Whispers in the Quiet Night, Chapter 2

The house had that particular quiet it only got after nine, when the kids were down and the dishwasher hummed its white-noise lullaby in the kitchen. Lucy was curled against my side on the sectional, wearing one of my old flannels with exactly two buttons done, and nothing I could detect underneath. Her fingers were doing lazy laps on my thigh, and I knew that walk. I'd been married to this woman long enough to know the difference between absent-minded thigh-touching and reconnaissance.

"You're doing the thing," I said, not looking away from the TV.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're circling my leg like a shark."

She propped her chin on my chest and grinned up at me. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a gleam in her eye I'd learned to be either very excited or very nervous about. Usually both.

"Taylor," she said, in the sweet voice she used when she was about to ask me for something that would leave me walking funny. "Do you trust me?"

"That depends entirely on the next sentence."

She sat up, crossed her legs under herself, and looked at me with a seriousness that was undermined by how hard her nipples were pressing through the flannel. "Last time, you came twice, and I still don't think you were empty. I could tell. You were still twitching after I finished you off."

"I'm a plumber, Lucy. Twitching pipes are my whole career."

"I'm serious." She crawled up my body, planting a knee on either side of my hips, her hands flattening on my chest. "I've been thinking about it all week. About draining you. Completely. Like, wringing out a rag."

"That's the least sexy metaphor anyone's ever said to me, and yet here I am." I was hard. Obviously I was hard. She could feel it through my shorts, and she ground down against it once, slow, just to confirm.

"I want to try something," she said. "And I want you to say yes before you know what it is."

"That's how people end up on Survivor."

"Say yes."

I looked at her. I looked at the two buttons. I looked at the wicked little curl at the corner of her mouth.

"...Yes."

Her whole face lit up like I'd handed her a winning lottery ticket. She kissed me hard, bit my bottom lip on the way out, then swung off me and disappeared down the hall toward our bedroom. I heard the closet. I heard a drawer. I heard a plastic crinkle that made my stomach drop straight into my dick.

When she came back, her hands were behind her back, and she'd undone the other two buttons of the flannel so it hung open, her small tits bare, her pussy already glistening between her thighs. Whatever was behind her back stayed behind her back.

"Pants off," she said. "Shirt too. Lose the socks, Taylor, don't argue."

I stripped while she watched, and there's something about being naked on a couch while your wife stands over you fully in charge that rearranges your whole nervous system. My cock lay against my stomach, hard and flushed, and she looked at it the way I look at pizza after a twelve-hour shift.

"Okay," she said. "Lie back. And Taylor?" She brought her hands out.

In one, a bottle of lube. In the other—

"Oh," I said.

It was purple. It was modest, as these things went, maybe five inches of silicone, but it was attached to a harness that she was already stepping into like she'd practiced. She pulled the straps up her thighs, cinched them around her hips, and adjusted the O-ring with two fingers, businesslike, like she was threading a fitting onto a pipe. Which, ironically.

"When did you buy this?"

"Three weeks ago." She gave the silicone a little stroke, base to tip, smirking at me. "It's been in my drawer, waiting for you to be a good boy."

"Is that what I've been?"

"Not yet." She crawled onto the couch between my legs, pushing my knees apart, and settled on her stomach with her face hovering over my cock. "First things first. I promised myself I'd drain you, and I'm a woman of my word."

She started with her mouth, because of course she did. She was so good at it it should've been illegal in at least nine states. She took me deep, swallowing around the head, her tongue doing that corkscrew thing on the way up that made my thighs shake. Then she pulled off with a wet pop and went lower.

Lower.

"Lucy—"

"Shh. Lift your legs."

And look, I'd like to say I hesitated. I'd like to tell you I weighed the options like a dignified man. What actually happened is I grabbed the backs of my own knees and hauled my ass up off the cushion like I was doing a very slutty yoga pose, and my wife looked at me like Christmas had come early.

"Good boy," she whispered, and then she licked me.

Her tongue went flat and broad over my hole, warm and wet and filthy, and every nerve ending I didn't know I owned lit up at once. My cock jumped against my stomach, leaking a string of precum onto my abs, completely unattended and completely desperate.

"Oh, fuck," I breathed.

She hummed against me and did it again, slower, then circled the rim with the tip of her tongue, teasing, until I was making sounds I'd never made in my life. Then she pointed her tongue and pushed in, just barely, and my whole body jerked.

"There he is," she murmured, pulling back, her breath cool on my wet skin. She reached for the lube. "Relax for me."

One finger, slick and slow, slid in to the first knuckle. She watched my face the entire time, her eyes flicking between my expression and my cock, which was leaking a steady, embarrassing puddle onto my stomach. She crooked her finger, searching, and—

"Oh my God."

"Found it," she said smugly, and pressed again. My cock pulsed hard, a fat bead of precum welling up and sliding down my shaft. She milked that spot with slow, patient strokes of her fingertip while I gripped the couch cushion and made a sound like a deflating air mattress.

"Lucy, I'm gonna—"

"You're not." She pulled her finger free, and I nearly cried. "Not until I say. Not until I'm inside you."

She rose up on her knees, gripped the base of the purple cock, and drizzled lube down its length, stroking it smooth with her fist in a movement so confident it did something terrifying to my brain. Then she pressed the slick head against my hole.

"Breathe out," she said.

I did, and she pushed in, slow, steady, watching my face for any sign to stop. There was no sign to stop. There was the opposite of a sign to stop. The stretch burned in the best way, and when she got halfway and angled her hips, that spot got pressure like nothing ever had, and my cock throbbed so hard it slapped my stomach.

"Fuck," I gasped. "Fuck, Lucy—"

"Yeah?" She sank deeper, her hips flush against my ass, and leaned over me, her tits brushing my chest, the harness pressing against my aching length. "You look so good like this, Taylor. All spread open for me."

She started to move. Slow at first, shallow strokes, learning the motion, and then she found the angle and my back arched clean off the couch. My cock bobbed with every thrust, untouched, leaking, precum dripping in a long unbroken thread down onto my stomach, and I could feel something enormous building in my lower spine that I'd never felt before.

"I'm not even touching you," she said, awed, watching my cock bounce. "Look at it. You're gonna come from my cock in your ass, you dirty—yes, you are, don't argue, come on, give it to me—"

She fucked me harder, her hips snapping, her tits jiggling, one hand braced on my thigh, and the pressure built and built and crested, and I came so hard I saw white.

The first rope hit me square in the chin. The second, and I want this on the record, hit my own cheek. The third landed across my chest, then my stomach, then another stripe across my hip, and I was moaning like an animal through all of it, my cock pulsing out load after load without a single hand on it, painting me from collarbone to navel. Lucy froze mid-thrust, staring, her mouth open.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "You hit your face."

"Nobody needs the play-by-play," I wheezed.

"I'm doing the play-by-play at your funeral. That was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life." She pulled out slowly and looked down at me, wrecked and dripping. Then her eyes narrowed. "But we're not done."

"Lucy, I just—there's nothing left. I'm empty. I'm a dry well. I'm—"

"Not empty." She scooped a thick gob of cum off my chest with two fingers, wrapped her slick hand around my softening, oversensitive cock, and started stroking. My hips bucked off the couch, a strangled sound clawing out of my throat. "You've got one more in there. I can feel it. I promised you'd be drained, and I keep my promises."

The cum slid over my cock as lube, warm and filthy and slick, her fist twisting at the top, her thumb swiping the head on every pass, and my cock—my poor, exhausted, betrayed cock—started filling again in her hand. She worked me with slow, deliberate pulls, base to tip, squeezing, coaxing, and I just lay there and took it, trembling, covered in my own mess, my wife's hand absolutely coated in me.

"There it is," she whispered, feeling me swell and thicken. "There's my good boy. One more. Just one more, for me."

It took her maybe three minutes of that slow, patient, cum-slick stroking, her other hand gently rolling my balls, and I felt it rise from somewhere deep, somewhere she'd already unlocked. My thighs shook. My toes curled against the armrest.

"Open your mouth," she said.

"What?"

"Open. Your. Mouth."

I did. I don't know why. Because she said so, probably.

"Catch it," she ordered, stroking faster. "Every drop, Taylor. Don't swallow."

And I came a third time, weaker but somehow more intense, my cock jerking in her cum-soaked fist as the last of it pumped out—thin, pearly streaks landing on my chin, my lower lip, one weak spurt landing directly on my tongue. She wrung me out with slow squeezes until I had nothing left, until my cock gave one final twitch and went still, utterly, completely drained, and I believed her now. I believed her about everything.

She gathered it all. Off my chin, off my lip, off my cheek, scooping with her fingers, scraping my chin with her nail, and she fed it all into my open mouth, her fingers pushing the cum onto my tongue, wiping it clean against my lips.

"Hold it," she said softly. "Don't swallow. Don't swallow, Taylor."

I lay there, mouth full of my own load, heart hammering, more turned on than I had any right to be. Lucy looked at me for a long moment—her flushed face, her heaving chest, the flannel hanging off one shoulder—then she leaned down, braced her hands on either side of my head, and pressed her lips to mine.

She sucked.

She sucked the cum right out of my mouth, her tongue sweeping in to gather it, her lips sealed over mine, pulling it out of me in a slow, obscene, open-mouthed kiss that made my drained cock try its absolute hardest to care. She pulled back with everything, her cheeks slightly full, her eyes locked on mine, and she swallowed. Loudly. Deliberately. Her throat bobbing.

"All gone," she whispered, and kissed me again—gentle this time, soft, her tongue slipping into my mouth to taste the residue, to taste us, unhurried and sweet and somehow filthier than anything that came before.

She collapsed onto me, mindful of the mess, sort of, tucking her face into my neck. We were both breathing like we'd run a 5K. The harness was still on, the purple cock smashed awkwardly between us.

"So," I said eventually, staring at the ceiling. "Three weeks in the drawer, huh."

"Three weeks."

"You practiced putting that on, didn't you. The little two-finger adjustment thing."

"I watched a tutorial." She kissed my jaw. "You came on your own face. I need you to know that's going in my permanent collection of mental images. I'll be viewing it weekly."

"I want it noted that I have a professional understanding of pipes, and nothing in my training prepared me for that."

She laughed, full and warm, and reached for the throw blanket off the armrest, dragging it over us. On the TV, some renovation show was flipping a house nobody would ever live in. She found the remote, settled her head on my cum-sticky chest without a single complaint, and sighed, completely content.

"Drained?" she asked.

"Lucy, I couldn't produce another drop if you hooked me up to a fire hose."

"Good." She snuggled deeper. "That was the whole mission."

I looked down at her, at the harness straps still crisscrossing her hips under the blanket, and had one final thought.

"...You're wearing that again, aren't you."

She didn't even open her eyes. "Taylor, honey. I bought the harness with a whole set of attachments."

I stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

"I'm going to need a bath tomorrow," I said. "A long one."

"Mmm. I'll wash your back." A pause. "And everything else."

The renovation show cut to commercial. She was asleep in four minutes. I was awake for another hour, sore in new places, thinking about attachments.