Grappling the Past on the Back Deck

The memory hit me square in the gut while I was doing cool-down stretches on the back deck. Not the usual post-run glow, not the pleasant ache in my quads, but a hot, sharp jolt that made my pussy clench around nothing. Ben. That little shithead from the gym. I hadn’t thought about him in months, but there it was, playing behind my eyes like a dirty movie I’d directed myself.

He’d been strutting around the weight room, twenty-eight years old and already convinced he was God’s gift to barbells and women. The kind of guy who grunts loud enough to rattle the mirrors and leaves his plates on the bar. He’d made a comment to his buddy about the “old lady” on the mats, and something in me just clicked. I’d invited him to roll. Sparring, I’d called it, my voice sweet as antifreeze. He’d laughed, looked at his friend, and stepped onto the mat with the confidence of a man who’d never been humbled by a woman who could deadlift twice his body weight.

I could still feel his initial shove, the way he tried to muscle me around with sheer bulk. Amateur. I let him push, let him think he was winning, absorbing his force and redirecting it. My hips shifted, my legs hooked, and suddenly his world was upside down. I’d caught him in a classic armbar, my thighs locked around his bicep, his elbow hyperextended just to the point before real damage. He squirmed, his face going red, and then he tapped. Frantic little slaps against my calf.

“Tap out all you want,” I’d whispered, close to his ear. “But I’m not done with you.”

I’d loosened the pressure just enough to shift my weight, rolling him onto his back and sliding my hips up his chest. My soaked spandex shorts were right over his face. He could smell me, I knew it. Sweat and arousal, a raw, animal scent.

“Kiss it,” I’d said. Not a request. A command. “Kiss my cunt.”

His breath was hot and panicked through the fabric. He did it. A quick, terrified peck. Pathetic. I’d laughed, a low sound that came from deep in my chest, and then I’d flipped him over like a pancake. I trapped his head between my hamstring and my glute, a reverse triangle that mashed his nose right into the cleft of my ass. My shorts had ridden up, and there was nothing but a thin string of a thong between his mouth and my most private place.

“Again,” I’d told him, flexing my glute so the muscle swelled against his lips. “Kiss it. Properly this time.”

He’d whimpered and pressed his open mouth to my flesh. It wasn’t sexy. He was terrified. But the act itself, the pure, unadulterated dominance of it, had sent a shockwave through my system. I hadn’t been turned on by Ben. God, no. I’d been turned on by the power. The absolute control. The knowledge that I could make a man do this, could own him so completely, with nothing but my body and my will.

I stood up from my stretch, my skin tingling. Larry was inside, probably reading on his tablet, still smelling of the woodsy soap from his post-run shower. My husband. My sweet, brilliant, athletic husband who loved that I could out-lift him and never felt threatened by it. The memory of Ben had a new purpose now. It wasn’t just a trophy from the gym. It was a blueprint. A script for a scene I suddenly, desperately needed to play out with the man I actually wanted.

I found him in his workshop, the converted garage space where he tinkered with his road bike. He looked up as I walked in, his eyes doing that slow, hungry scan they always do. I was still in my running kit, a tight tank top and shorts that hugged every muscle. My skin was slick with a fine sheen of sweat, my ponytail a messy, sexy disaster. I knew the picture I made.

“Hey, you,” he said, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. “Good run?”

“Got me thinking,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. I let my eyes drift over him, his lean runner’s build, the silver just starting to thread through the hair at his temples. Forty-five and still capable of making my heart thump in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.

“Dangerous pastime,” he grinned.

“You remember me telling you about that asshole at the gym? Ben?”

Larry’s grin faded into a look of curious amusement. “The one you put in his place? Vividly. A story I enjoy on a deep, primal level.”

“I was just thinking about it,” I said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him. My running shoes made no sound on the concrete floor. “About the specifics. About what I made him do when I had him pinned.”

Larry’s hands stilled on the rag. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You never gave me the… specifics.”

“I made him kiss me,” I said, stopping a foot away from him. I could smell the bike grease and the clean, male scent of his skin. “Through my shorts. I told him to kiss my cunt. And then I flipped him over and made him kiss my ass.”

The air in the workshop went thick and heavy. Larry’s eyes, a deep, warm brown, went almost black. He didn’t say anything, but his chest started to rise and fall a little faster. I saw his fingers twitch, the rag forgotten in his grip.

“It didn’t turn me on because it was him,” I continued, my voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “It turned me on because it was me. In control. Total control. And I thought about you. I thought about coming home and doing the exact same thing to you. Only with you, it would be real. It would mean something.”

“Cheryl…” His voice was a dry rasp.

“I don’t want to wrestle you, Larry. I’m not in the mood for a fair fight.” I reached out and plucked the rag from his hand, dropping it on his workbench. “I’m in the mood for a surrender. Your unconditional, immediate surrender. I want you to do exactly what I say, and I want you to worship me the way I demand.”

A tremor went through him. It was beautiful to watch. This smart, strong, capable man, reduced to a state of raw, quivering anticipation by nothing more than my words and my presence. I could see the shape of his erection straining against his jeans. He was already mine.

“Okay,” he breathed.

“Good boy,” I purred. “Bedroom. Now. Strip and lie on your back.”

He moved. Fast. I followed him at a slower pace, savoring the shift in our dynamic. The hallway felt like a runway. By the time I walked into our bedroom, he was already naked, lying in the center of the king-sized bed. His cock was fully hard, curving up toward his stomach, a bead of fluid already glistening at the tip. His body was a roadmap of lean muscle and sinew, a product of decades of running. I loved his body. I loved what I was about to do to it.

I didn’t undress right away. I stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at him. My prize.

“Touch yourself,” I said. “Slowly. I want to watch you get even harder while you think about what’s coming.”

He wrapped his hand around his shaft and began to stroke. A slow, languid up-and-down motion. His eyes were glued to me, pleading and adoring all at once. I held his gaze as I peeled my sweaty tank top over my head. My sports bra followed. My breasts, full and firm, were slick with perspiration. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and peeled them down, inch by agonizing inch, taking my thong with them. The smell of my own arousal, musky and potent, filled the air between us. I was completely bare, my body a honed weapon of muscle and curve, my pussy already wet and ready.

I crawled onto the bed, stalking up his body on all fours until my knees were planted on either side of his head. My slick folds hovered just an inch above his mouth. I could feel the heat of his ragged breath on my most sensitive skin.

“This isn’t a request, baby,” I said, looking down the length of my own body at him. “This is a command. You’re going to kiss my cunt like you’ve been dying of thirst and I’m the only water for a thousand miles.”

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, the words a hot vibration against my flesh.

His hands came up to grip my ass, and I let him. He pulled me down onto his face, and his mouth sealed over my pussy. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a communion. His tongue, broad and flat, licked a long, slow stripe from my opening all the way to my clit. A raw, guttural sound of pleasure was torn from my throat. I ground down against his face, smearing my wetness over his lips, his chin, his nose.

“That’s it,” I hissed, my head falling back. “Own it. Lick me clean.”

He devoured me. His tongue was relentless, alternating between soft, teasing flicks against my clit and deep, penetrating thrusts into my channel. He sucked and kissed and licked with a devotion that was almost religious. The pleasure was a rising tide, sharp and electric, coiling low in my belly. My thighs began to tremble around his head. I was close, so close, but I wasn’t ready to give him the satisfaction of my orgasm. Not yet. The main event was still to come.

With a monumental effort of will, I lifted my hips, breaking the seal of his mouth. A wet, obscene sound filled the room. His face was a beautiful mess, glistening with my juices.

“Don’t you dare look disappointed,” I said, my voice shaky with need. “We’re just getting to the best part.”

I turned around, a 180-degree pivot on my knees, until my ass was now positioned directly over his face. My pussy was poised above his cock, but I held myself up, not letting our bodies touch. I reached back and grabbed a fistful of his hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat.

“Now,” I said, my voice a low, commanding growl. “You’re going to kiss my ass. Not a peck. Not a quick little peck like that coward Ben gave me. A real kiss. I want you to worship it. I want you to love it. I want to feel your tongue trace every inch of me.”

I lowered myself. He tensed, a flicker of resistance tightening his jaw. “Cheryl, I don’t—” he started, his voice muffled against my skin. I didn’t let him finish. My hand shot down and I cupped him, my fingers wrapping firm around his balls through his jeans, a gentle but unmistakable warning. His whole body went rigid, a sharp intake of breath his only reply. I squeezed, just enough to make my point, and felt the fight drain out of him in a long, surrendering exhale. He understood. The first contact was the firm, round swell of my right cheek against his open mouth. He kissed it, a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue immediately laving a circle over the muscle. I shuddered, a full-body tremor that started at the base of my spine. I shifted, presenting the other cheek. He gave it the same devoted attention, his stubble a perfect, rough counterpoint to the softness of his tongue.

“Deeper,” I commanded, my voice breaking. “Get in there.”

I arched my back, tilting my hips to open myself to him completely. He understood. His tongue left the swell of my cheek and traced a slow, deliberate line down the crevice, right over the tight, puckered star of my asshole. A cry, sharp and involuntary, escaped my lips. The sensation was so taboo, so intimate, so utterly, filthily perfect. He didn’t just kiss it; he made out with it. His tongue circled the rim, soft and insistent, before pressing flat against it in a long, worshipful kiss. He moaned into my flesh, the vibration traveling straight to my clit.

I held his head in place with my grip on his hair, using him. I rocked my hips in a slow, circular rhythm, rubbing my ass over his face, forcing his tongue deeper into my most forbidden place. The sheer, nasty dominance of the act was the ultimate aphrodisiac. This was what I’d wanted. This was the power. This was the moment I’d been craving since the memory of Ben had sparked in my brain. But this was a million times better. This was love. This was trust. This was my husband, my partner, letting me take him to this dark, exquisite place because he loved the woman I was.

“You love this, don’t you?” I panted, still grinding. “You love being my toy. My perfect, filthy toy.”

His only answer was a desperate, muffled groan and a redoubling of his efforts. His tongue fucked against my asshole with a new urgency. The coil in my belly was back, tighter and hotter than before. It was time for the finale.

I released his hair and slid my body down his. The slick trail of my arousal left a glistening path down his stomach. I positioned myself over his cock, the thick, blunt head pressing against my soaking entrance. I didn’t sink down. I just held him there, right at the edge of paradise, and looked into his eyes. His face was still wet from my cunt and his own saliva. He looked wrecked. He looked euphoric.

“You’ve been a very good boy,” I whispered. “You’ve earned your reward. But I’m still in charge. You don’t come until I say you can. Understand?”

“Yes,” he choked out. “Fuck, Cheryl, yes.”

I slammed my hips down, taking his entire length in one brutal, glorious stroke. We both cried out. I didn’t give him a moment to adjust. I started to ride him, a punishing, relentless rhythm. My hands were planted on his chest, my nails digging into his pectorals. I used his body for my pleasure, chasing my orgasm with a single-minded ferocity. The room was filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of our bodies and our mingled gasps for air.

I could feel him straining beneath me, his hips bucking up to meet my thrusts, his whole body a drawn bowstring of tension.

“Not yet,” I growled, feeling my own climax building to an unbearable peak. “Hold it. Hold it for me.”

The pressure was immense, a supernova gathering in my core. I looked down at his face, his jaw clenched, his eyes screwed shut in a heroic effort of control. The sight of him, so completely under my spell, was the final push I needed.

“Now, Larry,” I screamed. “Come with me. Now!”

The world shattered. My orgasm ripped through me, a cataclysm of pleasure that started in my cunt and radiated outwards, curling my toes and whiting out my vision. I felt him erupt inside me, a hot, pulsing flood that triggered a second, smaller wave of my own release. I collapsed onto his chest, my body a twitching, boneless mess. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight as the last tremors subsided. We lay there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty heap, our breathing slowly returning to normal.

I finally lifted my head and looked at him. His eyes were soft, full of a deep, abiding love and more than a little awe.

“So,” I said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face. “Was that better than the armbar?”

He laughed, a breathless, spent sound. “Infinitely. Though I think my face might be permanently chafed.”

“Wear it like a badge of honor,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Just remember, if you ever leave your plates on the bar, I have a whole new arsenal of compliance techniques.”

“Noted,” he murmured, pulling me closer. “You know, for the record, I’d have kissed your ass without the wrestling match.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered against his lips. “That’s what makes you the champion.”