Chapter 4
My wife stands in the small space people call the fancy name, foyer. There’s still boxes there that need to go to the garage, but the fuckers dropped them in the wrong place, and I never got around to telling anyone to move them. I leave the suitcase against the wall and quietly close the door.
She turns and props her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing. Something’s coming, and I brace for impact.
“Have you been stalking me?”
Not yet, but I will be now. “Hm?”
“How long have you watched me? Just tell me. It doesn’t matter right now, but I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I thought we had a breakthrough bonding moment outside, but I was mistaken.
She narrows her eyes further. “So you happened to guess what my dream home looks like?”
I’m gonna kill Ivana. I can’t say another woman decorated this entire house, even if it’s pretty clear now those rustic stylish things weren’t Ivana’s taste or my taste, they were my wife’s taste and I didn’t fucking know. What to say, what to say… “It is possible our tastes match, you know.”
“It is, Russian, but unlikely that you would decorate your entire house with furniture from the company I started only last year and under the radar of my father. I remember this massive order put in in a single night where I had seven days to line up all the suppliers and have them ship it… What’s the address here? ”
I tell her.
She frowns. “Not the same address.”
“See? A coincidence.” It was shipped to the warehouse.
“No way.” She walks to the gray suede couch I think is the best piece in the house. Besides the gargantuan TV across from it, of course. She runs a hand over the soft suede, and I think that’s how she’ll pet my dick, fist it, suck it, swallow my cum.
“Do you work from home?” I ask, thinking she’ll have to set up another shop somewhere local, preferably our garage. It’s big enough.
She shakes her head. “I have two jobs, and I’m rarely home.”
I head for the bar to pour a whiskey. Contrary to popular stereotype, not all Russian Americans or even Russians period drink vodka all the time.
We also drink whiskey, beer, bourbon and some of us don’t drink at all.
“That will change,” I mutter as I search for the bottle.
Where did Martha put the bottle? Ah. Here we go.
I uncap and pour straight up, no ice, no chaser.
Warm and smooth, like the fine pussy juice my wife’s gonna give me tonight.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “What did you say?”
“I said that will change.”
She walks to the bar, and I pour her a whiskey, then slide it over. She takes it with no ice and sips. “I don’t want to change.”
“You don’t have to, but some of your single-life habits will. You’ll be home more often, or at least as often as I like.”
“I can run, you know.”
“You can try.” Those long legs can carry her to the moon and back. Our bedroom and back too.
“I will.”
I chuckle. “Baby, listen and take notes. When you’re forming a plan of any kind, you never, ever give yourself away to the enemy. You want to appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak.”
“The Art of War.”
“Is deception.”
“I didn’t think you read books.”
“I read books that make me happy.”
She laughs softly. “You’re funny.”
“How’s your foot?”
“Oh,” she says as if she forgot about it. I haven’t. Jesus. I scoop some ice in a bag and hand it to her. She sits at the bar chair and lifts her foot onto the other chair. It’s wrong I’m glad about the injury because now I can show her my caregiver side, which should get me laid in no time.
Once I fuck her, she’s gonna fold on all matters and this marriage will prosper like no marriage before it, till death do us part. Amen.
I come around the bar and pick up her injured foot by the ankle to rest it in my lap as I sit down.
She tugs, but I hold her ankle firmly and slip off her sandal, then press my thumb into the arch of her foot.
She makes an O with her mouth, and I press harder, running my thumb over the bottom of her foot, back and forth, watching her shoulders slump, eyes darting to the couch.
I don’t make the move to the couch, though I know she wants me to.
The chair will do just fine for what I have in mind.
I run my palm up to her ankle and calf, then stroke under her knee, watching her the entire time.
You can tell a lot about what makes people tick by watching their face and body.
Physical signs are just as important as the words.
Farther up, I grip the back of her thigh and slide my chair closer.
I’m not an octopus. I can’t stroke a pussy from ten feet away.
My movement makes her sit up straight as if she only just now realizes what I’m doing. She opens her mouth, likely to protest, but I cut her off. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I’m gonna get you off. That’s all.”
Her lips pinch and she’s still on alert, but I’ll remedy that in a minute. I slide my hand between her legs, slowly rubbing her inner thigh, and inch closer to my target as her chest rises and falls, her shoulders slump, and a hand lands on the bar to hold herself up.
Keeping the injured foot over my thigh, I sneak an arm around her waist and move her to stand between my spread legs. With one leg over my thigh, she’s spread for me, and I slip my hand back between her legs, two fingers touching her little lips down there, finding them wet.
I don’t comment on how wet she is lest she feels embarrassed and ruin the moment. This time around, I’m not gonna talk at all because yapping might break our eye contact.
I find her brown eyes expressive, open, and warm, and as I stroke her wet place, I bunch up the whatever the fuck she’s wearing and slowly pull it up, wondering if she’ll lift her arms or if I’ll have to rip it. I’d like to rip it and never see the garment again.
Like a graceful ballerina dancing as The Swan, she lifts her arms, and I remove it. There she stands, nude and beautiful, but I don’t dare peruse her body lest I start gaping and drooling and coming inside my pants like a college freshman faced with Hustler for the first time in his life.
I lean in and kiss her shoulder, running my lips over her collarbone.
She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I remove it, then hold her wrist. Taking the purple scarf around her neck, I tie her wrists and slip her arms over my head.
With a palm at the small of her back, I pull her closer to me.
My dick might blow a hole in my pants. “Put your tit in my mouth.”
She lifts her breast, and I open my mouth so she can put it inside, arch her back, and gag me. I love tits. If I had two mouths and were an octopus, I could stroke her pussy, poke her ass, suck on both tits, and make out with her all at once.
But I’m just me. Two hands, one mouth, so I gotta make do with what I have. Accepting I’m just a man doesn’t make me any less greedy to do all the things to her at the same time.
Spine arched, she throws her head back and moans as I lap on her tit, thinking how one day these titties will fill with milk and squirt that healthy white protein-rich goodness in my face. For now, I’ll settle for pussy juice.
I grab the back of her thigh and hoist her up so she straddles me. With her spread wide open, I don’t move her closer over my dick. I don’t want her to know how hard she makes me. Power is everything, and I’m not ready to transfer it to her just yet.
I bend my head to suck on her other tit when she slams her mouth on mine, then jerks back as if she’s done something bad or perhaps impulsive and now she’s horrified by it.
“Come here,” I tell her and slip a finger inside her warm place.
I groan before she does. I want to be inside her, plundering and pillaging and seeding.
My jaw tightens, lips pinching as I try to rein in my control.
I slip another finger inside her, thumb at the clit, pressing, sliding back and forth while she softly kisses my mouth, moans with her lips on mine before tilting her head and kissing me.
She’s romantic. Cute. Needs kissing and attention and all the nice soft things most women need and I’m ill-equipped to satisfy.
I almost feel sorry for her for marrying a cold bastard like me. Almost, but not quite, because she’ll find a way with me like she found a way with her tongue in my mouth and her hands at the back of my neck, pulling my head forward, sliding her hips toward my dick.
I grip her waist and stop her, then pump my fingers inside her, looking for the soft swelling inside I can stroke and make her squirt or at the very least cum hard.
Biceps flex as I pump.
She’s riding my fingers now and still kissing me, and when she snatches my tongue between her lips and starts sucking, I lose it.
I place her ass on the chair and grab her throat, squeeze, and pump her pussy with all my might.
She’s choking, can’t escape ’cause her hands are tied and on me, and I’m pumping her so fast and hard that her entire body shakes.
Her eyes roll back, her body locks up, and I know the moment she’s gonna release.
I slip her arms from around my neck, bend at the knees, and put my tongue inside her hole.
My wife grabs my head and screams, legs shaking with tremors, and then I feel it on my tongue.
Sweet pussy juice. I lap at it, moaning at the back of my throat because she tastes great and tangy and I love it.
Having lapped up all that I could, wishing I could somehow squeeze out more, I wipe my mouth and stand. Spread eagle, her long legs and great body on display, I take my time to peruse it while she breaths loudly, having just come off a high. Smiling, I slide my hands into my pockets.
Do not stroke your dick. Do not.
Okay, I touch it from the side. It’s hard as a rock and ready to rule this pussyland in the bedroom.
She downs the whiskey, gently places the glass on the bar, twirls it, then crosses one leg over the other. Wait, what? I don’t think so.
She clears her throat. “It’s getting late.”
“It’s not even ten yet.”
“Yeah. I have to be up early.”
“Not tomorrow.” She sighs and stands and I pay attention to her foot and if she favors one foot over the other.
It doesn’t, so this is good. “You just got married,” I remind her, a bit upset she’s unwilling to take time off to spend with me when I’d cancel my fucking life to be with her.
Oh shit. That power transfer? Yeah, it’s already happened.
“I’m not married yet.”
I steady my breathing and give her my neutral expression, the resting asshole face, the one I use when I don’t want anyone to get a read on me, but her body is calling my dick and I can’t be trusted to make decisions now, not when I know I like her a lot. My heart is in this marriage.
I wanna make this work with this woman and no other.
The second I saw her, I knew I wanted to keep her.
I don’t need eighty fucking years to get to know her to find out she’s the one.
The fact she feels she’s not married bothers me.
I think it hurts my fucking feelings, and it definitely hurts my dick.
I want to order her to sign the marriage license. It’s on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t, because that’s what I’d do with reluctant business partners or associates who won’t do what I say. My wife needs… I don’t know what exactly. Time? Fine.
“I’ll give you fifteen to freshen up, then sign the papers so you can be married, because I signed them the second I saw them.”
“I can’t sign them.”
“Not now, baby. In fifteen minutes.” With a heavy heart and heavier balls, I walk outside to the front porch.