Wife Me Up

He was tall, built like a swimmer with shoulders that stretched his worn cotton shirt. But what arrested me wasn't his face, though that was handsome enough—rough jaw, dark eyes that caught the string lights overhead. It was the unmistakable outline against his left thigh, thick and heavy even in repose, snaking down toward his knee.

I must have stared too long. His head turned, and those eyes found mine with amused knowing. I felt heat rush to my face, but I didn't look away. Something in his gaze asked a question I was desperate to answer yes to.

We didn't speak that night. But I found him on an app three days later, his profile picture had the same sharp jawline, bio blank. I messaged first. He responded within minutes.

The first time I knelt before him in my studio apartment, windows cracked open to autumn air, I understood the scope of my miscalculation. He was fully hard now, and the reality defied anything I'd imagined. The length curved upward toward his navel, thick enough that my thumb and fingers couldn't meet around the shaft. 

I tried. God, I tried. My jaw ached within minutes, lips stretched to their limit, spit flooding my chin as I worked what I could fit between them. My hand stroked the base, slick with my own saliva, but there were still inches untouched. When I pulled back to breathe, strings of spit connected my mouth to his cock, glistening in the afternoon light.

I looked up at him through watering eyes. His expression had shifted from arousal to something patient, distant. Disappointed.

"You're not going to get me there like this," he said. Not cruel, simply factual.

The words landed like a slap. I sat back on my heels, wiping my chin, desperate to salvage this. My eyes tracked back to his cock, still rigid, still impossibly large.

"Fuck me," I heard myself say. The words came out hoarse, almost desperate. "I want you inside me. I can take it."

He studied me for a long moment, that dark gaze weighing. Then he reached for the lube on his bedside table.

The preparation took forever. His fingers, thick and insistent, worked me open while I gripped his sheets and tried to breathe through the burning stretch. Two fingers felt like more than I was used to taking fully. Three had me gasping, face pressed into his mattress, toes curling against the bedframe.

When he finally positioned himself behind me, I felt the blunt pressure against my entrance and tensed without meaning to. The head alone was a challenge, broad and unyielding. He pushed forward, and I cried out at the immediate, overwhelming stretch.

"Relax," he murmured, but his voice had tightened. I could feel him holding back, controlled, but the effort vibrated through his frame.

I tried. I bore down, willed my body to accept him. He gained another inch, then stalled. The burning had become sharp, insistent, my body resisting what it couldn't accommodate. I was breathing in shallow pants, sweat slicking my spine, and still there was more of him that wouldn't fit.

He withdrew slowly. The loss of pressure brought immediate relief, then hollow disappointment. I collapsed onto my stomach, chest heaving, face hot with failure.

When I turned my head, he was already reaching for his shirt. His cock was still hard, glistening with lube, but his expression had closed off entirely. Professional, distant. 

"Cain—" I started, but he held up a hand.

"Don't." He pulled the shirt over his head, covering the chest I'd been gripping minutes before. "It's not your fault. We're just not compatible."

The words landed like a judgment. I lay naked on his bed, still open and slick and wanting, while he dressed with methodical precision. Every movement communicated finality.

At the door, he paused without turning back. "Take care of yourself."

Then he was gone, and I was alone with the smell of lube and failure.

I didn't move for a long time. The afternoon light shifted across his bare walls, and I stared at nothing, replaying every moment. The way he'd looked at me that first night. The patience in his voice when I'd struggled to take him in my mouth. The final closed expression as he dressed.

My phone buzzed from where I'd dropped it on his floor. I ignored it. Buzzed again.

When I finally reached for it, the screen showed his name. My heart stuttered. I swiped open the message with shaking thumbs.

Cain: I shouldn't have left like that. I just got frustrated and took it out on you.

I stared at the words, reading them three times. Then my thumbs moved without my conscious direction.

Me: I'm sorry I couldn't take you. I want to try again. Please.

The dots appeared immediately. He was typing, erasing, typing again.

Cain: You really want this?

Me: More than anything.

Another long pause. I held my breath until my lungs burned.

Cain: Prove it.

The word hung on my screen, maddeningly vague. I typed back fast, desperate.

Me: How? Tell me what you need. I'll do anything.

His response came slower this time, measured.

Cain: You couldn't handle me with your mouth. You couldn't take me inside. If you want me back, show me you've changed. Train yourself. Open yourself. When you can actually accommodate what I have, send me proof. Then we'll talk.

I read the message three times, heat flooding my face. He wanted me to stretch myself, prepare myself, become capable of taking him. The explicitness of it, the clinical way he'd laid out the terms, should have felt degrading. Instead, I felt only aching want.

Me: I will, you'll see.

His final message came moments later.

Cain: I hope so.

Then silence. I sat naked on the bed, phone clutched in my hand, his conditions echoing in my mind.

The silicone monster I ordered that night became my obsession. Months of stretching, whimpering, my throat and ass burning like hellfire every time I pushed further, but I wanted it. Needed it. The dildo—thicker than my wrist, veined like a fucking anaconda—sat attached to the chair, glistening with lube as I straddled it again, my hole already loose from the last round. I sank down slow, my breath hissing through my teeth as the flared head popped past my ring, then deeper, my gut clenching around the intrusion. My fingers dug into the mattress, knuckles white, sweat dripping down my spine. Fuck yes. I took it all the way to the base, my balls pressing against the cold silicone, my cock throbbing against my stomach. The stretch was obscene, my rim gaping around the girth, my insides stuffed full. I rocked my hips, grinding down until my ass cheeks kissed the fake balls. I rode it for a few more minutes until I could make the movement look natural and snapped a picture highlighting every filthy detail.

My thumb hovered over send. This’ll do it. No more half-measures. No more choking on his texts about how I wasn’t ready. I hit the button before I could second-guess myself, the photo of my used, stretched-out hole taking that massive dildo like a fucking pro shooting straight to his phone. My heart hammered against my ribs, my cock leaking pre-cum onto my abs as I waited. Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Cain: Holy fuck.

I exhaled, my body buzzing. My fingers twitched, already typing back—Told you I’d get there—but his next message cut me off.

Cain: I’m on my way. Door unlocked. On your knees when I walk in.

The phone slipped from my fingers, landing on the bed with a dull thud. My pulse roared in my ears. He’s coming. Right now. No warning, no small talk, just pure, ravenous demand. I scrambled off the dildo, my hole clenching around nothing, aching and empty. The toy hit the floor with a wet thwack, lube and my own slick dripping down the shaft. I didn’t bother cleaning up. Didn’t bother with clothes. I dropped to my knees right there in the middle of the bed, my hard-on trapped in the pouch of my jock, my ass still loose and throbbing from the training. The air conditioner kicked on, the cold draft raising goosebumps over my sweat-slicked skin. I licked my lips, my mouth dry, my mind racing as the minutes passed. What if he’s not impressed? What if I still can’t—

The doorknob rattled.

I froze, my breath catching. The door swung open, and there he was—Cain, filling the doorway like a fucking tornado of lust. His gaze locked onto me, dark and hungry, his jaw tight. He stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made my cock jerk. His boots thudded against the hardwood, each step deliberate, predatory. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. His eyes raked over me, lingering on my hard dick, then lower, to the mess of my ass—still gaping, still glistening. A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough, like gravel under a boot heel. “All stretched out and ready for me. Finally”

I whimpered, my hands trembling where they curled in the sheets. He reached down, palming his cock through his jeans, the outline distinguishable down to the veins even through the denim. My mouth watered. My hole clenched, desperate to be filled for real this time.