Raised Handprints

Edgar is my husband of nearly six years. The last four of them have been mostly sexless.

We're not out of love. Life's little traumas have a way of intruding where they have no business being.

It therefore sparks excitement in me when, at 3 a.m., I feel him erect against my buttocks, between our spooning bodies. An Edgar hard-on is always cause for excitement.

Under the covers, his hand slides over my hip and clasps my nighttime half-erection in his big, soft hand. He holds it while it throbs and grows to full attention.

Then masturbates me in a loose grip while I slowly come to full wakefulness.

We kick away the covers. He sucks me off while I lie there on my back. Down there, between my upraised knees, he bobs his head and engulfs me in his mouth, pleasuring me with such perfect suction.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that it's a bottom's job to give head, not receive it. What is bottoming but the passive reception of sexual gratification?

He remembers my body well. He brings me quickly to orgasm, recognizing that it's about to happen in the quickness of my breath and the gyration of my hips.

He keeps his attentions steady as I feel the fire burst through me. Muscles in my groin tighten; my balls empty themselves rope by rope into his soft, warm mouth.

He graciously swallows as much as he can, one last rope evading him. It briefly connects his chin to the underside of my dick.

He crawls up my body and embraces me, smothering me in his bulk, sandwiching his hard-on between our bellies. We kiss, deep with tongue and saliva. I swallow a small share of my own semen.

As blowjobs go, it was inelegant, but not inexpert.

We're just out of practice.

I roll over and get on my elbows and knees, presenting my ass to him. He grabs an ancient bottle of lube from the nightstand, lubes himself up, and presses his dickhead against my awaiting anus.

He's a little soft.

We try, for a few minutes, first to get his partial erection past my stubborn sphincter, then to reverse the softening of his slick, shining penis. But it's to no avail.

He feels like he failed us. I reassure him that he didn't, not entirely sure I believe it in my heart.

We fall asleep halfway into a comforting embrace.

A few days later, we shower together.

We always get a little frisky in the shower. We don't consummate any deeds, but making out and touching each other's bodies beneath the steam and the spray is a pleasant experience.

Aside from the occasional session of mutual masturbation, showering has been our most regular form of physical intimacy since time out of mind.

He exits the shower and goes to the bedroom to dry off. I furtively masturbate, bringing myself to a quick, unsatisfying orgasm. I use my foot to coax the evidence into the drain.

I meet him in the bedroom and towel myself off, unembarrassed of my nudity.

He has his towel on around his waist. He slides his briefs on underneath and doesn't drop the towel until they're securely in place.

I'm not sure when he stopped letting me watch him get dressed. Or when he decided seeing him naked in the shower was okay, but seeing him naked anywhere else was not.

It wasn't always like this.

For the first six months, we were insatiable. Every night, we stayed up all night fucking, then we were miserably tired the next morning.

My balls would ache from being so drained often. It was rare that I would take a shit that wasn't greased by residual lube.

After that, it petered out to a couple times a week. Then a couple times a month.

By the time we got married, we were just about in the rut that we're in now.

For our sixth anniversary, I buy him a small container of edibles.

It's not my thing. But I know it calms his anxieties and helps him feel present.

And I'm determined to get laid tonight.

I reach into my network of contacts--mostly musician friends from my younger days--and get put in touch with a connect within half an hour.

When I present him with the package of gummy candies, his eyes light up.

"For me?" he says.

He has a couple of them with dinner--Thai takeout, our favorite. I have a few glasses of wine myself.

Then we go upstairs.

I start to get undressed, but he says no.

"Just stand there," he says. "Arms out."

I stand there in an obedient crucifix position.

At first, he doesn't do anything. He just looks me up and down.

Then he circles around me.

As he passes behind me he stops. Through my slacks, I feel a fingertip trace underneath the overhang of my ass. When it's over my asshole, it pauses there briefly before moving on.

His arms circle me and unbutton my shirt from behind, fingers moving quick and efficiently. He pulls my shirt open, exposing my chest and pulling my shirttails out of my waistband.

His hands travel down, over my hairy tummy, to my belt. He unbuckles it, unbuttons and unzips me, slides a hand down the front of my pants. I moan with anticipation.

He pulls my dick out of my pants and lets it stand up, pinned to my belly by the waistband of my underpants. That's all the attention he gives it.

"Lower your arms," he whispers in my ear, hot breath on my neck.

I do.

He slides my shirt halfway down my arms.

Then he slides the belt out from my pants, and I feel him looping it around my elbows behind me, and suddenly my arms are locked together behind my back.

God, he's turning me on. We haven't done this in forever.

He comes around the front of me and threads his fingers through the hair on top of my head.

Then he grabs a great fistful of it and roughly tilts my head back, arching my back and thrusting my chest towards him. My throat is exposed, like prey to a predator.

He leans in, breathing on my collar bones.

"Is this alright?" he says.

"Yes," I say.

"Do I have permission to do anything I want to you?" he says.

"Yes," I say, my voice quivering a little.

His fingertips pull down the waistband of my underpants, low enough to tuck it under my scrotum. My dick and balls are out.

He starts jerking me, slowly, not releasing my hair from his other hand.

As minimal as it is, my dick badly needs this attention.

"I'm going to spank you," he says while he strokes me. "Would you like that?"

"Yes," I say.

"Say it."

"I want you to spank me."

"You don't get what you want unless you ask nicely."

"Please," I say.

"Please what?"

"Please spank me."

"Tell me you need it."

"I need you to spank me."

"Why?"

I swallow, lubricating my throat.

"Because it makes me horny," I say. "It makes me warm and numb and loose and makes everything feel good."

"And?" he says.

"And I want you to fuck me. I want to give my ass over to you. I want you to own it."

He stops jerking me.

And he pulls my pants and underpants down to the floor.

"Step out of those," he commands.

I do.

I stand before him naked, save for the shirt bunched around my arms behind my back and the belt that binds me there.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pats his lap.

I approach him. I bend over and lie across him, my ass in the air over his knee.

At first, he does nothing. He lets me lie there. I feel his eyes upon me, roaming my body. But he doesn't touch me.

I bite my lip.

I want to complain, to get him to give in, but I know I'm not supposed to. Besides, if I do, he's sure to make the suspense even worse.

Then I feel the tips of his fingers, brushing my asscheeks lightly with just his fingernails. I shiver; goosebumps raise on my skin from my lower back to the backs of my thighs.

For one moment, he traces a finger down the crack of my ass, brushing the hair around my asshole, down the back of my balls. The incidental contact with my anus and genitals is thrilling.

Then the first spank.

It hits hard, on the underside of my ass, stinging maybe a little too much. We haven't done this in a while.

But he does it again, and it hits home with a pleasant thud, and he quickly finds his rhythm as he spanks me a dozen more times in succession, almost too fast for me to register them.

Then he stops. I feel blood rushing to the region, raising handprints on my ass, further hardening my already engorged penis, flooding me with an orgasmlike rush of pain and pleasure.

He waits just long enough for it to start to hurt, then he starts again.

Between each spanking, he lavishes me with loving, demeaning dirty talk.

"You like that, you little slut?" he says.

Whap.

Between each spanking, I respond to him.

"Yes I do," I say, a little breathless.

Whap.

"What are you?" he says.

Whap.

"I'm a little slut."

Whap.

"Who owns your little slut asshole?"

Whap.

"You do."

Whap.

"Do you take it up the ass, you little slut?"

Whap.

"Yes, I take it up the ass."

Whap.

"Do you want me to give it to you up the ass?"

Whap.

"Oh yes, please, give it to me."

Whap.

"When?"

Whap.

"Now!"

Whap.

Then he stops again.

By now, my entire bottom half is singing, like a tongue that's had just a little too much spice.

I feel pain, I feel an intensely erotic urge to submit to him, I feel invincible.

He undoes my bonds, slides them off my arms, and tosses them away.

"Get on the bed," he says. "On your elbows and knees."

I do.

I'm facing his closet. He opens one of the swinging doors, revealing the full length mirror where he gets dressed every morning. He angles it so I can see myself in it, head on.

I scarcely recognize myself. I'm flushed, sweaty. I hadn't even realized I was sweating, but my hair is pasted to my forehead.

I'm not a vain person. But I like the way I look right now.

In the reflection, I see him stand behind me, on the other side of the bed, and undress himself. I watch in awe as he sheds his clothing, piece by piece, slowly revealing himself.

He's hard; his dick is magnificently handsome.

(In my younger days as a baby bottom, I always thought dicks were better felt than seen. Then I had to go and fall in love with a man whose dick looks sculpted from marble.)

He lubes himself up, a quick, effortless process long practiced.

Then he's kneeling behind me, his dick level with me, and I feel his dickhead trace the circumference of my anus and I realize that I'm gaping for him.

Then, with the gentlest pressure, he tips himself in.

He's big, and he's hard. And yet, in my fugue state, it feels almost too easy. He slides in smoothly, stretching me on the inside, filling me right up.

It's such a pleasurable fullness, a pressure that almost verges on discomfort.

He holds there for a moment, giving my sphincters a chance to acclimate to the girth of him. Then he starts fucking me.

He grips my narrow hips, going slowly at first, but soon, his body is clapping against mine. He's hitting me at just the right angle, just the right depth, the two of us perfectly fitted together.

I'm staring at the bedsheet, just below my face, just in front of my crossed forearms.

Every time his hips hit me, a little bit of sweat shakes loose from my hair, forming dark dots where they hit the fabric.

"No," he says, huffing and puffing. "The mirror."

I look up.

I see the two men, looking resplendant in their nudity, fornicating on top of the bed. I lock eyes with one of them, the one bent over, the one getting penetrated. He smiles at me, dazed, and I'm smiling back.

Under orders, I watch myself getting fucked. I watch this naked, sweaty man being taken under the protective ownership of the middle-aged adonis who looms behind him.

I let out a little falsetto grunt with every entry of Edgar's penis into my eager body, unbidden, watching with detached fascination as my reflection does the same.

Then Edgar slows down, and I fear the worst.

He calms me, saying, "Now it's my turn to watch you."

He withdraws from me. A little fart escapes, but he kindly doesn't acknowledge it.

"On your back," he says.

I lie down on my back.

"Knees up," he says.

I raise my knees and hold them in place with my hands.

He kneels in front of me, between my legs, and positions his dick once more at my loose, well-lubricated anus.

Then he's inside me again.

He hooks his arms around my legs, spreading them apart, using them as leverage as he fucks me.

My free hands fall to the bed.

"Are you ready to jerk off?" he says, a little winded.

I nod.

He says, "Good. I want to watch you jerk off."

I grip my hard-on and start playing with myself, a little performatively at first, trying my best to present a sexy image to him.

But, soon enough, long-honed instincts take over, and I'm jerking off in earnest, my self-pleasure melding with the intermittent pressure his penis administers to my prostate.

I rarely orgasm from masturbation as quickly with a partner as I do by myself. But, as wound up as I am, this one arrives almost right away.

Warmth and electricity spread through me. My prostate sings in sympathy. Strong muscles clench. A rope of semen lurches powerfully through my dick, leaving a white line from my chin to my belly.

I'm dimly aware of Edgar watching me with almost pornographic fascination as he fucks me, his dick making its rapid circuit back and forth inside my sensitized ass.

More ropes; I'm criss-crossed with my own cum.

Even after my hand is stopped and my dickhead dribbles its last onto my hairy belly, the thrumming and the electricity continue.

This is how it happens sometimes, when I masturbate while receiving anal pleasure.

My orgasm keeps going, and then I feel his strokes getting shorter and more brisk. He's coming.

As the heat in me finally starts to subside, so does his fucking.

And then it's over.

He pulls out of me. I feel cum running up my asscrack and onto the sheet. Laundry day tomorrow.

Once we've both straightened up, we take a long, intimate shower together, more cuddling and making out than shampooing and scrubbing.

But we do get clean. At least, on the outside.

From past experience, I know I'm going to be shitting little bullets of cum in the morning. Especially after tonight--I feel like he power-washed my insides.

When we get out of the shower, he doesn't mind me seeing him naked.

Later, we're in bed, both half-asleep, our bodies nestled together like two spoons.

"Baby," I hear him murmur behind me.

"Yeah?"

"I think that edible was a dud."

"It was?"

"Mmhmm. They usually take time. But this one just never kicked in."

"So what was all that then?"

"I don't know."

He rolls onto his back, and I roll over onto my other side to face him.

He says, "I guess, in a way, it worked, even if it didn't kick in. I I felt like I had permission to forget about everything for a little while and just get into my body."

I say, "It was my body that you got into."

He laughs, then says, "Hey, I'm being serious. Don't try to soften it with jokes."

"Sorry."

"I can't promise that this is a new beginning," he says. "But I do promise it'll get better."

I nod. He can't see me nodding. But I think he knows.

He knows I'm afraid. I'm always afraid, in the aftermath of fucking.

I'm afraid that this is the last time. Or, if it isn't, that this is it for a long time, a blip between prolonged hiatuses.

I watch him fall asleep, his beautiful face half-agape with gentle snores. Wanting him all over again, wondering when I'll have him.

I'll try again tomorrow.

~THE END~