Page 38 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
She claps her hands and jumps once in a very girly, bouncy way. It’s so rare to see her girlishly happy like this. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her this happy and energized at all in ages, but I guess she could say the same about me. “This is what you’ve been fantasizing about doing to me all week?” is one of two things I have to ask.
“Yes. Well. For longer than that, actually.” She crawls onto the mattress next to me and strokes my chest. “Do you want another pillow under your head? Is your neck comfortable? If you look down, I mean?” She pats one of the lofty pillows.
I am so glad she hasn’t blindfolded me because I wouldn’t want to miss one second of this. And I’m very surprised she hasn’t gagged me. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Good.”
“Are we going to need a safe word?”
“Oh, I almost forgot about that. Well, I wasn’t planning on keeping you tied up for very long, but how do you feel aboutChumbawambaas a safe word?”
Now I’m thinking about Billy Boston while I have an erection. If I could move my hands I’d give her the double thumbs down. She can obviously tell from my face that I am not okay with that.
She laughs. “I’m just kidding. What aboutmangia?”
“Well, now I’m thinking about my nonna.”
“I know. I was kidding again. Trying to make you less hard because yeesh.” She eyes my massive, throbbing boner. “How aboutMichael Bublé? But again—I do not expect you to require a safe word, sir.”
“Fuck you, Michael Bubléshall be the safe word. Proceed.”
“I shall. Come what may.” She winks at me. “I want you to relax completely, Mr. Cannavale. This is all about me making you feel good.”
I’d tell her I’m relaxed, but I’d be lying. I don’t think it’s physiologically possible to be completely relaxed when you have a jumbo hard-on and your wife has just tied you to the bed. I trust her completely, but I can’t lie to my wife, so I wink at her.
She leans down to kiss me, and God dammit, I want to touch her boobs right now. Does she really think she isn’t torturing me, or is that innocence part of the act? I will never know, and that is why I will forever be obsessed with my wife.
She kisses me deeply and then peppers kisses down my neck and chest, stroking my abs reverently. She drags her fingertips back up, circling my pecs, and then down my obliques, swooping down to the side of my butt cheek. “I love you,” she says—to my butt.
“I love you,” I say.
She looks up at my face, as if she has forgotten for a moment that there are other parts of me besides butt cheeks. She climbs over me, reaches for the jar of coconut oil. She smiles down at me as she scoops out and rubs the solid coconut oil between her hands, liquifying it, and then she does what is the first in what I imagine is going to be a string of amazing things—she straddles my midsection with her back to me. I see nothing but her gorgeous ass in those cotton panties right there in front of my face.Hello, little blue flowers. Hello, beautiful curves of my wife’s ass.
This is quickly followed by the second amazing thing—the sensation of her gently rubbing melted coconut oil all over my dick and balls, my inner thighs. She strokes slowly from my balls, up over my cock with both hands. Letting her hands trail each other so it feels like continuous motions, one after another. She blows warm breath around that whole area. It is an entirely new sensation that I was not expecting and would like to feel again.
“Does that feel good?”
“God damn, it feels incredible, baby. Do that again.”
She does that again. She tickles the skin around my balls, stretching the skin and massaging it thoroughly. Then she takes firm hold of the base of my shaft and slides her fingers around that very sensitive part where the shaft meets the head.
And then she does something that really blows my mind. She leans forward so my erection is sandwiched between her tits. I can’t see it, but I can feel it, and it’s the best and worst thing this angel-devil-woman has ever, ever done to me. I will remember this on my deathbed. I instinctively put pressure on my heels, raising and lowering my hips so I can somehow fuck her like this. She’s saying things, soothing, encouraging things, but I can only make fuck noises. My brain might be permanently broken, and I don’t even care.
It is a strange kind of delicious agony that I can’t and don’t want to give words to, this inability to touch her while she’s doing this to me. To not be able to tug on her ponytail or grip her hips or squeeze or smack that ass. It’s in my nature to do things, I suppose, even when I’m on the receiving end of something awesome. But if this is my wife’s fantasy, then who am I to complain?
My dick is no longer between her breasts. There are rhythmic pulling and twisting motions. Slow and consistent and wonderful. “How’s the pressure?” she asks, like a professional massage therapist.
“Good, baby. So good.”
She strokes up and down the shaft, all the way up and down, and then just the head. One hand following the other. Then she starts using both hands and a squeezing, twisting motion. “Fuuuuuck, babe, fuuuuck.” If I thought I’d died and gone to married-people heaven before, now I believe my genitals are in heaven and my hands and mouth are in hell. I tug against my restraints. She did a very good job of tying the scarves. And I don’t want this to end.
Fuck it.
I’ll just relax into this.
Completely.
I have no concept of how much time has passed.
