by Amiee Smith
“Alexa, play San Francisco Sessions track three,” she calls upon entering her bedroom.
I carry Brit’s clothes into the closet, tossing them on the pile on the floor. I remove my shoes and socks. Midway through unbuttoning my shirt, a piercing sound, an extended whistle note, holds my ears captive.
A traditional jazz number, Brit’s voice, the bass, and the drums set a semi-slow, poignant pace, reminiscent of Miles Davis’ “All Blues.”
Mesmerized, I sit on the floor of the closet in a puddle of Brit’s clothes. I close my eyes to listen to my wife doing what God created her to do.
Vocals— no words, just scatting. Or maybe that’s a little French? Her voice is big and small. Dark and celebratory. Emotional, yet definitive. Piano— soloing, her fingers pound and caress the keys; telling a story with each note she plays. I want to believe it’s a love song, but given our pending divorce, I fear it’s goodbye.
I’m not ready for goodbye. I’ll never be ready for goodbye.
Like a bolt of light, the song ends faster than it began.
Stripping out of the rest of my clothes, I let them drop to the floor. My puddles merge with her puddles.
I find her, still naked, sitting on top of a deep purple comforter. Her back rests against the headboard.
“Are you ready, Dragon?”
“Always.”
I drop my glasses on the nightstand next to a large rose quartz crystal.
“God, you are handsome. There’s a condom in the drawer,” Brit says.
She slides to the edge of the bed, kneeling and facing me.
Opening the drawer, I see a glimpse of my wife’s life. A small box of Cheez-Its, a pack of Annie’s Fruit Snacks, an issue of Vogue, a half-finished joint, a folded piece of sheet music with penciled musical notes, a small framed pic of her and the girls from years ago, a stack of my business cards, a cordless Magic Wand, and in the way back, a three-pack box of Lifestyle condoms.
Yeah, Brit may be dating, but she’s definitely not trying to get a man.
Before shutting the drawer, I pull a condom from the box and place it on the nightstand.
I amend my thought; she is trying to get a man. He’s just been in L.A. for the last eight months.
Brit lifts to her knees, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her soft body molds into mine. God, she feels so good. Kissing her, I claim her mouth. My lips and tongue speak all the words I long to say.
My hands clench her waist, and I break away.
“Give me consent, Brit. Give me consent to make love to you however way I want.”
“No. I mean, yes to smashing my flower, but let me. Let me. You can lead next time.”
Standing next to the bed, my knees almost give out as Brit runs her nails down the side of my body, gliding her tongue over my tattoo.
As always, the females in my life never want to follow my agenda.
“Promise me there will be a next time,” I say.
“I promise. But after we order food and watch the second half of the game,” she says smiling at me with her cognac brown eyes accentuated with black eyeliner.
I cup one of her breasts, massaging her nipple with my palm. Brit’s tongue circles my naval, her hands caressing my inner thigh. Nails press into my skin. My cock alert and ready, weeping for relief. I close my eyes.
Brit presses wet kisses around my groin. Releasing her breast, I grasp her shoulders. It’s been such a long time. I fight the need to push her head lower. My thighs tremble. Be cool. Be cool. Let her take her time. She hasn’t done this before.
Anticipation. Longing. Anticipation. Longing. Anticipation. Longing.
I hold my breath.
Brit abruptly stops, leaning back. I open my eyes.
“Promise not to go all patriarchal on me.”
“What?” I ask, caught off guard.
“Just promise. I don’t mind if you pull my hair.”
Before I fully connect all the dots, my innocent wife wraps her hands around the back of my thighs and takes my dick in her mouth. My entire dick. Devouring my shaft. Over and over my tip hits the back of her warm throat. Fleshy and wet. I gasp and groan, loudly. She gags but keeps pounding my cock into her mouth. Saliva drips down my balls. To add a cherry, she digs her nails into the skin of my thighs. Brit deepthroats like a pro.
I dip my hand into her soft hair, gripping her curls at the root. Reigning her in, she stops mid-mouth-thrust. Glancing down, she stares up at me with a smirk and beaming eyes. Her mouth glistening.
“Where did you learn how to do that?!” I demand.
“No. No. No patriarchal questioning. Get the condom. I’m so ready, Dragon.”
Shifting out of my embrace, Brit lies on her back, resting her head on the purple pillows.
My dick points toward go, but I stay standing at the edge of the bed. I just need to know. I just need to know.
“Is that what you’ve been doing on your dates?”
“Nah, I never get that far,” Brit says, pinching and rolling her pierced nipples between her fingertips.
She spreads her legs. Her sweet, wet sex comes into view.
My dick is on board. Her pussy is on board. Brit is on board. My mind...
“How?” I ask, still standing at the edge of the bed.
She smiles, meekly. Sincere.
“Two summers of band camp in high school. YouPorn. And a banana. Happy now? Or I can do it again, if you want?”
“Our kids are definitely not going to band camp,” I mutter, easing into bed next to her.
“Band camp was a very enriching experience, Dragon,” she says coyly before kissing my mouth as skillfully as she worked my cock.
Brit rolls on top of me, retrieving the condom from the nightstand. Straddling the top of my thighs, my innocent wife meticulously rolls the rubber down my dick.
“Where did you learn how to do that?!”
“Duh, the Planned Parenthood YouTube Channel. I studied up before I started dating. Their channel is very educational. You should definitely increase your monthly donation,” she says, tossing the wrapper over the side of the bed.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Roll over,” I mumble, patting her thighs.
Brit ceases her donation campaign and does what she’s told, lying on her back. Positioning myself between her thighs, I suck her nipple. She moans, wiggling her hips against my groin in time to my tongue flicking the silver barbell. I close my eyes, savoring the sound of her pleasure. I move to the next nipple.
“Alex, please.”
“Please what, pretty girl?” I ask in between sucks and licks.
“It’s a playoff game.”
I release her nipple, glaring at her.
“Really, Brit? It’s our first time. Your first time.”
“It’s just a technicality. The sooner we do it, the sooner we can do it again, but after dinner and the basketball game,” she says, rubbing my furrowed brow with her thumb.
She blesses me with the sweetest smile, before spreading her legs wider and welcoming me into her folds.
I’m supposed to be comforting her! Setting her at ease! Helping her relax!
Shit. I’m going all patriarchal on her, treating her like a delicate damsel. And after almost nine years of marriage, Brit knows my thought process.
“See, that’s why I made you promise. Fuck me, Dragon,” she says, pressing kisses against my chin, jaw, and neck.
Angling my hips, I press the tip of my dick at her opening. I don’t enter. She lifts her knees, so they rest at my side. Her eyelids flutter closed, and she bucks her hips.
“Alex, please!”
“Hey, it’s been a while for me!”
She scoffs. “How long?”
“April. The year we got married. So, nine years last month.”
She gasps. Brit opens her cognac eyes filled with drunken lust.
“You’ve been celibate our entire marriage?”
“Yeah,” I say, quietly.
“Not even just one time?
”
“No.”
“Oh, Dragon. Roll over. I want to be on top.”
“Brit—”
“Pull my hair while you come.”
I roll on my back, taking her with me. Brit spreads her thighs and with one thrust takes all of my cock inside her. So much for going slow.
She leans forward, resting her head on my shoulder. Sighing, my hands hold her hips still. I run my fingertips up her spine to the nape of her neck. As soon as I feel her interior muscles relax around my shaft, I grip her hair.
“Sweetheart, it gets better. Move.”
Slowly, Brit eases up and down, rocking her hips.
After eight years of marriage, we finally made it.
We both exhale.
Ecstasy.
“Mutual masturbation has nothing on this,” she whispers.
“Right?” I say with a groan.
Brit’s hips pick up speed, pounding my cock. I’m trying desperately to hold on, but the urge to come is getting the best of me. It’s been so long. With her head still resting on my shoulder, I hear every ragged pant and moan.
“It’s okay if you come before me. I’ll finish next round,” Brit whispers, pumping her hips against me.
Like hell. Bending my knees, I take over. Using my free hand to hold her in place, I thrust at a faster pace. I know I’m hitting her spot. I spent months watching her use the 14-karat gold vibrator on her g-spot.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she moans, nestling her face in the crook of my neck.
I groan and grunt, my wife feels better than I imagined. Even with a condom on, I sense every fleshy ridge of her tight sex. Brit digs her nails into my skin, and I grasp her hair. Her pussy constricts and releases, drawing me deeper inside. She pants and moans.
“Be a good girl.”
“Yes. Yes, daddy. I want to be your good girl,” she says in a rushed whisper.
Brit meets my thrusts again and again until her muscles contract around me. She cries out. Sweat binds her chest to mine. With my dick fully immersed, I rapidly pound her center.
And as if divinely timed, we orgasm together.
I let go of her hair and wrap my arms around her waist. She presses her soft lips to my shoulder, my neck, my cheek. Her touch delicate. Meaningful.
“Thank you, Alex.”
***
An hour or so later, I sit on the sofa between Brit and Pep wearing blue shorts, no shirt. Brit is wrapped in the same white kimono from her pic on Luck. The fourth quarter of the Warriors game projects on the wall. Brown takeout containers fill the coffee table in front of us. My wife ordered (and paid for) enough food to feed a small army. With a mouthful of chicken wing, she yells at the referee who just called a foul on Draymond. Pep is on her back, eyeing me to stroke her belly.
Happiness. Joy. Happiness. Joy. Happiness. Joy.
I never want to leave.
CHAPTER 16
BRIT PALMER
“Alex, you gotta go. Oh my.”
Legs spread. Knees bent. Leggings on the floor. Kimono open. I’m on my back on the sofa. Game highlights play on the wall.
Between my thighs, Dragon’s mouth glides up and down and side to side. I press my nails into his muscular shoulders. His tongue laps my clit, applying pressure in the right places of everywhere.
Every woman needs a man to eat her pussy like this.
Every woman needs to know pleasure like this.
He’s making up for lost time. As soon as the clock ran out on the fourth quarter, he took my third plate of food off my lap and hooked his masculine hand in the waistband of my black stretchy pants. There’s still wing sauce under my fingernails.
Miz Pepper yelps on the floor below.
“You gotta take her out. She can’t have an accident on this carpet.”
He lifts his head, his glasses steamy. “She’s fine. Pep was one of the best dogs in crate training. Turn around.”
“But she’s not in her crate right now. Wait. You took that class too?”
Back in the day, he and I agreed that Miz Pepper would never be one of those dogs in a crate all day.
Alex sits up, removing his glasses. “A few hours in a crate is easier than me taking her to daycare. Pep, get in your crate. Daddy wants to rim mommy. Turn around, Brit. Take this off.”
“Miz Pepper, get in your crate. Mommy needs to google the mechanics of what daddy wants to do,” I say, slipping off the kimono and reaching for my phone.
“Pep, get in your crate and tell mommy she doesn’t need to google it, she just needs to trust daddy.”
He takes my phone away for the second time tonight, returning it to the coffee table still covered in the remains of our dinner. Our eyes meet. He’s hella serious.
Alex wants to put his mouth there.
“Miz Pepper, remind daddy that mommy is new to all this and maybe rimming is too advanced for her.”
“Pep, remind mommy that she said daddy could be in charge the next round. We’re in our 30s. She can handle it.”
“Miz Pepper, ask daddy if he’s rimmed before?”
“Pep, get in your crate. Tell mommy that daddy has a goal list of activities he’s waited almost nine years to do.”
“Specifically with me? Or just in general?”
“Does it matter, Brit? Turn around, please.”
I do as I am told, rolling onto my stomach and resting my chin on my hands. Behind me, Alex rises from the sofa. I vaguely listen to him and Miz Pepper have the crate conversation, but I’m more focused on what he just said: Does it matter?
Well, yesterday, I would have said “no.” But post-deflowering, I’m feeling oddly sensitive. Now, the thought of him crushing his goal list with anyone else but me feels kind of blue.
I mean, I’ve been kind of blue for the last eight months, but I thought it was my divorce grief and it would eventually pass. This is different.
Oh, no! I have the post-sex feels!
Emma and Lynn told me about this... this... feeling, and why it’s important to hook-up and leave. But I can’t bounce out. This is my apartment. And it’s Alex. My hook-up-with-my-soon-to-be-ex-husband plan, like everything, has a downside.
Turning my head, I watch Miz Pepper roll on her back on the white carpet, urging him to pet her. Ugh, right now I’m feeling as needy as she always acts. Alex has gotta go.
Rising from the sofa, I put my kimono back on.
“Brit, she’s just in an unfamiliar place. Give her a few more minutes and she’ll get into her crate.”
“You guys should probably go. I have to...” I search my mind for some of the excuses the girls told me to say for having to leave, but they are all less relevant when I’m not the one leaving and, well, it’s Alex. I never lie to him. (Well, there’s that one thing.)
“I appreciate you helping me out with the losing my virginity thing... and trust me I will remember you forever for it, but you gotta leave.”
He stands on the other side of the coffee table. No shirt. The top button to his shorts, undone. Tattooed and muscular. Disheveled hair. Smelling of sex and hot man. (A designer really should figure out the chemistry of that scent and bottle it.)
He grins, wildly.
“What’s up, Brit? You finally catching feelings for me, so you’re kicking me out?”
“How did you know that?!”
Alex rarely fully smiles, but his charming mouth stretches from ear to ear.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been visualizing this moment for eight, long, celibate years.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well... how does the visualization end?”
“With my face between your thighs listening to you sing me a song about how obsessed you are with me.”
“Ugh, I’m not ready to write that tune.”
“But, you will. By the end of the weekend. I’d stay until the wedding, but I need to be in the office for a staff meeting on Monday.”
“You’re staying all weekend? When did that get decided?”
Alex picks up Miz Pepper, carrying her to her crate in the dining area.
“The minute you said I could finally hit it, Brit,” he calls from across the room.
“I was thinking this was like, a one-night thing. A friend helping a friend. I’ve got plans this weekend.”
He ushers his cute dog (that was totally my idea to get) into her crate.
“No, you don’t. I looked at your calendar on your phone. All you have is your gig. I still haven’t figured out how to get a ticket. Other than that, you’re free. Free to spend the weekend with me. And please don’t refer to us as friends. We’ve never been just friends, especially not now.”
“Because you’re obsessed with me,” I mutter, proceeding to my bedroom.
“I’m good with admitting I’m obsessed with my wife. Can you admit you’re obsessed with me?”
Alex follows behind. He’s obsessed with taking care of the woman he married for money, but not attracted to me. The real, messy, left-wing me.
Arriving at my bedroom, I don’t flip on the lights. From the window, the string of white lights around the Lake dimly illuminate the space. Like back in our mutual masturbation days, he unties my kimono, pushing it off my shoulders. He’s done this so many times. So many times.
I pull the purple comforter back and slide into bed. Alex removes his shorts and follows. He reaches for me, his hands caressing my skin. It feels so good to be held. Held by him. After months of sleeping in this bed alone, it’s nice to have company. And he’s always the best company.
I stroke his chest, shoulders, and arms in a continuous motion. He’s so solid. So strong. So much man. Back in the day, I would rub his back, or he’d massage the nape of my neck, but we never had free-range physical affection. Sharing our bodies. Offering each other pleasure. Organic. Natural. Right.
I drop kisses around the corner of his mouth. Stubble tickles my lips. Ah, he smells like me. He tastes like me. The essence of my femininity coats this deeply masculine man. And he’s all in. Dragon is always all in.
“I could be obsessed with you, but it depends,” I say.
“On?”
“Are you really going to do... you know, what you said?”
