11. Blythe
Our first argument as a married couple is caused by clothes. Not even knickers, or not directly. That was cold, at first, not wearing knickers, but my bottom is used to being cold now.
Nope, it was because Duncan wanted me to buy more dresses to wear to the events and evening dinners, he seems to enjoy taking me to. We pretend to be a real couple, of course, me clinging lovingly to his arm and him smiling down at me. Then when we get home afterwards, he’s always ravenous. We rarely make it upstairs for round one, and then he licks me out in bed until I scream. Sometimes he wakes me in the middle of the night to breed me again.
Those are the best evenings.
But a little panicky crisis often precedes them on my part. Because he’ll arrive home to pick me up, and I’ll be ready, and we’ll be fine to be on time… And then Duncan will want to fuck me before we go out. Vigorously.
And several times, that enthusiastic coupling has been too much for my dress. It’s been ripped, and then we’re even more late because I can’t figure out what to wear to replace what I carefully chose for the event.
I have pointed out that the most efficient way to solve this is that he gets home before I’ve got dressed, or that he holds his lust in check until after the evening’s entertainment.
Suffice to say, Duncan wasn’t impressed by either of those ideas. His solution was just more dresses.
He ordered me to go shopping with an exclusive London personal stylist. Multiples of the same dress if that’s what’s needed to facilitate what he wants: namely, me.
Which is totally excessive and wasteful, and I told him so.
And he said that if I hadn’t spent a hundred thousand on clothes by that time tomorrow and put it on his credit card, there would be consequences.
Yes. Well.
Obviously, I spent almost nothing.
I had to know what the consequences were, right? And I was on the moral high ground. Buying dresses so Duncan can rip them when we have sex is ridiculous.
Edging and denial were the punishment. That and spanking. One evening of pink cheeks, and being denied Duncan’s cock, and I sobbed I would be his good girl and buy all the clothes he wanted me to.
And that was true. I have spent all of today buying clothes.
Because I really, really need to come. Duncan had strict instructions this morning before he left that I’m not to get myself off. If I don’t have him inside me tonight, I’m going to go green, hulk up and explode into goo.
But that doesn’t mean I’m his meek little housewife. Ohhh nooo. If I have to buy expensive clothes when I don’t think I should? Duncan has to suffer the consequences of his actions too.
I’ve been texting him all day. Every single item I’ve bought, he has received an image of me wearing it behind the changing room curtain. He edged me so hard I cried, so it’s only fair he should feel some of my frustration.
I have bought a lot of knickers. Cute Brazilian cut ones, lacy thongs, and also bras, scandalously short dresses, stockings, skimpy tops, and crotchless knickers. And yes, I made sure to photograph those in their full glory.
Pinging over the first picture, I grinned when I saw the tick turn blue and knew he’d seen it. He looked at every single image, but didn’t respond.
I admit, I’m excited to see what he’s going to do when he gets home later.
I’m unpacking my haul into my wardrobes in our large and airy bedroom, expecting I have plenty of time until Duncan returns, when a door slams downstairs and quick steps thud on the stairs.
My pulse leaps as Duncan strides into the bedroom.
His face is thunder.
“Blythe.” A single, furious word. He’s across the room and has me pinned to the wall in a second. “You wee fucking, tease.”
Then his mouth is on mine, an angry kiss that’s possessive. His fingers pinch at me, bruisingly hard and I whimper and try to wriggle away. He ignores me, holding me tighter.
“You think that was funny, huh?” he says against my lips as he wraps his hand around my throat.
My heart pounds as he squeezes, and I gasp for breath. The sensitive part of my windpipe compresses, and I scrabble ineffectually at him.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Blythe,” he sighs regretfully as he releases my neck, and grabs my dress.
I cry out as he rips it down, the stitching digging into my skin then giving up with a harsh rending, leaving my breasts bared. Ducking to my chest, he bites the sensitive bud of one nipple and pain and pleasure flare out and down my spine.
That distracts me and the next thing I know he’s got his trousers open and he’s shoving the remnants of my dress from my shoulders so I’m naked, and hitching my thigh to his waist.
“Look what you did to me,” he fumes as he fits the crown of his achingly-hard cock to where I’m soft and wet and needy. “I’ve been trying to work, wifey. And you’ve been—” he breaks off and thrusts brutally into me, filling me in one stroke.
Our groans fill the air together, mine high and with the pinch of hurt that always happens as he pushes that massive length into me, and his a low rumble of satisfaction.
“Fuck, Blythe.” He thrusts again and again, interspersing deep long strokes with short hard flexes of his hips. “The things those photos did to me.”
I find his shoulders and cling to him, digging in my nails as the pleasure spirals in me.
“Oh no you don’t,” he growls as my inner muscles clench, close, so close to orgasm.
He pulls out and roughly jerks me around, pushing my breasts against the wall and pulling my hips back before slamming in again. My nipples are pert from rubbing against his shirt, and the cool wallpaper is just enough stimulation as he takes me hard and fast.
“I guess it’s not so funny, now.” He’s gripping my hip with one hand to keep me in place, and grasps my hair with the other as he grinds out dirty words about how he’s wanted to be in my hot wet cunt all day. About how he wanted to use me and feel me come all over his dick.
It’s not funny, no. But it’s so sexy I can’t breathe. I can’t say anything. My head is cotton wool, and I can’t even remember what I did to deserve being railed so well.
Dominant. Masculine. This man is my husband and so insanely sexy.
“Say you needed this, Blythe,” he demands. “You goaded me, you teased me. You got the cock you wanted, didn’t you?” He punctuates this statement with short intense thrusts and reaches around to my clit, finding it with total assurance and stroking me.
It only takes that touch. I explode.
“I can feel you coming on my cock, wife.” He sounds strained. “Did you fantasise that I’d do this to you?”
“Yes, yes,” I babble. “Please.” The way he’s so hard inside me is unimaginably perfect. Better every time. “I want it. I asked for it, please.”
“Good girl,” he breathes, and changes to long, smooth thrusts.
I glow from his praise, arching into him.
“Oh you like that do you?” His grip on my hair tightens. Bringing his lips to my ear, he growls, low and rough. “You’re being such a good girl for your unhinged, possessive husband. Taking his cock whenever he needs your tight pussy.”
A full body shiver of pleasure washes down me from his words.
“I’m going to fuck a baby into your flat belly, my good little housewife. Then another, and another. I’m going to breed you constantly.”
I can’t help it. I whimper.
The feel of his cock stroking me is phenomenal. I crave it.
“When the weather warms up, I’m going to use you in the garden, in the dirt, pushing you into the ground as I come inside you, and you can’t say no.”
I don’t want to say no. That’s the thing. He pretends he doesn’t check that I’m wet enough and scan my face for uncertainty every single time he does this, and I pretend that the only reason I let him fuck me is because of this marriage of convenience.
I think he’s lying as much as I am. While Mr Blackstone said he didn’t want love to be a part of this, he’s so loving. He called it free use, but more often than not he makes me come multiple times, before he fills me up.
“One night without being in your pussy when I could have, and I’m wild.” He speeds up, pounding into me, his movements gone erratic and uncontrolled.
I sneak a look over my shoulder and he looks crazed. His face is screwed up in almost pain. It’s a stark contrast to his usual expression of intense focus.
“Don’t make me do that again, Blythe. Please.” He’s hoarse. “I need you.”
“I won’t.” The promise is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Does this mean he finds my days off as difficult as I do?
“Just be my good girl.” He makes the request through gritted teeth as he pounds into me harder and harder.
“I will, I will.” I can’t bear to see him so pained, even as I’m ecstatic that he cares so much and is losing control for me. I’m proud to have made him admit what we both know—he needs me.
That’s enough.
“Good girl.” He chokes out the praise for me as he rams home with bruising force once, twice, then a third time and he’s in me deeper than ever and I feel his dick pulse and the seed I so desperately want hit my cervix as he climaxes in waves.
It triggers another orgasm in me, and he groans as I clench around his length. I see stars. I feel special and powerful to have made this older, experienced, and gorgeous mafia boss lose his cool and unload so much come into me that it’s seeping down my inner thigh even as we’re both recovering from our orgasms.
“You earned that,” he murmurs.
He slides out of me, and the emptiness is immediate. I miss him. Grasping my shoulders, Duncan turns me around, so I face him, my back on the warm patch of the wall my breasts were pressed to. One hand steadying me from the hip, it takes a second to realise that his trousers are still on his thighs. This man wanted me so much—even after weeks of free use to take the edge off—that he didn’t bother taking his clothes off.
Then there’s something cool and solid at my pussy entrance. I glance down to find my husband with his hand between my legs, smirking at me, a black silicone toy pushing upwards.
He pushes it into place, effectively plugging me.
“I want my seed in you all the time,” he states, as though this is totally logical. “I decided you needed a stopper.”
Oh my god. It’s small compared to Duncan, but my greedy pussy sucks onto the silicone and with the come in me it’s a contrast of hot and cool, wet and firm that’s decadent. And it’s from Duncan. That makes it perfect. I love it.
“Yes, husband,” I whisper.
His grin widens. “And there’s an extra bonus.” Pulling up his trousers and underwear in one, he slowly buckles himself up. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a remote control.
Oh. Shoot.
It’s then that I notice part of the plug is right over my now-sensitised clit.
“I can do this any time, from any distance,” he says conversationally as he punches a button with his thumb and the toy buzzes to life.
I cry out, doubling over as the vibrations wrack me, so good it’s almost painful.
“That’s it,” he croons, guiding me to the bed and laying me down as he ramps up the intensity. “It upset you that you couldn’t come all day? Well. I’ll make up for it. I’ll make you come whenever you like.”
“Uugghhh.”
“Or whenever I like.” His smile is downright sinful. “And if you send me horny nudes, wifey…” He flicks his thumb on the remote and the vibrations increase again, too much on my clit, forcing me nearly to… “I might decide to get my own back.”
I’m coming again, shaking and shouting as Duncan stands over me, drinking in my peak with a satisfied expression.
“That’s it.” He caresses my knee tenderly as I break apart with this orgasm. It’s not as good as the ones with him inside me—sharper and more intense but without the depth and sweetness—but it tingles right to my toes all the same. And Duncan watching on, doing this to me with utter calm after he was shattered only minutes ago, is magic. He eases down the vibrations in sync with my climax, and I’m left lying on the bed, still totally naked as he slips the remote back into his pocket. A threat and a promise.
Then he leans over and climbs on top of me, holding himself aloof. He cups my jaw and strokes my cheek, looking into my eyes, the blue in his irises as endless as the sky.
“I love…” He pauses and for a moment I’m sure—so sure—that he is going to say, “you”. But he tilts his head and gives me a rueful smile. “That you bought underwear.”
Disappointment crashes through me, a tropical disease that brings me back to reality.
“Those white lace ones are quite beautiful. But, Mrs Blackstone, I haven’t changed my mind. You still can’t wear knickers.”