liking to beat him.  Also… there is the sexy POWER dynamic. I tell him to do something, he doesn’t do it, there are consequences. It’s sexy. It’s powerful. He breaks the rules once in a while just to feel my power, which then gives him that deep slave feeling.  So yes, I have to discipline him sometimes, and it can be really fun, and really creative. I’ve come up with some really fucked up punishments. I impress myself sometimes. He tests the limits of my rule… and sometimes I get tired of that… but things are always better if I stay firm and consistent.

Four – Tease and Denial – Build suspense.  Give him energy, give him energy… and pull it back last second. This seems cruel, if someone did it to me I would slit their throat, but he loves it and I love it too.  It’s a big part of the work… giving him that pleasure of teasing… and it helps put him into slave mode, which gives me more focus on me. 

Five – Experience as much pleasure as possible. Porn stars make ridiculous noise for a reason. The masculine LOVES to see the feminine in pleasure.  Women I talk with have a hard time understanding this, they feel embarrassed, etc.  But if you have loud orgasms, and with as much energy as possible enjoy his slavery… he’s going to fucking love it. And it’s something that really keeps him going and keeps him in slave mode.

Sum it Up

Cage his cock and lower his status (he’s a slave, you are a mistress)…

Give him things to do in a fun sexy way…

Punish him regularly for not doing them or not doing them correctly (in a fun nasty dirty sexy way)…

Tease him sadistically with tons and tons of feminine sexual energy but denial him that ultimate ejaculation…

While enjoying it so deeply and thoroughly with such feminine bliss and radiance and pleasure that he can’t help but worship you.

-X