⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

He wouldn’t mention the part of his day where he had to take several bathroom trips due to what else he fantasized about, of course. Those fantasies meant nothing when he could come home to the real thing; though they certainly were nice in your absence, your pantyhose always in his back pocket just in case he forgot your smell. 

The men at work didn’t understand, he whined. They complained about the lunches their wives made them-- they didn’t bring thermoses of last night's bath water or locks of their wives' hair to taste. He just didn’t fit in there; all of them were afraid of him, your friends included. Couldn’t you two just move out to the country, run a little farm and make love under the moonlight? 

Each time, you gently reminded him of how up and leaving your lives wasn’t a reality so cut and dry.

“Maybe a vacation, then? A few weeks at the cabin up in the mountains, just us?” 

He begged beside you beneath the covers, watching as you set your book down and shut off the bedside lamp. 

“And what will your clients do when they hear the man managing their money seemingly ran off without notice in the middle of spring?”

You had a point; you always did. He’d known this side of you since he watched you from the counter of the soda shop, to the day he finally convinced you to marry him, nearly on his hands and knees as he kneeled in front of you, about to beg if you dared to say no.

You quickly fell asleep after a day of lazing upon the couch and washing last night's dishes, the most exhausting part of the day being your husband’s body practically attached to your own once he got home.

A piece of him much too large still wasn’t satisfied with your answer, with being so far from you all the time; this isn’t what he expected from married life-- he expected more. More of you. More of your time, your attention, your praise and affection. 

He didn't want to bother you tonight, to watch you roll your eyes as he begged for you to let him inside of you for the umpteenth time that week. But your breathing was so rhythmic, the soft and hypnotizing rise of your chest as you laid on your side, your hair wild and free as it called to him. It held the most of your smell. The most inconspicuous part of you that he could indulge in without your knowledge. 

He had already spent ten minutes in the bathroom after his shower, merely soaking in the smell of the undergarments you had worn all day. They were just sprawled there on the tile floor, waiting to be taken. 

He was gluttonous; he knew it. How many times could a man cum to his wife until he was satisfied? 

He was watching your lips with a hand between his legs before he realized it had gotten there. The small pocket at the front of his boxers was too accessible; it called for him to relieve himself. He could get closer to you too --he knew-- he had done it before. Had even cum into your limp hand as you slept beside him. Tonight though, he needed to be careful.

Slowly, he inched closer. Your breath ghosted over his lips as he leaned down, letting it hit his nose. If he could kiss you while you laid unconscious, he’d do it in a heartbeat; but he’d have to settle for your hair for now, and the slight view of your delectable chest visible from beneath your nightgown.

Your throat was so kissable, begging to be claimed as it sat untarnished, smooth. He wouldn’t last long tonight; he had already cum twice in the bathroom, a third begging to be released in your bed. Laying uncomfortably hard since you shut the lamp off, precum covered his length as he huffed. He would’ve been embarrassed about how quickly he was going to cum if he wasn’t so preoccupied by your furrowed brow, your parted lips breathing unevenly as you slept; almost being caught like this, it made him leak even harder. 

Your hair was pulled deep against his nose, faintly smelling of your fancy shampoo-- the one he’s nearly conditioned himself into getting aroused solely at the smell of just from how often he’s found himself in this position. 

Your husband scolded himself at the sensation of his orgasm’s peak, so desperate to let out a moan as the head of his cock touched your thigh. He wanted to rub it between them, to clench the fat of your hips and thrust against your skin. 

He was smarter than the depraved animal he kept hidden. The part of him that thought a million times about cumming into your food, that wished he could bend you over his desk at work just to relieve himself in the best way he could imagine, that kept every old piece of clothing or makeup or sheet that you dared to try and throw away. 

You let out a small hitch, tongue poking out to swipe over your lips as you fell deeper against the pillow. 

Your husband bit the sleeve of his pajama shirt, shaking as he fisted the warm flesh in his palm. He arched forward, squeezing out every drop of cum he could manage in such profound silence only a mute could appreciate. 

His slick sounds resonating in your silent bedroom only lasted under three minutes, your rest unperturbed as he slowed to a gentle pump. Cum coated his fingers, dripping onto the bed sheets as he thrusted a final time into his palm. Your hair was still pressed firmly against his nose, rubbed between his fingers as he put it to his tongue. 

It took moments for him to catch his breath, exhaustion running through his veins as the urge to gather you up into his arms began to take hold. So did another urge, one he couldn’t resist.