by West, Jade
It really was crap that he was surprised at the contact.
“Thank you,” I said. “This is amazing.”
His humour was still there in full force. “I’d hold that back. You haven’t tasted the spag bol yet.”
But I didn’t want to taste it. For the first time in an age I was consumed by the need to taste him. Not just sucking his dick in rhythmic slurps on a productive day and keeping an eye on the time. Actually taste him. All of him.
His mouth, his chest. His fingers in my mouth.
His ass.
Holy fuck, my cheeks blushed at the thought. Had it really been that long? Had I really given up on being that dirty?
Was he really still wanting that from me?
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, and I giggled a stupid giggle, gesturing to the whole place around us.
“Another one? Whoa hell, Marcus, like you need to dish up any more tonight.”
He held up a finger to pause me, then pulled away enough to reach under the counter. I had to suck in a breath when he served up a jar I hadn’t seen in years.
A jar I’d entirely forgotten about.
“My God,” I said, and grabbed hold of it, shaking the folded slips of paper in a flurry inside the glass. “I can’t believe we’ve still got this. Where the hell?”
“In the garage,” he replied. “I found it when I was looking for the decorations.”
My eyes were straight back on his. The jar tight in my hands.
“All those weeks ago?”
That smirk again. “A few weeks ago, yes. I’ve been keeping it a secret.”
I watched him as he headed back to the cooker top, my heart pounding as he went about dishing up our meals. I couldn’t pull my eyes away as he set out the cutlery and presented my meal with a bon appetite.
“You didn’t open it?” I asked, placing the jar to one side.
“No,” he said. “I thought it would lose its wow factor for the both of us if I dived in alone.”
My heart kept on pounding, the first mouthful of spaghetti paused midway to my mouth. “We’re going to look inside together? Check out what we wrote on the slips?”
His smirk took on another intensity altogether, and he ate me up with one of his fiercest stares.
“We’re going to do a whole load more than look inside together,” he told me. “Tonight’s the night we finally finish the job.”
The job.
The whole host of dirty games and actions we’d dreamed up and listed, then folded up for a random tombola. So many filthy dares, and wants, and naughty pleasures.
So many filthy dares, and wants, and naughty pleasures I’d be acting out.
Tonight.
Here and now on Christmas Eve in Betty Royston’s four-bedroomed pride and joy with not even a Christmas elf to disturb us.
Here and now with my hot sexy beast of a husband.
Oh. Hell. Yes.
My belly fluttered a damn sight harder of a flutter at that thought.
Chapter 2
Marcus
I could feel it in her. Maybe just a hint compared to the old days, but it was there. That sweet little hint of the dirty minx I used to know.
Fuck, how I’d missed her.
How I missed us.
I tried not to let my excitement boil over as I forked up another load of pasta, but it was hard. If my cock got the better of me I’d be saying fuck it to dinner, sweeping those plates aside and grabbing her up onto the granite top in a heartbeat.
Luckily, having kids bestows you with unfathomable levels of patience.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, and she was still staring at that jar. “I really can’t believe we’ve still got this thing.”
One thing was for sure, I was seriously bloody glad we had.
The past few weeks had seen me consumed by it. Every thought at the office bypassing end of month reporting figures and landing well and truly at Jen’s door. How she’d moan as we got down and dirty with her favourite scrawled slips of paper. That smile on her face as she caught her breath from the orgasms I’d make sure were ripping right through her. The way her cute little butt hole would wink at me as I threatened to fill it up and stretch her wide.
And not least by the huge mountain of pondering as to exactly what we’d folded up and put in that transparent spectacle of wonder.
I had a few suspicions, but nothing concrete. Ok, that’s a lie. I had more than a few suspicions – most of which made my dick strain my pants – but I was in no position to stake money on them, not after all this time.
She was fidgety as her eyes landed back on me, and there it was, a flurry of self-consciousness poking its head up to snap at her – snap at her and swallow up Miss Dirty Minx I’d been ready to welcome with open arms.
I’d been trying to counteract those pangs of insecurity she’d been having for years now. Always trying to hand out the compliments and the hugs and the forehead kisses whenever she looked low, but she’d brushed them away like the rest of my efforts. Maybe I wasn’t giving them right. Maybe she really didn’t want to know. Maybe I wasn’t the guy she’d always seemed so keen on before I’d knocked her up with our little ones and settled on a decent but dull finance management position.
Maybe tonight would be different.
I put down my fork, just to take the moment to admire the beauty of my wife from across the counter. Her makeup was subtle but stunning. Her hair had a fresh festive burgundy shine. Her dress was sparkly, like the rest of her, ruched down just low enough to show off the swell of those glorious tits of hers.
God, I wanted her.
I always had. I always would.
“I’m really glad we have still got the thing,” I said, and the truth in my words was loud enough that she took a breath.
Nervous.
My wife really was nervous. Beautifully nervous, but nervous nonetheless. Nervous of me?
Surely not. She couldn’t be.
The idea was insane.
“It feels like such a long time…” she told me, and I nodded. Hell, how I nodded.
“Too long,” I said. “I’ve missed so much about you.”
She took another breath, and her cutlery hovered.
I used the opportunity to carry on, letting my words flow as freely as they should have done countless times past.
“I’ve missed that sweet smile on your face. That naughty one when you’re desperate for me to get my hands on you. I’ve missed the horny moan you give when your heels are lashing at the sheets on your way to coming. Jesus Christ, how I’ve missed those orgasms themselves.” I paused to let my words hit her. “I’ve missed the smell of you, the taste of you. The way your tight little pussy grips so hard.”
“Marcus –” she starts, but I keep on going. I can’t stop.
“The way your tight little ass grips just as hard, milking me dry.”
“Marcus –”
“The way your mouth is such a hungry, wet little wonder and your eyes have that naughty twinkle when you really want to taste my dick.”
“Holy shit, Marcus –” Her voice was heavy. Heavy but needy. Her breaths ragged and that cutlery still hovering.
“And fucking hell, Jen, how delicious that cunt of yours tastes when I hitch you up onto my face and slide my tongue into you as far as it’ll go.”
She drops the cutlery, and the self-consciousness is losing out to the minx. Finally.
“I’ve missed so much about you, too,” she says. “I’ve missed all of this. I’ve missed it so much. I just didn’t know it… you blink and a week has gone. You blink and a year has gone. How? Just how?”
I’m nodding. Nodding and reaching out for her hand, squeezing it tight across the breakfast bar.
“So many Christmas gifts are waiting in that jar.” I smirk. “So many Christmas gifts for us both. One whole jar of dirty treats to see us into Christmas Day. What do you say? Shall we dip into the tombola?”
Her smile is divine. Tru
ly divine.
She leans in close, pulling me closer to match, and suddenly we’re under the mistletoe, just about capable of reaching each other. Paused. Our lips just inches apart and set to meet, and we’re edging closer. Ready. But the radio picks just the right time to fire up a cheesy pop Christmas classic, and the lightness of the mood zips up to catch us, and we’re giggling. Laughing. Enjoying each other and the night and the promise of what is coming.
“I love you, Mrs Harrington,” I tell her, and take hold of her chin, keeping her in position under the little white buds, and the leaves, and the floating red ribbons. “So, what do you say? One whole jar of dirty treats to see us into Christmas Day?”
“In the Royston’s kitchen?” she giggles and I nod.
“Sure as fuck in the Royston’s kitchen. It’s our duty for the night. We may as well make the most of it.”
“Make the most of their countertops… and their bannister rails… and their posh new shower?”
I nod. “Make the most of their everything. Including their bedroom. We can take a trip to the naughty side and get our use out of their big, plush, emperor sized mattress and their Egyptian cotton sheets.”
Her cheeks blush as she realises I’ve been clocking the way she spouts on about everyone else’s everything from her schoolyard gossiping.
“We can’t do that,” she says, but I’m shaking my head.
“Oh, we can,” I argue. “We can do whatever we like. Tonight, this place is ours. The Roystons can get fucked and enjoy their jet setting. I hope they are enjoying the sherry, wherever they are.”
“They can enjoy their sherry all they like,” she whispers. “I’m enjoying you.”
I’m very flattered by her sentiment. It makes my heart swell along with my dick, but it would be impossible for her to be enjoying this interaction as much as I’m enjoying her. She’s my perfection. My northern star. My filthy little everything,
It’s such a relief to see her this way again.
“Kiss me, Mr Harrington,” she says, and there is that dirty sweetness to her voice. That wanting. “Please, let’s get our use out of the Royston’s mistletoe along with the rest of this place.”
“My fucking pleasure,” I reply and I do.
I press my lips to hers under that mistletoe, gently at first, the touch divine. But then it turns. Deepens.
I open my mouth, my tongue seeking hers out and claiming. Claiming her. She moans as she submits, wet and delicious. Another memory that comes crashing back in nice and hard, the familiarity golden.
We haven’t kissed like this in an age. Not so fiercely. Not with so much need and fire.
The dinner plates rattle under us, but that doesn’t matter. I could be getting a shirt full of pasta sauce, but I couldn’t give a shit, just keep kissing my wife with the passion we’ve been missing for years. She reaches for me, her fingers grabbing my tie and scrabbling for the knot, trying to get to me, but I still her and pull away, my breath panting as I tell her to steady, steady, wait a minute. Just a minute.
She stops, her eyes still wide on mine and lips still parted, making sense of my instructions as I push my pasta plate away and grab hold of the jar from her side.
“We’re really doing this?” she asks as I finally take that lid in my hands and twist.
It’s jammed tight. My arms tense as I force it, straining hard to undo the ages it’s been sealed.
I love how she’s watching me. Excitement bubbling on her face, just like mine is bubbling deep.
I strain. I twist. I force.
Then it gives. Buckles.
The lid squeaks as it loosens, and there it is, open wide. Those slips of paper tumbling over and over as I shake it between us – so much more beautiful than any tumbling snow outside ever could be.
“Oh yes, we’re really doing this,” I reply, and hold it out to her. “You first.”
Chapter 3
Jen
It was magical. A whole zest of life rising up inside, my heart still pounding and my lips craving so much more of my husband’s.
I took that jar from him with a load of fresh nerves, trying to remember just what on earth I’d dreamt up and written in there. One thing was certain. There was only one way to find out.
He was staring at me so hard as I shook that jar and watched the papers dancing around. I could feel it. That lovely force in his eyes.
Marcus wanted me.
Wanted me like the very early days, when I was his world.
It was an amazing feeling to know I still was.
“I’m so excited,” I told him, and I wasn’t lying.
I took a breath as I shook the jar one final time and reached my hand inside. My fingers closed on one piece of paper, and there it was, the first piece of kink selected.
My fingers were shaking as I unfolded it, my eyes desperate to know what was written there.
“So, what is it?” he asked, and I gave him a smile before I told him.
I’m sure my cheeks were pinking up, because they were my words written there. My choice of dirty treat waiting for us.
Wow, I hadn’t spoken such filthy words out loud for so long. They felt strange as they came out of me.
“Eat my pussy like it’s your first and final meal, all at once.”
The growl that came out of him was enough to make my belly flutter with a round of brand new butterflies.
He was straight down from his seat and heading over, but I felt so self-aware that this was the first instruction.
“I could pick out another… as the first, I mean…” I said, but he laughed in my face, dropping down to his knees on the floor and spinning me around to face him.
His hands swept up my thighs and took my dress with them, and again, I was so self-aware. Aware of the black tights I’d picked out instead of the stockings. Aware that my knickers weren’t the same lacy little number I’d have chosen all those years ago.
Still, it didn’t seem to bother him. Anything but.
I made to shift so he could slip my tights and knickers down, but he didn’t give me chance. He gripped and spread my thighs hard, tugged me forward and pressed his face right between them.
His mouth was wide and wet. His groans deep in his throat as he sucked and lapped and ate at me through the fabric. I felt him there. Felt the pressure and the promise. My hands reached back to the counter top and it was instinct that had my back arching as I pressed into him, craving more.
My voice surprised me, shooting out of my mouth with a whole fresh round of instinct forgotten.
“Fuck, Marcus… yes… please…”
I shifted again, pressing my thighs closer in a bid to let him set me free from the fabric, but again, the night surprised me.
His hands were rough, taking hold of those tights and ripping them open at the crotch, and his face was right against my knickers, his nose grinding my clit before his mouth took hold again.
“Oh shit,” I whispered, and my hand reached down to take his hair. “That’s it,” I moaned. “That’s it.”
But it wasn’t it. Not quite. That much became obvious as he hooked his fingers into my panties and tugged them to the side. I bit my bottom lip as his tongue found me wet and wanting, and he delivered. Holy shit, how he delivered.
His tongue swept, and lapped, and teased in circles. His fingers spread my pussy lips wide and he sucked. He sucked my clit in just the way I wanted, like it really was his last supper.
I couldn’t hold back. The whimpers and the groans were right out of me, the seat underneath me rocking and clanking against the Royston’s granite tiled floor, the whole thing squeaking in a way defiant of Betty’s super luxurious purchasing gloats at the school gates.
“Just there!” I cried, gripping his hair tight, and I was desperate for it. His tongue was a delight. An absolute monster of brilliance against my pussy.
I could hear how wet I was, slurping against his mouth. I could hear how wet he was too, spitting against my clit and grunting as he
went in for a fresh round.
“You taste fucking divine, Mrs Harrington,” he said, and I believed him.
My fingers gripped his hair and urged him on, my whole body rocking this time, and that seat squeaking harder and harder, the clanks more and more frantic against that flooring.
“Oh fuck,” I whimpered. “Oh fuck, Marcus…”
His fingers eased up my thigh, and there they were, pressing hard to enter. I arched my back as they shunted their way in, and I was bucking, bucking for the force and the depth and squealing out as he pushed another in alongside them.
“Don’t stop!” I cried. “Please, Marcus, don’t fucking stop!”
My husband had no intention of stopping, that much was clear as his grunts became louder. He finger fucked me with strength, his whole body rocking with mine as he strained to get his tongue harder and harder against my clit.
I guess that’s when it happened. The moment he pulled those fingers clear and gripped hard of those stool legs under me. He leaned forward, sucking me in just the right place with a whole load of fresh gusto – if that was even possible – and I was lost to him, lost and angling that stool back onto two legs and bucking into him like a crazy slut going mad. Back and forth, back and forth, Marcus hungry and me wailing as I toppled over that peak.
Until I did literally topple.
It must have been the pressure, and the balance, and the strain on the wood-metal construct underneath us – but there was a loud creak, and a bang, and I was falling.
Oh. My. God.
It couldn’t be happening, but it was. It really, truly was.
The stool gave in, and my ass was suddenly on the floor, the broken seat under me, and my husband staring into my eyes with his mouth still open and drooling.
Holy fucking crap, we’d busted the Royston’s designer seating.
Screw her for her Furniture City Deluxe boasting.
My lungs were gulping the air in like crazy, and my arms wrapped around his neck, and I was laughing. Laughing in a way that was euphoric, and easy, and loving life and its stupidity as he laughed along with me. Both of us caught up in that moment like naughty teenagers and neither of us being able to stop ourselves.
