The Morning After

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Hot sex before breakfast.
1.4k words
3.21
20.2k
5
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He lies. Starfished across the entirety of the pillowtop queen, splayed beneath the full complement of sheets, quilts, and pillows, limbs askew, limning stylized violence like a cartoon bird having flown comically into plate glass. A casual observer glancing into the room would see only an unmade bed with dressings strewn at random. He takes a secret pride in this ability to lie flat, concealed from view. Whose view is beside the point: it's the small comfort of hiding in plain sight, of being unobserved, unknown. He shallows his breathing, imagines blood cells requiring the minimum of oxygen, squeezes the third dimension until the weight of blankets could be mistaken for concrete and impetus recedes nearly beyond reach. The heaviness of responsibility dangles over him like a grand piano. If only he could disappear.

Against his express wishes, morning coalesces, solidifying like gelatin. Sharp intrusions follow, knifelike. A scalpel brightness slices open the blanket boundary. Running water, the more distant disturbances of clinking cutlery, combative screeches, something about the television. A sound of drawers rumbling open, banging closed, and a pink sliver of passing flesh, fleetingly visible through the gaps in his cotton cocoon.

Cocoon. Is that what this is? The typical usage — being wrapped in womblike comfort — yes, but what about the implications? New life, etc? The thought is too optimistic to be had before coffee. What if I just lie here? Would they forget? He hopes and dreads that they would.

The unwanted answer comes almost immediately. Another glimpse of flesh and suddenly the blanket is lifted, an icy hand touches his hamstring, and he is officially awake. He takes note that there was affection in the gesture in at least equal measure with malice. Cold comfort. He grabs desperately at the blur of brightness and manages to catch it — her — in one arm, arresting the movement. Stifled laughter, halfhearted resistance, and she is beside him, drawing the blankets to her chin, obviously hoping to take advantage of the opportunity — the children having been bribed into armistice with breakfast and netflix — to lie in bed a little longer.

The brief struggle has rendered her slightly winded and the physicality of her quickened breathing makes him suddenly, forcefully, aware of her body. And he remembers last night. Was it a dream? They haven't had sex for months. Issues. Undeniable problems. No one's fault. Just the cruelty of the past precipitating the mess of the present. He's been mostly patient, if somewhat quietly self-congratulatory about it, and she feels guilty. They both know it is entirely possible to acknowledge the necessity of a course of action, to acknowledge that it is outside of one's control, and still to feel the weight of assumed expectation both external and self imposed.

Lately there had been evidence of a thaw: signals. In his frustrated state he took them with an intellectual grain of salt, but there had been a certain novel confidence in her movements, a tender kiss while cooking dinner, a tantalizing glimpse of freshly shaved skin beneath sheer fabric. He was determined not to push too hard. Then Thanksgiving dinner, the warmth of wine, the obfuscating jets of hot water in the cool autumn evening. They had found themselves briefly alone in the hot tub. He had kissed her, she had kissed back, a flurry of hands beneath bathing suits and then interrupted: sugar fueled kids and alcohol fueled grownups filling the water. Having assumed the rendezvous was over, he was surprised to feel her hand on his wrist, stealthily maneuvering him toward the crevice of her legs, which she opened and which his fingers entered while she applied her own fingers to the area of her arousal. She had proceeded to surreptitiously fuck herself, ass arched toward his fingers, as she reached over with her free hand and pumped his hard shaft below the bubbling surface of the crowded tub.

After driving home and putting the kids to bed, he had stayed downstairs to work for a while. Still incredibly horny and a little dazed by his good fortune, he had found himself reading erotic fiction about a man and woman who make love in a hot tub and end up back in the house in front of the fireplace, where the man forcefully takes the woman's asshole.

A few times, before their sexual hiatus, she had let him have her ass, and it was an ongoing fantasy to remember how he had lubed and stretched her forbidden hole before turning her on her back and impaling her ass while she dildo-fucked her own pussy. He had returned to that memory as he came, sitting in front of the computer screen, and then had proceeded in a moment of post orgasmic haze to copy the URL of the story and send it to her in a text message. He had half been hoping that she would reply and demand he come to bed for a booty call, but she did not and he eventually had decided to sleep.

And now the morning, the flash of skin, her body breathing beside him, and the recollection of last night. Emboldened by the memory, he reaches over and places his hand on her stomach. No resistance. He gently caresses upward, underneath her night shirt, and begins softly brushing her nipples, succeeding at making them hard to his touch. Still no resistance. He finds himself wondering if she clicked the link. Did she enjoy the surprise or no? As he is concluding that she probably hasn't read it yet, she turns her head to him, a hint of a smile crossing her mouth. "What's the end goal here?"

"I don't know really. Just having fun. Your skin feels nice."

Two beats of silence. Kid noises downstairs. She speaks again, "I just read that story. I didn't check it last night because I thought it was another one of your random links."

Heavy, expectant silence followed by more kid noises. As she speaks again, her expression changes to something closely resembling hunger. "Did you jack off to it?"

"... Yes."

Hungrier still. Her voice becomes sultry. "Did you cum?"

"I did. Did you like the story?"

She nods and looks into his eyes. Her mouth is slack and her legs are beginning to shift rhythmically under the sheets. She reaches over and places his hand directly on her mound but she is quickly frustrated with the thin fabric blocking her pleasure, and redirects him underneath it. His fingers find her completely shaved and soaking with the wetness of her arousal. "Oh my God. You're so wet, baby," he exhales in a jagged breath somewhere between a groan and a prayer.

She responds silently by turning away from him onto her side, and backs her hips toward him in an unmistakable invitation. She reaches behind and grabs his hardness, pulling him toward her from behind. He slips effortlessly into her as she turns her head and kisses him deeply. She reaches down and begins touching herself, indulgently circling her slick juices over her engorged clit and pussy lips. "What was your favourite part of the story," she quietly growls, "was it where he bends her over the couch and fucks her asshole?"

"Yes."

"Did it turn you on how he just shoved his cock right in there and didn't ask?"

"That part was fucking hot".

He flips her, face down ass up, and mounts her from behind, remembering to pull the sheets to his shoulders in case of unwanted guests (we should get a lock on this door, he thinks), and she gasps as he firmly presses a thumb all the way inside her exposed asshole. At the deepest point he can feel his thrusting cock through the thin walls of her flesh. Her tight hole grips his thumb like it's holding on for dear life. She is still rubbing her clit. "I'm so wet, it's running down my hand!" She's almost laughing, "Fuck that pussy, baby, your cock feels so good".

Just as it occurs to him that the kids won't stay distracted forever, he begins to feel his climax building and he knows she is ready for him to let go. He thrusts his cock harder and faster into her as she furiously fingers her dripping cunt. Finally he shoots stream after stream of hot cum inside of her and they collapse in a panting heap of flesh and fluids — just in time to hear the sound of little feet storming up the stairs.

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26thNC26thNCover 4 years ago
Good

Just a husband and his wife, nothing else needed.

AnonymousAnonymousover 6 years ago
Great!

Loved it. 5*

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