Chapter 36
His dick is in my mouth when she calls.
“Shit. I should probably take this,” he says. I pull my lips off of him and as he apologizes, his penis goes flaccid. By the time he clears his throat and answers the call, it’s shriveled up to its resting state.
“Hey, honey,” he says, his wife-voice a half octave higher than usual. And placating. And cowardly.
“Did you already leave the store?” I hear her ask, her tone shrill and void of the buttery okayness from our dinner.
“Had to go to Vons,” Korgy says as he presses the volume button on his phone to lower it. He must not want me hearing the way she speaks to him. “They didn’t have your sweetened condensed milk at Fred Meyer.”
“Okay, can you get cranberries?”
“Yep.”
“Big bag. Thirty-two ounces. Not the twenty-four.”
“Got it.”
“Did you hear me? Not the twenty-four.”
“I heard you.”
“Okay, cuz last time you got the twenty-four.”
“I will not get the twenty-four.”
For a second I’m impressed that she dominates him so effortlessly, scolding him over cranberries while I sit here shoveling his cock into my mouth, praying in between gags that I’ll get it far enough back in my throat that he’ll have to love me.
A sourness stirs in my gut. Jealousy. I know it has no place here. I signed a verbal contract with a certain set of rules, and I’m happy with the setup. Happy to be his mistress.
So as his wife rattles off a list of last-minute grocery requests that for whatever reason she couldn’t conjure up when she made the list—buttermilk and walnuts and peaches and fresh mint “for the hot cocoa garnish”—I do what any happy mistress does.
I lean forward and start stroking his cock.
Licking it. Sucking his wrinkly balls. Giving him the masculinity she’s taken away.
Relieving him of the exhaustion of marriage, of family, of a disappointing career and a thinning hairline.
I know my job. My role. To make him feel good.
To be his escape. To take him out of the pressures of his life, which includes not putting any pressure on him to be a bigger part of mine.
Pressure would kill us and so instead, I suck. I blow. I kiss. I stroke. I lick. And I let those be the places where I’m allowed to want.
His knees buckle. He explodes into my mouth and I swallow his warm, runny liquid like it’s my jealousy.
It’s a two-for-one, his pleasure and my pain sliding down my throat at the same time.
One drop escapes and dribbles down my chin and falls to the carpet just as he tells his wife that he’ll be right home.