Fetish
2004-04-19
"Deborah, we have to talk about this. " Said Simon replacing his spoon in his soup bowl. "I love you more than life itself, sweetheart but I’m frustrated as hell, honey. "
"I know and I’m really sorry, it’s not that I don’t like sex, I just feel guilty and dirty, catholic upbringing, I don’t know why. I really don’t. "
"I know you don’t, I know. " Sighing, he took another mouthful of his soup, the bitterness in his mouth tainting the taste. He loved his wife, didn’t want anyone else.
" I…. . I…" Nervously stuttering and then rapid firing the words Deborah tried to make some sense of things. She had tried before and she was willing to try again but they both knew how it would end. How it always ended. With tears and frustration and a grudging missionary position fuck with no lights in their marital bed. Just the same before they were married when she had assured him it would be different. That things would get better.
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That she could do all the things he so desperately wanted to do with her and to her. She had fallen in love with him that he was prepared to wait and she wanted so much to give him all his needs. Still he waited. "Let’s try again tonight. I’ll put on something sexy and…"
"Just leave it honey. " He said not unkindly but with a kind of weary resignation. He smiled sadly and said "Honey if that’s all it’s gonna be then that’s all it’s gonna be. I didn’t fall in love with you for the sex and I didn’t marry you for the sex. I did those things because you make me feel good about myself and my life. I did those things because of who you are and I’ll come to terms with it if it’s the last thing I do, I promise. " He stood as he spoke and slowly rounded the table. When he had finished speaking he kissed her lightly on the forehead. She held his arm and stroked it pressing it to her face softly.
"Good night honey. "
"Good night, I’ll be up in ten minutes, I’ll just clear these plates.
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"
It was actually more like fifteen minutes when she finally ascended the stairs. Running through her mental list. Doors locked. Everything off that has to be turned off. Check the phone is working. Check the mobile is charging. Alarm on. A final recheck that all has been done. A moment listening and then climbing quietly avoiding the ones that creaked. Enjoying the feel of the carpet on her bare toes. Counting them. A further handful of minutes in the bathroom. Light too bright for a second. Then neatly stacked toiletries. The spotless mirror.
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Immaculately folded colour coded towels. Meticulously cleaned teeth and face and hands. What is the matter with you asked the reflection or her. I really don’t know the reply, I really don’t. A mental conversation ensuing with ever more familiar spiral themes all coming back to nothing. She knew she was a sensual woman. Deep in her mind she entertained fantasies. Things she couldn’t admit to herself let alone anyone else, even Simon. Tableaux flashed through her consciousness, too brief to fully comprehend. More a momentary after image. A suggestion of writhing bodies, and sweat, of hands beating against lips. A hint of slow penetration. They came when Simon made love with her. She didn’t and never had masturbated. Sometimes she nearly came.
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She didn’t and never had done that either.
But when she was closest, almost lost, the flashes of filth would enter her, take her to the brink and then leave her beached forever on the verge of coming. Then the guilt would come at such thoughts. Ill defined though they were they represented a Deborah she couldn’t deal with. Were she to acknowledge the visions she created. To accept them then it would make her a bad person. Going against her entire belief system. The girl or girls in the fantasies were always very slutty. Pants held to one side. Looking back with the intense concentration of lust. When she dared open the door a little she realised that the girls were being buggered as much as they were being fucked. When she peeped round the corner like a fearful-of-being-caught, naughty schoolgirl watching her friends making out sometimes there was more than one man with one woman. The very memories brought fresh sights. A summer afternoon, heat, hazed hills in the distance standing still against the closer ones hurrying by. A girl on a train.
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Young. Maybe seventeen. A studious look. Glasses. A brunette. Opening her legs so that a middle aged man can see up her skirt. No sound though only visuals. Sometimes it makes it more acceptable and fighting the urge to touch herself slid a little deeper into the fantasy. Her mind off guard, occupied by the struggle moved the scenario on. The girl was unaware of her show. Head dipped into her book. She absent-mindedly swung her thighs open and closed, open and closed. A sensual earthy beat to her movements. A summer slowness to all. The man had sensed the girls ignorance of the situation and had slowly placed his raincoat over his crotch, gently wanking his cock under it’s cover.
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The movement minimal. Could be the swaying of the compartment. Suddenly visions of the man pulling his cock from the young girls arse, still spurting it’s load into the gaping hole. The girl dropping swiftly to her knees and spraying his come all over her face. Licking it clean. Sucked back to reality by the sheer filth of the girls actions, her thoughts, the bad feelings began again. It was becoming a regular occurrence in her nightly routines. She felt bad. She felt horny. But she couldn’t feel horny enough to come. Ever. Something was missing. Sighing but resolute and determined try her best for Simon she looked at herself in the mirror one last time and went into the bedroom.
The room was lit with the glow of a hundred candles. Brown turns to gold at such moments and the soft diffused warmth of the room, curtains swaying with the breath of wind that came infrequently.
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The warm cold air of the early spring bringing with it the scent of a thousand flowers and blossom trees heavy with expectancy. Dripping with sex for as long as humanity. Worshipped throughout history and still now. Mozart played in the background unobtrusively with sensitivity of the genius. It was a beautiful bedroom without embellishment. Sparsely furnished with ash bed and polished floors. White linen drapes as curtains and on the walls. Concealed lighting with audio-triggered dimmer control. One clap on. Two claps off. Redundant tonight. A split level floor and built in alcoves containing various ornamental chess sets. Onyx and glass. Wood and stone. A passion of his.
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"Come here, honey. " Softly. She started across the room her faltering stride and smile betraying the fear that always came true. A self-fulfilling prophecy. She registered that he saw her hesitation. Saw it hit. Hurt. Saw him shrug it away and smile even more warmly than before. Another falter. This time a frown. She stopped and bit her lip.
"Simon," she began.
"Fuck it Deborah," snapping, "I’ve just about had enough. Please honey suck my cock, please, there’s a good girl. " He added the last words to make light and try and take away the pain in his wife’s eyes.
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Sprung from his use of the word ‘fuck’, his momentary anger with her. Her inability to be the wife she wanted to be and he wanted her to be. It had happened before. Sometimes Simon would feel the well of disappointment and frustration, the surge of wanting to cry almost. He would swear and immediately regret it and they would cuddle and kiss and he would stroke her until she stopped crying and then they would make awkward love.
Missionary position. All candles out. ‘Good girl’. The words echoed into infinity inside her. A strange thrill with each repetition. The girl on the train kneeling now, the man wanking hard over her upturned face. Two men. Three men. Hands on her chest. Her hands behind her back.
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A tie over her eyes. Her breasts exposed. Nipples ragingly hard. Her tongue out reaching twisting and turning to find her goal. The hand on her throat restricting her to being only able to find the end when she stretched to her utmost. A small taste of precome. Then pulling her close. Fast and furious hand smacking against her lips. An anonymous hand at her cunt, fingering slowly, sensually but insistently and methodically. Driving towards a frenzied edge, a need for release. Hers, his, all the same. She stood with her hand between her legs. Wetness seeping through the thin material. She didn’t feel any guilt. The room swam back into view and feeling empowered she walked over to her husband knelt down and softly took his cock into her mouth.
Simon watched with, at first, confusion at his wife’s reaction to his word. Saw her visibly soften her stance. Her hunched shoulders dropping to show the fine sculptured line of her neck. Her head tilting back slightly. And the hand. Her hand. Slowly tracing a line. Lost in some other world. Lightly brushing across nipple, past navel and moving between her slightly parted legs. The little moan that escaped her lips. The nipples erecting instantly. Straining to be more. Pulling the surrounding skin tight with excitement. Saw her shudder and awaken within her dream still. Slow motion now as she kneels between his legs.
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Looking at him. Eye to eye. Held in a vacuum of their own choice and making. A universe containing just the two. She guided the head of his cock into her mouth. A moment. She hesitated through unfamiliarity and started to panic a little slowly starting to pull her mouth off. . Simon tried to comfort with words. The same words.
"Please honey, suck it. You were being such a good girl then. " Something unconscious had picked up a signal. Somewhere inside a correlation had been made. Liberated again, the thoughts came back.
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The girl on the train, fingers replaced with cocks. Astride one and being buggered by another still the hand at her throat denied her. Now there was sound. Crashing in and over her. The train steady rhythm beating in tandem with the lunges of the men fucking the girl. The sloppy sound of the man wanking himself hard against the girls lips while she strove to get him in her mouth. Hair sticking to her face. Chest red with sex rash. Please. Beg. Please. No. Please. Hands held by the buggerer. No freedom to move.
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Just her head and tongue. Held tightly in position. Hard cocks slipping with ease into both holes. Coming again and again and again and their seemingly endless onslaught continued. Still not enough. Want him in my mouth. Please. Beg. Please. Open your mouth, there’s a good girl. Steel hard silk on her tongue. Hand still holding neck hard and mouth being fucked. Curling her tongue and maintaining a suction, needing his come.
Once again Simon was amazed at his wife’s reaction. She had engulfed his cock as though she had only ever done that in her life.
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She worshipped it eyes closed, humming, fingering herself madly. She had never touched herself before now he knew that. He was sure that she was unaware of her ministrations lost as she was somewhere else. He wasn’t even sure she knew what she was doing to his cock either. She seemed to be in some kind of trance.
"Oh good girl. Good girl. " He murmured. Deborah heard it from afar, it penetrated her dream. All the men were saying it. the girl on the train was panting. Coming hard again. Simon came with a violence. The men on the train started coming. Surreally now all standing wanking hard over the girls face.
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Eyes peering up over her glasses. Clothes untouched now. Somehow replaced without being removed. Her hair beautiful, soft and shining. Her smile trusting and innocent. All the men shot simultaneously into her mouth. With the impossibility of fantasy each strong spurt landed cleanly and filled her mouth. She was aware now that Simon was bucking his hips and filling her own mouth. Saying ‘good girl’ over and over again. She swallowed as his come continued to pour. Years of frustration responding to the soft release. Painful in its intensity. She came. A small come but definitely a come. Her first.
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Beautiful. Soft.
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