Shame. Whatever the surgeon thinks ‘light’ orgasms are, I’m certain they’re not the ones John has when his balls slap on my chin, when my throat muscles clamp and tug on his cock. Those hot hosings aren’t light.
He’s dozing with a book. Softly, I run my hands over his pecs and his abs. Just touching him makes me want to clamp my teeth on him, but I have to hold back. By the time my fingers are grazing over the front of his shorts, the hot thickness of his cock is uncoiling and fattening as it straightens out.
His eyes are half closed and he starts his evil grin as he reaches for me. Gently but firmly, I put his hands back down at his sides.
“One orgasm,” I whisper as my fingers slide into his pants. “Yours.” It’s no good, I’ll have to open up the front of his shorts. “Now, be a good boy, and keep still.” I’m salivating. I almost drool, but I won’t give in.
I curl my fingers around his balls and cup them. As I take the ridges of his thick, buzzing shaft in my other hand, his eyes open and his hands start to move again.
“Ah,” I cock my eyebrow and stop moving.
“God, you’re a hard woman.”
“You’re hard, husband,” I breathe, “Master.” He groans. I tell him, “Keep still and we’ll make the best of that.”
His hips twitch and rise as I stroke his magnificent beast. I alternate soft, light caresses with long, slow pulls.
He gets hotter and harder. I sense he wants me to move faster. So I speed up. But not as much as he wants.
As much as I want to drive him into a roaring frenzy, and I want him to burn the fire of that frenzy though me, now, I need to give him gentle love. That means not taking anything for myself.
Well, not much. As I squeeze a little harder and pull just a little quicker, I flutter kisses on his chest. Take little tastes from his tightening abs. No lower, or we’ll both lose control.
He’s close.
I want him so much.
His eyebrows furrow and his hips buck as he lets out a moan. I press on his hips. “Keep still, my love.”
He does, and it’s enough to set him off. The blood pumps and his cock rises, swelling in my fingers. It stretches, twitches and pulsates. Donut rings of swelling start in his ball sac and pound up his shaft.
I can’t hold back. As softly as I can, I seal my lips around the slick, darkening head, just in time. I squeeze and he moans.
He blasts hot, thick bursts of tangy come. I close my lips tight. Slide them down. Keep him sealed in my mouth. I lap up every drop. I catch him on my tongue, in the back of my mouth, and sliding, silky, salty, hot and luscious, down my throat.
I stay there as long as I dare, slurping and slipping him into my mouth. Relishing every last taste.
When I reluctantly drag my lips off the top of his crown, I tell him, “Mmm, John, I love you so much.”
His face is so beautifully wrecked.
With constant attention and distraction, I manage to keep him home and resting for most of the week.
When his temper starts to fray, I give him distraction, or warm soup, or cold water, or encourage him to take a shower.
Every day he complains that he needs to see the family. I offer to invite Mary for lunch and he changes the subject. Then I tell him I should get Mary and JoJo to visit. With all the kiddies. Wouldn’t that be nice?
He suddenly remembers something he wanted to re-read in Machiavelli’s The Prince.
He tells me constantly, “I’m going to go mad. I’m no good just sitting around.”
I’m loving the time we have together this week and I’m almost wishing it would go on. Not that I want him to stay sick, but I don’t want to let him go.
On day five, I let the brothers come to see him. Only for an hour and a half, and they’re under strict instructions not to talk to him about business in any shape or form. And not to let him get excited. But I leave them alone and trust them all to behave.
I think I’ve gotten a sense of what it will be like looking after small children.
Over breakfast, he’s quiet. He acts like it’s a normal day. Nothing in the air about how close we’ve been for the last week. I don’t want to be clingy or needy, but I have no way of knowing if it meant anything to him at all.
He stands to go, and it pulls at my chest like fishhooks.
When the door closes, I feel like a building imploding. Weightless white dust billows while a once beautiful structure collapses into nothing.