Chapter 1 — The Rut #3
My exploration grew bolder. I let my hands slide down, over the column of my own neck, feeling the pulse fluttering there like a trapped bird.
Over the sharp slope of my shoulders, down my arms. I took my own hands in his, interlacing our fingers.
My smaller hands disappeared into his grasp.
I’d held my own hand before, but never like this.
Never feeling the strength of the grip from both sides.
I was breathing heavily, a strange excitement coiling in my gut—his gut.
That pilot light was flickering, growing.
I could feel a distinct, undeniable thickening between my legs, a heaviness, a pulse.
It was entirely physical, a biological reaction to proximity, to touch, to the sheer taboo of the situation.
It had no emotional context. It just… was.
This was what Sam felt. This was the easy, uncomplicated arousal I’d envied and resented.
Sam was watching me, his expression unreadable on my face. Then he looked down, at the front of my white pants, where the evidence of that arousal was becoming tentatively visible.
“Oh,” he said, his voice small.
Embarrassment, hot and sharp, washed through me. But it was my embarrassment, not his body’s. His body didn’t care. It was just doing what it did.
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically, starting to pull back.
“Don’t be.” The words came out in a rush. He reached out, my slender hand hovering in the air between us. “Can I…?”
My throat was tight. I nodded.
His hand—my hand—landed on my chest. On Sam’s broad, hairy chest. His fingers spread, feeling the muscle, the heat, the coarse hair.
A shiver ran through me. I was feeling my own touch on his body, but the nerves reporting the sensation were his.
It was a feedback loop of profound strangeness.
He rubbed his palm over one pec, his thumb brushing over a nipple.
A sharp, unexpected jolt of pleasure-pain shot through me. I gasped—Sam’s deep gasp.
“Sensitive?” he asked, a note of surprise in his voice.
“Very,” I breathed. My own nipples were barely responsive. His were live wires.
Encouraged, his hands grew more confident.
They roamed over my chest, my stomach, mapping the terrain he knew so well from the outside.
Each touch sent signals to a brain that was learning a new sensory map.
The pleasure was simple, direct, located exactly where he touched.
It was nothing like the slow, diffuse, complicated build-up I was used to in my own body.
His hands drifted lower, to the waistband of the pants. He hooked his fingers in it, his gaze locked on mine. Asking.
Every cell in my body—his body—was screaming yes. The ache was a blunt, physical demand. But my mind, my self, was reeling. This was my husband. This was me. This was wrong and necessary and terrifying.
“Yes,” I said, the word a groan.
He pushed the pants down over my hips. They pooled at my feet. I stood there, exposed. The cool air of the room hit my—his—cock. It was half-hard, thickening rapidly under his—my—gaze.
I looked down at it. I’d seen it countless times.
In the shower, in bed, soft and hard. But I’d never seen it like this.
Never seen it as mine. It was both familiar and utterly alien.
A vein ran along the side, pulsing lightly.
The head was flushed, emerging from its hood.
It curved slightly to the left. It was… substantial. Heavy in a way I hadn’t appreciated.
Sam sank to his knees.
The sight was one of the most profoundly shocking of my life. I was watching myself, my own face, my own body, kneeling before my husband’s erection. My own expression was one of intense, focused curiosity, with an edge of something like hunger.
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth.
The sensation was electric. It wasn’t just the wet heat, the soft pressure.
It was the totality of it. The nerves in Sam’s cock were reporting directly to my brain, and they were reporting pleasure.
Pure, undiluted, stunningly simple pleasure.
It rocketed up my spine, blooming in my brain like a firework.
A groan tore from my throat, deep and guttural.
He pulled back, his lips slick. My lips. “Okay?” he asked, my voice muffled.
“More than okay,” I managed, my hands—his hands—coming down to tangle in my own hair. My head tipped back.
He took me deeper. I felt the back of his throat, the gentle suction, the flick of a tongue along the underside.
I was panting, my hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts.
This was what he felt. This was the direct line from physical stimulus to bliss that I had never, ever experienced.
My own body was a complicated instrument that required precise tuning.
This body was a simple on-off switch, and he’d just flipped it to on.
I looked down again. Watching myself give head was a surreal, pornographic out-of-body experience.
My own dark hair fell around my face. My own lips were stretched around his girth.
A strand of saliva connected my lip to his shaft.
The visual, combined with the physical sensation, was overwhelmingly hot.
That blunt arousal was now a fierce, pounding need.
“Sam,” I gasped, not sure who I was calling for. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
He understood. He pulled off with a wet pop, his face flushed. My face. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily. We were both breathing hard, staring at each other with a mix of awe and desperation.
He reached for the tie on his own pants—my pants—and loosened it. The white fabric fell open. I saw the familiar thatch of dark curls, the smooth swell of my own mons. My own pussy, from this angle, exposed.
A different kind of hunger gripped me. A need to know, to feel the other side.
“Let me,” I said, my voice rough.
I guided him—me—back onto the edge of the bed. He sat, legs slightly apart. I knelt before him—her—me. The perspective was all wrong. I was so much bigger now, looming over my own form. I placed my hands on my own knees, feeling the delicate kneecaps under my palms.
I looked up at my own face. Sam was looking down at me, his expression a mirror of my earlier wonder and fear. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I leaned in.
The smell was the first shock. It was my smell, the intimate, musky-sweet scent I knew from towels and my own fingers, but amplified, richer, coming from outside myself. It went straight to my head, to that primitive, driving part of Sam’s brain. My mouth watered.
I touched my tongue to my own clit.
The sensation that exploded in my body—in Sam’s body—was nothing like the sensation she was feeling. For me, it was a burst of flavor, of texture, of wet warmth. For her—for him—a sharp, bright jolt of pleasure made him gasp and jerk.
“Fuck,” he breathed, my voice trembling.
I did it again, slower, mapping the terrain with a tongue that was now thicker, less nimble than my own.
I found the hood, the little nub beneath.
I licked a stripe downward, through the folds, to the entrance.
The taste was tangy, familiar and foreign at once.
I pushed my tongue inside, just a little.
A high, choked whimper came from above me. My own whimper. His hands—my hands—fisted in my—his—hair.
I settled into a rhythm, using what I knew I liked, but filtered through this new instrument. Broad, flat strokes over the clit. Firm pressure. Consistency. I could feel the response in the body before me. The thighs trembling. The hips lifting off the bed. The quick, shallow breaths.
It was working. I was making myself come. I was feeling, from the outside, the precise effects of my own technique. And I was feeling, from the inside, the raw, simple feedback of giving pleasure. The two experiences were simultaneous, overlapping, overwhelming.