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I took off my shirt and undid my belt, stopping at the door between our
rooms. It had never been opened. She’d set the boundaries and I stayed on
the right side of them. I existed in my own space as if that door wasn’t even
there… until she told me to fuck myself with the flip of a coin and Byron
told me he was giving up his place at Crowne.
If she was awake, I’d knock.
Close to the wood, I listened for the sound of her computer keys, or the
TV, or her talking to a friend on the phone.
But nothing. Was she even in there?
I put my ear on the door, cutting out the white noise between us, and I
heard her breathing.
She was there. I could knock.
Just as I was about to pull away, her breaths turned into a moan. A stab
cut my chest.
Was she alone?
Fuck, she’d better be alone.
I closed my eyes, listening for a second set of breaths. A second voice.
A bed creaking under two bodies.
She moaned again. Just her. She was alone.
Laying my hands flat on the surface, I envisioned her naked, upright on
spread knees with her hand between her legs, butterfly tattoos all over her
body, and was rewarded with her breath getting sharper and her moans
rising.
I shoved my hand down my pants. My cock had already produced a
bead of pre-cum. I used it to lubricate my hand, imagining her thrusting
hips, her free hand twisting her nipple, her lips silently shaping my name.
Fucking my fist to the rhythm of her unh-unh-unh, I came with her
final, long moan, squirting against the doorjamb without an ounce of shame
and no regrets whatsoever.
I wasn’t allowed to satisfy my wife’s hunger. Maybe I could fill her
soul.
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