Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
But how do I tell her that? How do I say I can give it to her however she needs. That I long for her touch. That I’m rock hard again just thinking about it.
What I settle on is: “You okay in there?”
“Yes.” Her voice, while still soft, seems a little louder. Like she’s just on the other side of the wood. “But I can’t come out yet. You see, I seem to have melted my face off.”
“No, love. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
She gives an unhappy laugh. “Oh, I beg to differ.”
“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree, because what just happened was one of the hottest experiences of my life.”
“I doubt that very much. Not with the size of your fan club,” she says, her annoyance piqued. “I wish you hadn’t followed me, because I was just going to compose myself, then come back and tell you I have sexsomnia.”
“Sounds . . . like something I might have the cure for.”
“There he is.” She gives an unhappy-sounding chuckle. “The man I’ve come to know. And assault.”
“Is it assault when the other party wants it?”
“That sounds a bit dubious.”
“I have to agree to disagree. Consensual nonconsent. Or plain old ravishment. I’m down for either, because the thing I have for your ailment is a willingness.”
“You’re daft.”
“Of course, I prefer ravishment.” I glance down at my cock. He’s so down for that. “In fact, when you come out of the bathroom—”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m never leaving this room again.”
“That might be problematic. My heart medication is in there.”
“You have a heart problem?” she squeaks.
Only that I’ve lost it to you, maybe. “Bad joke,” I whisper instead.
“I might just stay here until you’ve gone, in that case.”
“Or maybe you could come out and we could talk about what just happened. We don’t have to . . .” I find myself pressing my hand to the wood, as though I could draw her out by touch alone.
“I think I’d rather eat my own feet.”
“If you don’t want to talk, we could just . . .” Fuck it. “Come out, and we could pick up where you left off.”
No answer.
“I can’t be any clearer. I want you, Mila. I want you so much it hurts.”
I turn from the bathroom, leaving her there. For now. I’m so fucking frustrated, because it seems there’s nothing I can say or do to make her believe me. Or to gain her trust.
I make my way into the compact kitchen, pulling out a carton of juice. I inhale a glass, unable to get my thoughts to stick. Unable to chase this low-grade ache from my gut.
Shower or swim?
Or take the bathroom door off its hinges and kiss the strength of these feelings into her.
Consensual nonconsent. What was I thinking? That’s not her bag.
She’s so self-reliant, so unwilling to accept help. And I get it: her experiences with her asshole of an ex would make anyone lack trust. But it feels deeper than that. Like it’s a reflection of her life somehow. Her current existence. A place where she has no choice in the matter but to close herself off. But in her deepest, darkest fantasies, I know she enjoys letting go of that control.
She’s so fucking strong, a fighter. And she doesn’t even realize. The world likes to overlook the strength in women, yet they carry the weight of it quietly in the background, mostly without realizing it themselves. Fucking period pain, childbirth to keep the damn species marching, fear of men, workplace bias, pay gaps, power imbalance, yet they keep on trucking. Resilience—that’s the word I’m looking for. My wife has reservoirs of the stuff. And I find I just want to walk alongside her. Maybe carry a little of that load, if she’d let me.
I know what she wants in the bedroom. What she needs in her life. Love. Support. Trust. And I’ll give it all to her gladly. I want the whole package. The real deal.
With that thought, I drop the glass to the sink and put back the juice as I adjust my crotch. What a shit show. She’s tearing herself up. Meanwhile, this thing just wants to tear her up.
It looks like I’ll be jerking off in the shower.
I don’t make the decision lightly, and while it’s not quite a necessity, I find it’s more pressing than a want. Post-nut clarity is an actual thing, not an excuse to touch yourself, as some might think. Given I’m about to spend a day with Mila being all in her head, I could do with the clearness of mind that jerking off will undoubtedly bring.
I don’t want to spend the day salivating and imagining her unclothed. I want her to feel heard, not just seen, even if she has the kind of body I want to lose myself in. At this rate, it’s not likely to happen again.