Page 87 of Sideline Play

“Fuck, Scar,” he groans. “I need you to relax. Can you do that? Let Daddy in, baby.”

Nodding my head, I breathe deep and as I begin to release the breath, I bear down on him allowing him to sink an inch into me. One, then two, then three before he’s panting as heavily as I am, muttered swears falling from his lips as he calls a quits to any more.

I’ve had the plugs in me numerous times, both for play and to train and stretch so we could one day do exactly this. I’ve had them in while I use dildos on my pussy. Even had them inwhile Remington fucks my pussy and uses the plug to fuck my ass, bringing to life scenes from my Why Choose novels. So I’m not a stranger to the illicit pleasure that comes from anal or the exceptionally full feeling of being stretched beyond capacity. Still, I’m not prepared for just how intense having his cock in me is.

Each small, gentle thrust has me wild for more, my hand getting soaked as my cunt leaks, turning the bullet slippery. I don’t even think Remington has managed a handful of thrusts before I’m slapping a hand down on the hardwood, my nails clawing at the grain for purchase as the need to come expands to its breaking point.

“Are you—FUUUUCK!” I yell, shattering before I can ask if he’s close enough for me to be allowed to come.

Shoving the bullet into my pussy as I ride out the most intense orgasm of my life, shockwaves of pleasure sparking and igniting throughout every nerve in my body. Pressing it into my front wall, I crank it up until I’m squirting through the end of my release or possibly triggering another, my mind too blissed out to care for the answer.

Remington’s own roar is deafening as he pulls out and paints me with his cum. The hand not fisting his cock as he wrings out every single drop pulls the vibrator from me with a slick squelch, replacing it with his cum coated fingers, rubbing his seed along my walls and sparking off tiny, electric aftershocks.

As soon as he’s done, the last of my strength evaporates as I collapse on the floor, the skirt of my dress rumpled and bunched up around my waist to protect it from the mess we’ve made. Beside me, Remington flops on his back, one arm stretched out as the other snakes under me and pulls me to him as he starts peppering light kisses along my sweaty hairline, murmuring sweet words and praise as he massages my arms as best he can with one hand.

He catches his breath long before I do, leaving me with a quick kiss and a promise to hurry before he heads upstairs. Once he’s back though, hair and body wet from the shower, a towel knotted low on his hips, he’s pulling me up to my feet and feeling along my sides for the hidden zipper.

With the tug in hand, he gently releases the teeth, letting the dress fall from my body before kneeling to slip the garter from my thigh as well. Then standing back up, he scoops his hands under my butt and lifts me so my legs wrap around his tapered waist, carrying my limp body upstairs to our bathroom where the massive tub is filling up.

Holding his hand as I step in, I scoot to the front, needlessly making room for him. Then once he’s in, I turn around and straddle his lap, cuddling into him as he washes me, massages me, and cares for me through my come down, listening to every murmured word and devotion, each of them punctuated with “my wife” until I’m squirming for more, my tease shattering his gentleness when he hauls me out of the tub.

Setting me on the vanity’s counter, he fucks me fast and hard, the makeup I left out from this afternoon scattering to the floor under the force of his punishing thrusts before picking me up, his cock and cum trapped inside me, and taking me to bed where we finally give into the slower, more tender side of indulgence long past the small hours of the night.

THIRTY-EIGHT

REMINGTON

“I don’t even care anymore.”Scarlet says, her pissed off laughter carrying from the living room to the kitchen. “No, actually I don’t. I’ve done the math, Brady. Have you?” There’s a beat of silence before she says, “Well let me enlighten you; even if I have to have your zero attached to my average, my overall grade in the class will still be well above passing. This may ruin my 4.0, but like I said, I don’t care, because I’ll take your ass down with me.

“So do your part of the project or don’t. In fact, don’t do it. We’ll be going into full time clinicals in January and when you slip below a 3.5, Jennings will cut you and then I won’t have to see your spiteful ass ever again.”

Minus her stress creeping higher and higher the closer Scarlet gets to the end of the semester and the rising frequency of these shouted phone calls with Hendrix, the last week since our wedding has been better than I could’ve imagined. When she isn’t so absorbed in studying for exams and writing and polishing her papers that she forgets to eat until I cut the Wi-Fi in order to force her out of the office, we’re on each other even more than we were before. Being with her has been anaddiction from the start, but now all it takes is a small whisper of “Husband” or “Wife,” and everything is shoved aside as we tear at each other’s clothes.

It’s as if there’s a new well with even more to explore, and we can’t resist it. We’re possessed by a need to be continuously within reach of the other, to remain connected in some way. Neither ever fully satiated in our intimacy, always craving more.

Most mornings when I wake up, it still feels surreal. It doesn’t matter if her left hand is resting on my chest or my fingers are woven around hers and I see the rings I’ve given her prominently stacked on that important finger. I still exist in this haze where I can’t believe it as truth until I see my own two-toned, brushed gold band on my hand, its presence new yet already familiar. And once the mist between dream and reality is lifted, I stir with the need to have my wife under me, over me, against me. To feel her, love her, get close to her, and become a part of her as deeply and irrevocably as she’s burrowed herself into me.

I don’t know if this is how it is for most newlyweds. Insatiable hunger and need for their spouse. Consumed by every little detail and experience. Hopelessly gone for the other with no desire to ever return. I can’t imagine it is. I think the worshipful devotion I have for my wife is a spell uniquely crafted by her. She’s bewitched and ensnared me, and in spite of being the one to command her body and pleasure, I kneel for her and her witchcraft, begging to never be released.

Grabbing our plates, I come to join her in the living room where the news is playing on mute while we wait for Carolina’s football game to start. I don’t follow a lot of football, or any sport outside of baseball really, but you’d have to be living under a rock to miss the buzz surrounding their stellar season led by Callum Cutter.

Since he was transitioned to first string after their starting quarterback suffered a compound fracture in his forearm in a car accident, they haven’t lost a game. Nor have we missed one, my wife having turned into a bit of a fanatic when she found out he would be starting the rest of the season. And while I’m not a big fan of the sport, Scarlet keeps up with the careers of all the students she used to tutor, and I’m a fan of hers. So if Callum is playing, we’re watching, though admittedly neither one of us fully knew what was going on when we first started.

She mouths, “Thank you,” as I set her dinner down on the coffee table. Her sweet smile and perky Carolina blue bow adorning her ponytail are at odds with her attitude as she snaps, “You’re probably right. Getting screwed six ways to Sunday every single day by my husband seems to have mellowed me out. Now fuck off asshole!” Hanging up with a feral roar, she throws her phone onto the armchair and begins pacing between the TV and the table, ponytail swishing back and forth. “UGH! I cannotstandhim. I don’t even know what the hell his problem is with me. He literally just waltzed into the auditorium and decided to make my life fucking hell all because of my last name.”

Throwing up her arms, she turns on her heel and faces me as she shouts, “And you know what Ireallydon’t understand? Why he’s even doing this. That’s what I don’t understand. Jesus, how can he not see that he’s about to torpedo his career before it even starts?”

“Spiteful? Jealous? Possibly looking at getting cut anyway?”

“I wish,” she huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Brady’s actually really smart. He’s just lazy. Where I have to record every single lecture, take about a notebook's worth of notes, and pour over it all several times in addition to all the readings in order for the non-practical side to sink in, he can hear it or read it once and have perfect recall. Any professional team would be lucky to have that douche canoe on their payroll.Hell, we’d be lucky to have him—and my God do those words taste like vinegar.”

Setting my plate aside, I coax, “Come here, baby,” slouching down on the couch.

The drop of her shoulders and the crumpling of her posture releases the last of her anger. She approaches with a slow shuffle, collapsing onto me the moment she’s close enough. With a bounce of my hips, I scoot her into a more comfortable spot and cup the back of her head as she hides her face into my neck.

“You know, I actually hate school,” she confesses with a shuddering breath. “I mean, I love learning, but the rest of it, it’s exhausting and isolating. I can’t wait to be done with it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it. If I wouldn’t be just as happy managing my brand and endorsements, taking on a few more charities, and letting you fill me with babies.”

The words to refute and bolster her are on the tip of my tongue when the news story on screen catches my attention. “Scar,” I murmur, my chest growing painfully tight as I read and re-read the headline.

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