Chapter 18 #2
Yes, my clit is swollen and needy, and my nipples are furled tight, and my skin feels like it’s on fire, but the main ache is so far inside me, and at this angle it’s deep enough that it feels as though he’s hitting my womb.
It’s less surface-level, this need, and it’s primal.
It feels as though it’s the very reason Mother Nature gave men dicks: to fill their women up like this.
I drag my forehead back and forth over the back of the hand gripping the rail. ‘Feels—so—good,’ I manage.
‘Yeah?’ His long fingers massage my arse as the water sluices over me. ‘Feeling full of me?’
‘Yep.’ Understatement of the century.
‘You’re about to feel a lot fuller.’ Before I can ask him what he means, he removes one hand from my hip. Next thing I know, he’s wedging it between our bodies and jamming a finger up my—
Oh my God.
I let out a yelp of shock, my entire body going rigid. ‘Ben!’
‘Anyone ever been up here before?’ he enquires, the cheeky little shit. It feels ticklish and invasive and weird.
‘Categorically not,’ I huff, and he lets out a pained laugh.
‘You see, when you’re all high and mighty like that, it makes me want to fill every hole you have. Relax, baby. Just give it a sec, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say before sighing out a big breath. He must only have got one knuckle in, because he pushes further, and even though it feels deeply unnatural, I can appreciate that the torrent of water must be making his job easier.
‘And…’ he says, driving his cock fully back inside me until he’s bottoming out.
I gasp and stand stock-still as I acclimatise to the feeling. It feels… not awful.
‘Good girl,’ he says, and warmth floods my insides. Am I really so validation-obsessed that I’ll accept praise for letting him stick his finger up my arse?
It appears the answer to that question is yes.
‘Fuck, you’re tight here. You’re going to let me fuck that one day.’
‘Yeah, not happening,’ I gasp, and he chuckles.
‘Baby steps. Feel how full…’
He can’t finish the sentence, but another thrust has him bottoming out in me again, and fuck, he’s right.
I’m so fucking full down there I can’t think straight. I feel as though I’m teetering on a knife edge. On one side, overstimulation the like of which I can’t handle, and on the other, what I suspect is pleasure the like of which I can’t handle.
For a moment, I’m not sure which way I’ll fall. Not sure if I can handle this. I’m sweating under the heat of the water, struggling to catch my breath amid all this steam.
Then he moves again, shunting into me like a freight train as the finger back there presses down on my front wall, and oh my Lord, the pressure is heavenly. Heavenly. I let out an involuntary moan that has him making a noise of pleasure, too.
‘You like that.’
‘Umm-hmm.’
‘All those years you spent being the perfect little socialite, and look at you now. My dick in your cunt and my finger in your arse, and you’re fucking loving it. My filthy, filthy little wife. If they could see you now.’
I know he’s trying to shame me, in a really good way, and it’s fucking working.
Confronting the sheer filth of what I’m letting him do to me makes it even hotter—far hotter than trying to dissociate.
Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible to fantasise my way out of the right here, right now, because nothing and no one is hotter than my husband, and no one knows better how to press my buttons.
So I squeeze my eyes shut and allow myself to drink in every single sensation that’s happening inside me.
‘You realise you’re going to come like this,’ Ben says. His voice is tinged with intense pride—or intense self-satisfaction. Hard to tell with him.
‘Yep,’ I say with a moan. This is the best moment of my life.
Every nerve ending in my body is performing Maria’s twirling hilltop opener from The Sound of Music.
My entire body is well and truly alive with the feeling of being double-dipped by my dastardly husband.
Things are happening inside me that I have no reference for, no tools for.
All I know is that I’m hurtling towards some kind of crescendo, and it’s going to be one for the ages. ‘Harder,’ I urge him.
‘Jesus, I am so fucking obsessed with you,’ he groans, picking up his pace.
The sounds he’s making tell me he’s not far off, either, but I trust Ben to get me there first. My husband is a sexual superhero, and I know he’s got me.
So I stand there, holding on for dear life, my sole contribution being to push back into every thrust, to overlook the physical discomfort and chase the accompanying pleasure.
I am actually drooling so hard that it’s dripping from my mouth, washed away by the shower water. Ben pounds me and pounds me, and it’s so gritty and rough: hard, dirty sex, the likes of which I have never, ever encountered outside of my Kindle.
The ache is morphing, spreading, building, consuming my entire body.
All I can think about is our end game, where my husband ignites it and obliterates me.
His fingertips dig into my hip as he continues to pump both my holes, and I shake with the effort of holding myself upright on Bambi legs, of withstanding a force so strong it may well end me, and—
Oh shit.
My climax is a fireball, igniting my womb and ripping through my body and atomising me until I’m no longer matter but pure, incandescent energy.
The contractions are endless, staggering, beautiful, my body their vehicle, my cries their only outlet.
I’m practically screaming, my shouts echoing around this shower enclosure as Ben follows me right over the edge with a volley of brutal fucks as he empties everything he has inside me.
On his final paroxysms, he pulls that blessed finger out and folds himself over me, his chest against my back, pressing fevered kisses down the discs of my spine, his arms wrapping around me before pulling me upright.
Still pulsing inside me, he holds me like that, and I let my head flop back against his shoulder, useless and boneless, as he caresses my hips, my stomach, my breasts.
‘Told you,’ he slurs, his breath hot against my ear. ‘I’m fucking obsessed.’