#stunna

Your favorite place to be is in your husband’s lap. His face being a close second. Both have your name written all over them. His lap is the place you yearn for in quiet moments when the distance between you feels vast and everlasting. A throne earned through love and reinforced by an eternal promise. The one thing guaranteed to return your sanity after escaping from a world you were forced to participate in.

Nightly rituals run their course with practiced discipline. First is dinner prepared by your hands alone since he’s failed to convince you to spoil him in other ways. Then a shower to help loosen the stress off your bones. He’s waiting for you in the dimly lit family room dressed in dark gray sweatpants and nothing else. A playlist of your favorite songs old and new softly fill the silence. The loveseat built for two appears smaller with his massive frame occupying the space, sturdy legs spread wide, arms casually resting at the sides until he’s able to pull you the remaining distance.

You curl up between the chiseled arms caging you in, feet tucked underneath your exhausted body, face to his chest, fingertips playing along his jawline. Close but not close enough. He supports your legs with one hand, the other cradles your ass over the t-shirt you’ve stolen from his closet.

There’s something comforting about being in a fetal position, like you finally have permission to forget everything that’s kept a smile off your face. You get to exist solely as a priceless treasure to be cherished and kept safe.

The prominent outline of hard muscle pressed along your backside reminds you this isn’t just a spiritual escape, but a physical one briefly put on hold until he’s taken care of your mind first. A command whispered against your temple, followed by a kiss is all it takes to stop your hips from moving. You surrender as if it were your idea and track his heartbeat with your eyes closed and a lazy smile hanging from your lips.

He's idly freestyling shapes along your thighs when he starts discussing work. It’s always simple and lighthearted banter. The kind of harmless language designed to soften your heart and pull your mind away from disparities that can’t be changed overnight. He boasts about the silly conflicts he managed to resolve and the creative ways he becomes a ghost during his lunch break to avoid unwanted conversations with people who don’t understand social cues. Then he starts firing off “nerd facts” related to his hobbies, comics he intends to buy, games he’s been meaning to play. His face lights up when you express interest in playing one together. Now he’s added ordering pizza and gaming to your growing list of weekend plans.  

His excitement is contagious. Every word a caress reaching your soul. You vow to never move again, to remain tucked underneath his chin laughing until your sides hurt and your eyes water. He grants you the perception of forever with kisses along your neck to your collarbone.

Being in his lap is the precursor for what comes next. A place to rest your head and unload burdens while he finalizes the details on a fantasy he’s mulled over all day long. He decides when to move you and how, executing his vision with your pleasure at the forefront but always at his instruction. You whine and resist but ultimately comply without having to be told twice. Experience has taught you good girls get their needs met a lot sooner than brats choosing disobedience.

 Yesterday he took you in the hallway, shapely brown legs spread wide like butterfly wings pinned to a display board. The day before that you’d come home exhausted and barely functioning. He laid you across the dining room table and had you for dinner and dessert. Tonight, he’s got you sprawled across your king-sized bed with both feet planted on his chest as he fucks the regret out of your body. 

The sheets absorb what’s left, all the frustration, all the desire to be in control. You stare up at him through wet lashes desperately grabbing at his thighs for leverage he refuses to give. He orders you to let go. You hesitate for half a second too long. He won’t tell you again. You believe him when he withdraws from your body and pushes down on the back of your thighs to keep your hips from closing the distance. The added depth motivates you to find somewhere safe to put your hands. One tugs at a nipple. The other grips your neck. With your eyes closed it’s easier to imagine his thick fingers enforcing his claim, amplifying the pleasure of being stretched full. You begin to squirm with no place to go. Despite him giving you everything, you plead for more in the breathy high pitch he loves.

He stops mid thrust and grunts what sounds like your name. You feel its weight pass through him and settle as a deep rumble within your chest. His gorgeous eyes lock on to you, dark and blown out like you’ve descended from the sky and performed a miracle right in front of him.

You want to tease him with the obvious question. Instead, you set your doe like eyes on his face looking as innocent as one could be with their pussy split open creaming around a dick that’s apparently forgotten on how to move. One desperate act of supplication has turned your husband into a statue. This isn’t your fault. It’s his. He taught you how to obey, how to mimic his technique until it became instinctual. Now the master can’t tell the difference. It may as well be his hand wrapped around your throat. Knowing you’ve made him proud does boost your ego, but you also prefer the original.

A little teasing won’t hurt. You hide behind half shut eyes, fingers tucked beneath your jawline pretending not to see the way his stomach tightens when your walls clamp down and refuse to let him go.

He pulls against the suction and suddenly your little performance concludes with a sharp breath inward. It isn’t quite the friction you crave but it does confirm at least some of the blood pooling in his dick has returned to his brain. There’s a primal undertone to his intense gaze now, a warning that manifests in his hips before anticipation can set in.

Calculated and relentless, too much and yet the very thing you need more than the air he’s forcing out of your lungs. Unlike your dear husband you’ve learned how to be overwhelmed and still function. You were made for this, shaped by his hands and dick to be helpless and yielding but also useful even when he’s got you folded up like a pretzel.

You worship him with the few words not jostled loose from your brain. The name he was born with and the one he requires. Daddy. You alter the pitch and volume to let him know he’s found the right spot. When he stays there, you chant Yes like a choir hymn until your voice goes hoarse and the wet echo of your body pounded through the mattress drowns out the ringing in your ears.  Once he’s driven you to the edge without climax one too many times you whimper a single word and trust him to decipher its meaning. Please.

The first orgasm is solely because you asked so nicely. The rest are because he’s addicted to the way you fall apart for him, the sight of you writhing like you’re possessed by a spirit, legs trembling, nails marking him up to endure but never to escape. He told you it was the closest he’d get to seeing heaven on earth. You can see the adoration in his eyes, feel the reverence in each hungry kiss pressed to the ankles flailing on his shoulder.

One more.

Always one more. You lose track of the promises he makes but remain conscious as he finally joins you for what should be the last, spilling warmth into your overstimulated body until there’s nothing left but a steady pulse beating from within and his face buried on your chest. Together you lay in silence, limbs wrapped around each other, every breath heavy and synchronized in their unevenness.

Eventually, it ends the way it began with you perched on his lap still dazed, still trembling. He holds you like you’re made of delicate glass, whispering praise as he kisses along your damp hairline. You won’t remember the bath you’ll take together or the careful way he’ll massage your overworked muscles with ointments. Nuzzling your face in the hand caressing your cheek, you smile and thank him in advance for each act of love. A kiss for each finger.

Before you drift away completely you project your thoughts to the future where he’ll greet you with open arms and passionate kisses, sweeping you off your feet like one of those sappy hallmark movies you hate to love.