The First Ninety Days Ch. 10

She thought he would follow with his lips where his hands had gone—but to her surprise he instead began to kiss his way back up her body, until suddenly their lips met. She threw her arms around him and drew him close, moaning into his mouth as he began to rub back and forth with the hand on her pubic mound; she could feel that hand becoming slippery as more of her fluids leaked out of her. She let her tongue duel with his, stroked his back with her nails, drew him closer—as close as she could, with that arm between them, slanting down into the gap between her legs.

She felt him inserting a finger into her. Normally she protested this because she didn't like having anything but his organ in there—in fact, he hadn't tried it since their wedding night—but today the need for orgasm was too strong, and she felt herself clamp down on him involuntarily. It wasn't as large as his member, of course, but it was better than nothing. Even as his finger remained inside her, he continued to rub at her mons, sending shocks of pleasure through her, building up the fire inside her. Her nipples burned against his chest; she felt her breath hitching, her heart racing, as he insinuated another finger within. Her body was spasming, clenching down in his fingers irreguarly and involuntarily; each spasm sent greater tremors of sensation through her, a reverberation that would soon spill over.

She could feel the volcanic tide rising within her; she had given over kissing him long ago, her head thrown back, and he was kissing at her neck, her ear, her chin. Suddenly she felt the fingers inside her crick forward, touching off some inner spot inside her—and then she was gone. Her moans shrieked to a crescendo and her body shook as her pussy tightened on his invading fingers, clutching at them with spasmodic strength, as the heel of his hand kept pressing against that perfect button, as her body seized up with the gushing torrent of her release.

She fell back on the bed, spent.

Down below she felt him slowly withdraw his hand, leaving a slick, somewhat clammy emptiness inside her. Gently he gathered her to him, her arm limp around him, her breathing heavy against his chest, until she could hear the beating of his heart. She felt his lips kissing the top of her head, the little whorl where no hair lay. She felt rather than heard his whisper: "I love you."

There was a beeping sound coming from somewhere near. Realization shot through her: "Jon, the chicken!"

The chicken was not nearly as dead as it could have been—very crispy, to be certain, but not burned and not too dry to eat. Laughing about the mishap, they supped naked, sitting across from each other, trading bites with their forks. She wished they had lit the candles, but she hadn't thought to set them out and she didn't want to ruin the moment by stopping to get them. They had had such perfect sex today. They had made such perfect love today. Anything might break the spell; she had no intention of being the one to do it.

She looked down at her chair, suddenly realizing that the juices of at least two orgasms—her recent one, and then Jon's deposit from their upright bout at the kitchen counter—were probably leaking out onto it. "Umm... Maybe we should wash these cushions."

Jon laughed. "It might be wise. Zach says that when he and Christa go around without clothes, they use towels on the seating surfaces."

"Zach has talked about that?"

"Of course," said Jon. "So has Christa. I mean, they aren't like flinging it all over people's faces or anything, but if we're curious they're willing to share."

Caitlyn handled this new thought gingerly. That level of self-revelation seemed... Extreme to her. And yet, if someone wanted to askher for advice, shouldn't she be willing to help them?—even if it required reaching into the depths of her own private life to do so? Sure, there were things she'd rather keep secret, but God's word on the subject was clear: she was here to serve, and the circumstances of that service would not always be under her control. Jon, she knew, felt much the same way, reticence over Harold Cheng notwithstanding. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

"I'm glad we had this time," she said. "I'm glad we had this chance to... To just be, and to love each other." She smiled. "I'm glad I hung on even when you squirted."

His eyebrows jumped. "Yeah, I still can't believe you did that."

"Well..." She shrugged. "I wanted to be there when you came. I wanted to... Get to know you." Now she knew things about him—about his face as he came, about the way his body behaved as it began to fire, about that one spot on his underside ridge that seemed to be the most sensitive place on his body. No one else knew these things about him—as was right, of course, since she was his wife.

He smiled. "That you did. And I guess I returned the favor."

"I don't think you've ever made me come before without using your... Your mouth."

"I don't either. Sometimes it happens when we're doing it, but mostly it's when I go down on you."

"How come you never did it before? I kind of liked it this way. I liked being able to hold on to you, and kiss you, while you... Played with me."

He shrugged. "Well... Probably, if I'd tried before now, it wouldn't've worked. I mean,I have to get to know you too, you know."

She gave him a mischievous look. "What was it like?"

He seemed a little taken aback by this question, but he didn't let it stop him. "Well... You were squeezing down on my fingers, and your whole body got... Well, it was like all your muscles flexed, a little bit. And then afterwards you went limp." He smiled. "And I got to see your face." The smile faded a little bit, becoming warmer, as if he were looking out into some remembered past. "You're so beautiful when you come."

She drew his hand to her lips and kissed it.

As they cleaned up the dishes and put the semi-dry chicken back in the refrigerator, he said, "Honey... Can I make a request?"

She smiled at him. "Anything. I'm your wife, Jon. My body belongs to my man, to do with as he sees fit."

He seemed taken aback by this too, but again he plowed on. "Would you... Would you shave yourself for me?"

She blinked. "What, like... My hair?" Unconsciously she combed a tendril back behind her ear.

"No, your..." He gestured with his eyes. "Down there."

Caitlyn blinked again.

She looked down at herself. Though her pubic hair was slightly matted and slicked down from their recent exertions, there was still rather a lot of it. She imagined being Jon, trying to stick his face into that thicket; she remembered sticking her own face into Jon's. Obviously, since his things stuck out, she got a little less of it in the way, but when Jon was going down onher... Well, actually, she didn't blame him for wanting her to cut down on her pubic hair.

But at the same time...

"Shave? Like... Like completely bare?"

"Not if you don't want to," Jon said quickly, which she understood to mean, Yes. "Just a trim, maybe. But... I mean, I've heard that your... Your area gets a lot more sensitive that way. It feels better during sex."

"If I was completely bare... I would look like a child," she said, and gave him a suspicious look.

He ran his hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. "That's not... No you would not, sweetie. Trust me. I've seen this sort of thing, umm, on the Internet, and, well... I really like it."

"What would I do, just use a razor?"

"And shaving cream, yeah. Like when you shave your legs."

She still wasn't very good at shaving her legs; she had only started doing it after they got married. Jon, bless his heart, had not said anything one way or the other, besides that she need do nothing she didn't want to. Nonetheless, this was different. "That area's a little more... Delicate, Jon."

He mopped his face with a hand. "Look, you don't have to if you don't want to. I'm just saying that... You know. Maybe it's something you could look into. It might make life easier for both of us."

It sounded weird, but then, so did a lot of the things Jon had introduced her to over the last month or so.Evensex sounded weird at first. And didn't I just tell him that he could do as he pleased with my body? "Well... I suppose we could try it. Just a trim, though."

"Great!" he said. "Umm. Shall we?"

"What, you meannow?"

He grinned. "No time like the present, right?"

She let him lead her to the bathroom. "Are you gonna do yours?"

He stopped to blink at her. "Do you want me to?"

Truthfully, she didn't care one way or the other.But fair is fair. Besides, maybe it'll be an inconvenience and he won't ask me to do it. "Sure, why not?"

So, with her pair of scissors, she sat on the toilet and began to snip. Jon watched her with eager eyes, which was part endearing, part creepy and part just-plain-annoying. To head him off, she pointed the scissors at him. "Why, you wanna help?"

"Sure," he said, and Caitlyn was left to wonder if this could possibly backfire any further. She was lettingJon approach her privates with apair of scissors! But he was gentle and careful with them—somewhat more than she'd been herself—and there were no unexpected pokes or cuts. And, to be fair, it was probably easier for him to see and get an even trim than for her to. He fetched a cup and used some water to rinse out the trimmed bits, which had the added effect of smoothing out her hair and letting him see if it was even; they laughed that he was turning into a full-fledged barber. Now if only he wouldn't cut it so short; instead of a proverbial bush, all she had left now was a trimmed lawn no longer than the last segment of her pinkie finger.

When he was done, he offered her the scissors. "Your turn."He seemed to have no nervousness that she would commit some accidental atrocity onhis unspeakable personals. But then, of course, all his were dangling out in the open, not tucked away inside his body where no one could see them.

For a moment she pondered this bizarre convolution of creation and existence. How did that affect personality or social expectation?—that women's privates were internal, and men's on the outside? How would life, the universe and everything be different if that simple biological fact were reversed? What would it be like ifwomen were the ones you kicked in the balls?

"Caitlyn?" said Jon, and she suddenly realized she had been staring at his crotch this entire time. His hand cupped her cheek, a familiar gesture. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing important," said Caitlyn. She turned her head in his hand to kiss his palm. It tasted slightly sour, and she realized this was the hand he had put between her legs.Oh well. No help for that now.

It was probably easier for her to trim his hair because of all the dangly-outy bits, but she felt like shorter scissors might have been more useful. These were the scissors she used to cut cloth for her sewing projects, and they were longer than Jon's penis even if fully erect. Something shorter and subtler might've been easier to work with under these circumstances. Still, it was easy to handle his penis and keep it out of the way as she worked—and, as an added bonus, it began to firm, making it easier to judge how short she'd gotten his hair. She was surprised that it looked so much longer.

When she was done and had put the scissors down, he rose without a word and she did too. She did not expect him to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed. She hadn't until this time even been aware that he could pick her up like that. Suddenly she was aware of his penis warm against her hip, of the resurgence of the sweet ache between her legs—the gap that, even now, longed to be filled.

He deposited her on the bed and, without further preamble, dove between her legs. Immediately she felt that he was right, that she could feel so much more down there with so much less hair in the way; but very quickly she had other things on her mind: his lips on her mound, on the flesh to either side of her opening, on the crevices around it, on the now (dramatically) less protected top of her slit, where that specially-sensitive nub lay open to his ministrations. As he began to suck on her clit, she wove her fingers into his hair and moaned.

When she came it was not as intense as before. She had lost herself in the sensations, letting her head fall back and glory in the feeling of his lips on her clit, his tongue inside her; and then, without warning, she was there, the great tremble and gush as her pleasure rushed out of her in a clenching, spasming wave. Even before the last contraction ended she felt the deep ache of her emptiness, and reached for him to draw him up and penetrate her. He must have known, for he rose up, her legs still over his shoulders, and positioned himself.

He slid home in one swift thrust.

It was a new sensation, completely unlike anything she'd felt before. Her legs were bent at an acute angle, her body curved; she could see her own feet hanging in the air, Jon's face between them. He too must have been bent at the waist, his hips and legs back behind him as he pushed himself forward. He was deep inside her, deeper than she'd ever felt before; it was almost uncomfortable, but at the same time it was thrilling, incredibly erotic, to know that he was stretching her inner depths, forcing her to accomodate his intrusion—that no man had ever been this far inside her; that no other man ever would. His face was a mask, like nothing she had ever seen before, an almost animal look of passion there as he pumped into her, slapping softly against her thighs on each thrust, her body flexing to absorb them. She was in the middle of the bed; there was nothing to hang on to; she was completely at his mercy. Maybe the thought should have scared her; instead it sent another thrill through her. He had her body at his command, and—no matter how bad, there was simply no other appropriate word—he was going to fuck the heck out of her. She had never had sinful sex before, not like this, but she knew instinctively that that was the right word; knew, instinctively, that this was sinful only because of how unbelievably good it was going to be.

Though it was thrilling to be plowed into this way, it was also uncomfortable, and after only a dozen strokes or so he stopped to adjust his hold. He slid his legs up until he sat on his feet before her, and her body slanted up the wedge of his kneeling legs. Her legs were together, not parted the way they normally were for their sex, and she felt the difference in the tightness of her walls as he battered against them. He was holding her by the ankles, levering in and out of her, while her fingers scrabbled against the sheets for what purchase they could find; her toes were near his head, and suddenly she noticed that he was kissing and sucking them. Why he would want to do that was a question for another day; there was nothing more important right now than his cock within her, his body firm against the back of her legs, the blood rushing to her head, the powerful way he moved inside her.

It took him a long time to come, but she paid it no mind. The ride was all, the sensations, which were pleasurable but almost not so; somehow she knew that sensation was not their goal, but instead the animal velocity of their expanding emotions. If she had come it would have been a distraction. Nonetheless she was so far gone that she almost didn't notice when he came; it was only his sudden groan, after so long of complete silence, that alerted her. Again she felt the building pressure through two layers of skin and nerves; again he grew, swelled, burst within her; again the burst of whiteness and heat, deep against her inner walls, deeper than she'd ever had it.Maybe this time it'll stay in. Semen seemed so sticky when it splashed in her mouth; how come it dripped out of her when she stood up?

She had not come, but she didn't care; in some ways it was better. Nonetheless she realized she was exhausted by the sheer amount (and intensity) of sex they had had—from lovemaking to pure fucking and back again. Wordlessly he began to extricate himself, and when he let her legs down she stood up to turn off the lights. She crawled into bed beside him and, with barely a kiss good-night, dropped off to sleep.