Chapter 25 #2
Just… held me. His broad palm pressed against my mound, his fingers curving gently between my legs, cradling the swollen, slippery mess I’d become with a tenderness that made my knees nearly buckle.
He didn’t rub. Didn’t press. Didn’t seek out my clit or push inside me.
He simply held my pussy in his hand the way someone might hold a small bird—with infinite care, as if he were protecting something fragile and trembling.
It seemed unbearable.
A whimper climbed my throat. My hips twitched forward of their own accord, trying to grind against his palm, to create the friction my body was screaming for. But his hand didn’t respond. It stayed exactly where it was—warm and steady and impossibly, maddeningly gentle against my soaking flesh.
“Chris,” I breathed. “Please… sir… I need…”
“I know what you need.” His voice was calm.
Almost meditative. His thumb shifted—the barest movement, a fraction of an inch—and even that tiny adjustment against my outer lips made me gasp.
“But you’re not going to get it tonight, as you know.
If you want it tomorrow, when you give me your anus, I need you to answer my questions more fully. ”
I nodded frantically, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance. Anything. I would answer anything if it meant he would move his hand.
“And what is it called,” Chris said, his eyes holding mine with the same ceremonial steadiness, “when a husband takes his wife?”
The question hung in the air between us. I knew the answer he wanted. Not lovemaking. Not intimacy. Not any of the euphemisms I’d learned in New Modesty wellness class.
“F-fucking,” I whispered. The word felt enormous in my mouth tonight, though Chris had made me say it so many times already: obscene and electric and shameful and thrilling, all at once.
My pussy clenched against his motionless palm as I said it, and I saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. “It’s called fucking, sir.”
“Good girl.” His thumb moved again—just barely, a feather-light stroke along the seam of my outer lips that made my vision blur. “And what does a man call the places where a husband takes his wife?”
My breath hitched. The question was so clinical in its phrasing, so deliberate—and yet what it demanded of me was anything but clinical.
Chris’s palm still cupped me, warm and maddeningly still, and I could feel my pulse beating against his fingers like a confession my body was making without my permission.
“The… the places?” I repeated, stalling, my voice barely above a breath.
“You know what I’m asking.” His thumb grazed along my seam again—that ghost of a touch that sent lightning forking through my belly. “You watched Stacy’s husband name them. You heard me name them. Now I need to hear them from your mouth.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. The words existed in my mind already, branded there in what had happened in Chris’s and my bedroom many times already.
But still they sat on my tongue like hot coals—words I’d been raised to believe no decent woman would ever speak aloud, words that belonged to locker rooms and dirty movies and the kind of men my mother had warned me about.
Words that made my pussy flood against Chris’s palm the instant I thought them.
“Her… her cunt,” I whispered, and the obscenity left my lips like a prayer torn from someplace raw and deep. My thighs trembled. “A husband calls it his wife’s cunt. And… and her… mouth… and…”
I faltered. The next word felt worse. Worse because of what Chris had promised to do to me tomorrow, worse because of what I’d watched Kevin do to Stacy, worse because of what my own treacherous fingers had found on the couch while I’d soaked through my panties like the dirty girl I was.
“Say it, Valerie.”
“Her ass,” I gasped. The word came out cracked and breathless, and my hips jerked forward against his hand as if my body wanted to punctuate the confession with evidence. “Her ass, sir. A husband fucks his wife in her mouth and her cunt and… and in her ass.”
“Good girl.” The praise washed over me like warm water, and I felt tears prick at my eyes again—not from shame this time, or not only from shame, but from the overwhelming relief of being told I was good even while saying the filthiest things I’d ever spoken.
His hand shifted against me, and I felt his middle finger settle into the slick valley between my folds—not pressing in, not moving, just resting there with devastating precision against my entrance.
“And what part of him does a husband use to fuck his wife?”
A sob broke from my chest. The answer was right there—thick and rigid and straining against the front of Chris’s jeans, so close to where I stood between his knees that I could feel the heat of it radiating against my bare thigh.
I’d had it in my mouth. I’d had it inside my pussy, stretching me, claiming me, making me scream his name. And tomorrow it would go in my bottom.
It came out in a sob, because I needed it so, so much, and I knew I wouldn’t get it until tomorrow.
“His cock, sir. His big, beautiful, hard cock.”
“Good girl,” he repeated, and the tenderness in it nearly undid me. He pulled his hand from between my thighs. I let out another sob of frustration. “Now, taste how naughty a good girl you are.”
“Oh… no… sir…” I whispered as he raised his fingers to my lips. “Please… please…”
But the lips that opened to say please had stayed open, and my tongue had poked out so that when Chris gently pushed his musky fingertips inside I was ready to suckle at them like the dirtiest slut I could ever have imagined.
At the taste of my pussy I felt my heart race and my breathing begin to come in little pants around Chris’s fingers. It seemed to intensify the taste, and the sheer wantonness of the moment made my forehead crease and my brain spin.
Slowly he withdrew the fingers. On his face I saw the smile that made my knees weak. He put his fingertips to his own lips. His sheer handsomeness drew a whimper from my chest as he tasted, his lips curving even further. He moved his hand again, to cup my cheek.
“Come to bed,” he said very softly.
I climbed in beside him, the nightgown riding up around my hips as I moved.
I didn’t pull it down. Some part of me—some new, fragile part that was still learning its own shape—understood that pulling it down would undo what I’d just offered him.
So I let it bunch around my waist, let my bare legs slide against the cool sheets, let my naked bottom and my bare, wet, shamefully aroused pussy rest against the mattress where my husband could reach them whenever he chose.
Chris pulled the quilt over us both and drew me against his chest. His arm settled around me with a weight that felt like an anchor—not trapping me, but mooring me.
His other hand came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair, and I pressed my face into the warm hollow beneath his collarbone where I could hear his heartbeat.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured against my hair. Just the one word. A promise and a warning wrapped together.