by Stella Gray
“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not going to fuck my wife with a condom.”
He shoved my thighs open until my muscles burned with the stretch, settling himself in between them. I could feel his cock nudging against my sensitive labia, and I swallowed hard. This was it. This was the moment I would lose my virginity.
“Is your sweet little pussy ready for me?” he asked.
I managed a nod, even though I wasn’t sure. He had fucked me with his fingers, but his cock was bigger—so much bigger. Was I ready? My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, my breaths rapid and shallow.
Clutching the bedsheets, I tried to prepare myself as he rubbed his cock against my wet opening. He was so hard and so big. I waited for him to shove straight into me, but he didn’t. Instead, with a surprisingly soft touch, he dragged a finger down my seam. Then another one. He slipped his fingers inside—two again—but he moved them slowly, savoring my soft moans.
I could feel hot tension building in my core as he fingered me. My back arched as my walls start to relax, and I moved along with the motions of his hand, thrusting in time to his strokes. Then, before I knew what was happening, Stefan withdrew and replaced his hand with the head of his cock.
He slid in slowly, slowly, so slow that I could only squeeze my eyes shut and surrender to the sensation of being filled. I could feel it when he reached maximum penetration, shoving himself all the way in, so thick and hard, stretching me to fit him.
I gasped and opened my eyes, looking down at him, buried deep inside me.
He was big. So big. And it hurt. But it didn’t just hurt. It felt hot and wet and good.
It felt really good.
“Your pussy was made for me,” he murmured against my throat. “Only me.”
“Yes,” I gasped because I couldn’t say anything else. “Yes.”
“You’re mine,” he said, and he began to move, pumping slowly, back and forth. “Your body is mine. Your tight little pussy is mine.”
“Yes,” I groaned, clasping my hands at the back of his neck as he thrust even deeper inside me.
“You’re going to come for me,” he ordered, quickening his pace. “You’re going to come on my cock. Your tight little pussy is going to come for my cock and my cock only.”
“Yes,” I gasped, my hips undulating to meet his every thrust.
Pleasure built inside of me, coiling like a spring. I was close. I was so fucking close.
“No one else will ever touch you like this,” Stefan said, spearing into me, faster now. “No one else will ever make you come the way I will. Come for me, my little kitty cat. Come on my cock.”
“I want to come,” I panted, moaning jaggedly as pleasure spiraled even tighter and hotter at my center. He pumped faster, his tight abs flexing with the effort. “Make me come.”
He was fucking me now, full stop, every stroke hard and deep, no longer going easy on me. As he found his rhythm his eyes went dark with raw, animal lust. I couldn’t keep up, so I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling his cock deeper inside me than ever before.
This was everything I’d been waiting for, everything I’d wanted. I could feel myself cresting the wave.
“Make me come, Stefan,” I said. He was looking into my eyes as he fucked me, and I slid a hand down over his heart. “Please. Make me—”
I gasped as the orgasm hit in a sudden torrent, the shockwave surging from my head to my curling toes. My entire body trembled, the deep contractions pulsing at my core. I threw my head back, whimpering, tears pricking at my eyes. I had never felt anything so intense before.
“That pussy is mine,” Stefan asserted, still pounding into my clenching pussy, chasing his own release. “Your pussy is mine.”
“It’s yours,” I moaned, savoring the lingering pulse of my orgasm. “I’m yours.”
His thrusts became sharper, more erratic, his short breaths coming faster. He grabbed my hair and jerked my head back, hungrily kissing my taut throat, my collarbone, my shoulder. I could feel him losing control. It was exactly what I wanted.
“I own you,” he growled.
“Every inch of me,” I panted. “You own me.”
As he shuddered his final thrust into me, I came again with him.
Tori
Chapter 20
The advice you hear most often about marriage is that you should never go to bed angry. I’d always been a little skeptical of something that sounded so trite. But after I gave myself completely to Stefan, and we started to choreograph a new, sexually charged routine, neither of us ever went to bed angry again. And compared to the rough patch we’d battled through over our honeymoon, our rebooted relationship was a dream. Going to bed sex-sated and worn-out every night had turned out to be the key to marital bliss.
As I trudged into the apartment after a long day at school, I could smell Gretna cooking up something amazing.
“Gretna?” I called out as I slipped off my shoes and set my bags down. “I’m home.”
“Good evening, Victoria,” she said, waving at me over her shoulder as I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
I’d tried to convince her to call me Tori, but she’d insisted on ‘Mrs. Zoric.’ Victoria was our compromise.
“What is that? It smells like heaven.”
“Oh, probably the truffle velouté,” she answered, stepping aside to show me the cream sauce simmering in the pan. “It’s one of the five French mother sauces. I make it with butter and heavy cream, some mushrooms, shallots, a bit of garlic…pretty simple,” she answered. “That’s to go with the lobster ravioli.”
Everything in the kitchen was ‘simple’ to Gretna. I would bet the sauce had taken her at least an hour. I couldn’t imagine being able to whip up even one of her side dishes. I was already drooling.
“There are also haricots vert and a simple salad with arugula and lemon. Everything will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Mmm, I can’t wait. You’re a lifesaver.”
Having her had turned out to be a total godsend. Especially since I’d grown up in a house where takeout and meal delivery were the norm. As a result, my personal cooking skills didn’t extend much further than toast and eggs (scrambled), sandwiches, or boxed mac ‘n cheese. Blessedly, I was able to box up Gretna’s leftovers for Stefan each night, so I could focus on my schoolwork. I didn’t even mind that I had to eat alone most of the time. Compared to the chaos of my long days on campus, it was nice to go home and relax, letting myself enjoy the quiet.
Stefan was still a total workaholic, just as tied up with his packed schedule as always. Five and six days a week he spent at the KZM offices vetting contracts, appeasing demanding clients, or auditioning potential talent. But things between us had improved so drastically that I no longer panicked if he had to work late, or if he was stuck in a meeting and it took him awhile to return a call or text. He kept me informed and I knew that I could trust him…even when it came to wining and dining the models. I also knew he was hyper focused on that brand new account—the one that Konstantin had talked about at the family dinner—and that he’d been scrambling to assemble a portfolio of fresh faces for the client. I didn’t push him for details, but I knew that he was stressed, and that it was his top priority.
Meanwhile, I was utterly absorbed by my program at UChicago. My professors were incredible—brilliant and passionate, and always willing to chat with me during office hours, of which I took full advantage. My fellow students were as nerdy as I was, and we would geek out (both in and out of class) about semiotics and language acquisition. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d nursed a teenage crush on the semiotician Roland Barthes. He had been a pioneer in the field, and was like the sexy Jeff Goldblum of French philosophers. It felt like I had found my tribe for the first time in my life.
“Here is a plate, and there is French bread toasting in the oven that should be done in a few moments,” Gretna was saying, holding out a steaming plate toward me
.
I was perched on the couch with a few of my textbooks and a handful of remote controls, trying to figure out which one would allow me to watch The Bachelor. I’d already changed into sweatpants and a tank top, pulling my hair back into a messy ponytail.
“Thank you so much,” I said, taking the plate. Without asking, Gretna picked up one of the remotes I’d tossed aside, clicked through a few menu screens, and got my show started.
“Don’t forget the bread,” she said. “Five minutes, then take it out. Don’t let it burn.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise. Now go, you’re almost ten minutes past the hour! Have a good vacation and see you in five days.”
She left, locking the door behind her, and as I settled in to watch my show I could feel the tension of the day rolling off me in waves.
Although my husband and I had separate lives when the sun was out, the night was a completely different story.
Wiped out from my day, I was usually in bed before he came home. I’d crawl under the covers, turn off the lights, and wait. I never slept. It would have been impossible to sleep even if I wanted to, and I never did. Because when he came home, he’d strip off his clothes, climb into bed, and fuck me until I came. Over and over and over again.
It was always in the dark. It was always rough. And I always wanted more.
I didn’t mind that I barely saw him otherwise. Didn’t mind that he would sometimes whisper harsh, cruel things in my ear as his thrusts were slamming me into the headboard, or that he didn’t hold me afterwards. The sex was so intense that I didn’t have any complaints.
Stefan never commented on the lacy little negligees I wore, either. He probably didn’t notice them beyond his initial touch and how easy they were to rip off my body. That was one of my favorite parts—the intensity with which he destroyed the expensive lingerie I had painstakingly picked out before bed. There was something so hot, so naughty, about picking up the torn fabric off the floor the next morning.
Then again, I was pretty sure I’d consider anything related to sex with Stefan hot and naughty. He brought out another side of me, one that I never even knew could be there.
I noticed the time on my phone and hit pause on The Bachelor to go to the kitchen and get the bread. My food was still hot, but I hadn’t even touched it yet. As I pulled the bread out of the oven, I could hear the front door open and then close, followed by the sound of keys jingling on the entryway table.
“I didn’t forget the bread, Gretna! I can’t believe you came back. Don’t you know what the word vacation means?” I teased.
Footsteps echoed from the marble foyer to the hardwood in the living room, and when I turned around to nudge the oven door shut with my hip, I saw that it wasn’t Gretna who had come back. It was Stefan.
“Hi,” I said, a little startled and breathless.
We stared at each other for a moment. He was wearing his usual perfect black suit, his tie neatly knotted, looking every inch the successful businessman. Meanwhile I was standing there in my chill-out clothes, my hair unkempt and loose in its ponytail. We couldn’t have looked more like polar opposites.
“I…I thought you were Gretna,” I said.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I smiled, but I didn’t know what to say. We were perfectly suited to each other in bed, in the dark, but now? I was completely tongue-tied. Maybe I should have felt more uncomfortable about it, but the truth was, whatever we had going on seemed to work for us. For now, at least.
“Can I make you a plate?” I asked, gesturing to all the hot dishes on the stove. “Gretna made lobster ravioli.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
I was surprised. I’d expected him to say he’d only stopped by to change before going out to a business dinner or heading back to work for another late night call to Tokyo. This was early for him to be home; usually he didn’t get back until after midnight. It was barely seven.
I put together a plate for Stefan and carried it out to the couch where I’d left mine.
“Is this okay, or would you prefer to eat at the dining table?”
“This is fine.”
He took off his jacket, hung it neatly on the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he settled onto the couch next to me.
“I was watching lady TV, but we can switch it to sports or CNN or something,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed about my guilty pleasure.
“You can leave it on,” he said. “I don’t watch much TV anyway.”
I pressed play, and for the rest of the episode, we ate in companionable silence. The whole thing was so cozy and domestic, I found myself relaxing despite the novelty of the situation. It was the first meal we’d eaten together since the night his father and siblings had come over. The first night we’d slept together. If Stefan realized this, he made no indication of it.
When he gathered up our napkins and empty plates and headed toward the kitchen, I decided to take advantage of the fact that he wasn’t glued to the work on his phone or laptop.
“So there’s an event at school tomorrow,” I said, leaning in the doorway.
My voice came out quieter than I’d intended. Stefan’s back was to me as he loaded the dishwasher, so I cleared my throat and spoke again, a little louder this time.
“It’s like the collegiate version of a debutante ball for all the new majors in my department. An opportunity for us to meet the other students and get some face time with the professors.”
Stefan started washing his hands, and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me—until he gave the smallest nod.
“You could go with me,” I added. “It’s at 8 o’clock.”
I instantly regretted it. Did I expect him to drop everything he had going on just to attend some freshman social event with me? He was an extremely busy man, and he obviously didn’t have much time to spare.
He turned around to look at me. “I’ll see what my schedule looks like.”
I’d heard that phrase a million times from my father growing up, and I knew it meant ‘not gonna happen.’
I tried to laugh it off. “Yeah. Of course. I know you’re swamped right now. It’s really no big deal.”
Besides, I was just inviting him to be polite.
He went back out to the living room, picked up his jacket and briefcase, and disappeared into his home office. I didn’t see him until several hours later, when he finally came to bed.
It was dark, and I was wearing nothing but a garter belt and thigh high stockings. Stefan didn’t say a word, just threw me face down on the bed and fucked me from behind until we both climaxed. I fell asleep that night, thinking of nothing but the pleasure he’d given me.
I’d almost forgotten about the invitation until the following night, when I came home to get ready for the event and found the house empty. My gut sank, although I wasn’t really surprised. Of course Stefan wasn’t coming to the event. He was probably in the middle of a huge meeting even at that moment. And I was sure he’d only been half-listening when I mentioned it last night.
Instead of letting myself wallow, I focused my energy on getting ready. The novelty of a closet full of perfectly tailored designer clothes hadn’t worn off yet. Since most days I was at school and opted for comfortable jeans and blouses, it was exciting to be able to play dress-up again, like I had in Europe. Tonight I wanted to look professional, but still feminine, so I settled on a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that flattered me without requiring a pair of Spanx in the process. I paired it with some gold earrings and a chunky gold bracelet that I had bought in Vienna.
Since I’d probably be getting home around the same time as Stefan later tonight, I also opted for a pair of skimpy white lace underwear underneath the dress, cut high enough in the back that I wouldn’t have visible panty lines, and a matching bra. He seemed to like lace on me; easier to tear off, it seemed. This set would be mere shreds by the morning. As I applied a finishing touch o
f mascara and transparent pink lip gloss, I shivered with anticipation.
When I headed outside the building to dial up an Uber, I was surprised to find a car waiting for me. The driver was leaning against the hood, holding a small sign that displayed my name in bold letters.
“My husband arranged this?” I asked the driver as I approached.
“Mr. Zoric, of course,” he said.
Apparently, Stefan had remembered the event—remembered it enough to send me a car—but couldn’t make the time to go himself. I was touched.
I was also disappointed, even though I knew it was irrational. I was his wife in name (and apparently in bed) only. I should be content with our arrangement and grateful we had such good sexual chemistry, and not expect anything more. I still couldn’t help wishing he was there, though.
Arriving at the event, I was immediately overwhelmed. The alumni hall was loud and packed. I was excited to spend the evening getting to know my professors and the other students, but amid the cacophony I found myself feeling shy. So I grabbed a glass of champagne, hoping I wouldn’t get carded, and then sipped it as I walked the perimeter of the room. Despite getting along with my classmates during school hours, I hadn’t actually gotten to know anyone on a deeper level, so I had yet to find anyone I’d call a true friend.
Most of my free time outside the classroom was spent haunting the gorgeous, gothic Harper Memorial Library on campus. I’d head there straight after my last class ended and study to my heart’s content under the buttressed ceilings, surrounded by medieval-looking stone walls. It was like something out of Harry Potter. Unfortunately, it was also the only library on campus that was strictly for reading, so when I wanted to pore over stacks of linguistics texts, I’d have to visit one of the other libraries. But Harper held my heart, and I felt lucky to be able to work in such a beautiful setting considering all the hours I had to devote to the mountains of homework my professors assigned. The semester was hitting me hard, but I loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, socializing wasn’t one of my course requisites.
