M/F
NC-17
***
It had been my idea so I had to make it work somehow. Tim wasn’t convinced yet. He’s more the spontaneous type. I used to be, too, but for the last month spontaneous had bought us staggered bed times, angry cold shoulders, kid-devised interruptions and a host of other unavoidable good enough reasons not to have sex.
All those magazines and self help people tell you to schedule time for everything with your spouse, even sex. So I did. I convinced him to take an early lunch and come home from 11 to noon. With the kids in day care from 9:30 to 12:30 I could swing 45 minutes to an hour for us uninterrupted before I had to pick them up.
Now, at 10:30, one load of laundry in the wash, one in the dryer and only half of my freelance project properly proofread I wasn’t sure this was going to work. I had too much to do. But I’d made such a big whopping deal out of it that I had to. I hadn’t made the bed, this way we’d use the dirty sheets and I’d get a fresh set on before bed tonight.
While I was writing I hadn’t been able to help thinking about what I should wear. Currently I’m sporting jeans with decorative syrup swirls from breakfast and a t-shirt with our plumber’s slogan across the left tit. Apparently these days with your copper piping and high prices you get a tee. My sweat socks were mismatched, too. Not exactly making my case here. So I kicked the closet door open with my foot and perused the selection while I hit save and sent the attachment to my editor.
Half of this stuff doesn’t fit, the other half just doesn’t fit well. My two jobs are mom and freelance website marketing writer. Neither one requires a uniform of any kind. I can see a tiny swatch of seersucker, though. I don’t recognize it. When I get it untangled from the back of the closet it turns out to be a longish belted shirtdress I probably haven’t worn in ten years. It used to be my hip summer late-night-at-the-local-bar outfit. It hung off me and I never wore a bra with it. That’s probably why Tim loved it so much. With no hope at all I shimmy out of my jeans and plumber tee and give it a try. It certainly doesn’t hang off me but it fits. These breasts go braless no more, however. I find something not exactly dingy that works under the dress. There’s a rip at the seam that holds the skirt to the top. It’s right on the side and I feel sure a roll of fat will poke through it. By now it’s 11, though, it’ll have to do. Oh, wait, my underwear looks like a hand me down from my grandmother, no my great grandmother. I’m not wearing a thong, not even to make a point. You know, better to not wear anything at all. That’s sexy, right? Sexier if I’d shaved the landing strip I suppose but too late for that.
11:10 and he’s not here. I go down to the basement and switch the laundry, bring the dry stuff to the living room to fold.
At 11:20 I hear the door but no voice. I come into the kitchen to see Tim staring into a full refrigerator.
“Hey,” I venture.
“Hey,” he shoots back dispassionately. “We got anything to drink?”
“Sure,” I lean past him and pull out a bottle of water.
He drinks, glugging the cold water. His shirt is untucked, no tie or jacket. I have an impulse to tell him the shirt is all wrinkly but drag myself back to the task at hand. It’s incredibly awkward standing together knowing what we’re here to do. This should be easier since we know each other so well, right? Or the awkward should be arousing, that’s why dating works.
Tim nudges the refrigerator door shut with his elbow and just looks at me. I realize that he’s purposely not going to help me. He wants this to fail. He wants to win more...more maybe than he wants me. This realization makes me livid and it makes tears pop up in my eyes which is infuriating too. The only way to keep him from seeing this, knowing I’m rattled, is to act.
I sort of lamely push him back against the fridge. His impact knocks magnets and artwork off the door and we both hitch for a moment. I struggle with the impulse to pick it all up and put it away. Neat rows of lettered and numbered magnets, a task at which I know I can be successful.
His eyes flick to the floor and that affords me some glimmer of invisibility in which to soldier on. With a light, tip-toed step I lean against him and kiss his lips. This, too, is awkward at first. We’ve become unpracticed. We’ve let ourselves become unpracticed. That makes me sad. I have memories of the time when we kissed for hours on end in doorways and cars and the bathrooms at parties. It’s like riding a bike. A bike painted by emotion with resentment tassels on the handlebars. But I can remember so I can run my tongue along his teeth, cold from the water. I can tease his tongue, nip his lips. I can, after a moment, find enough of a rhythm that I can concentrate on my hands, currently limp as day old fish fillets on his shoulders. I press my palms to his chest and draw them down, firm, just a hint of fingernails, straight down to his thighs then back under his shirt. In the dark doorways of a warehouse in the middle of the night a lifetime ago I would hook my fingers in the waistband of his jeans and hold on for dear life, carried away by the promise of his kisses.
I wouldn’t say at this point that I’m winning but he does at least seem to be in the game. He moves his hands, grabs my biceps and I gasp. He’s still holding the cold, wet water bottle. We snap apart and both just look at it. We both keep our eyes on the bottle as he rolls it over my upper arm and brings it to rest on my breast. It’s so cold the breath gets sucked out of me but he doesn’t move it. I have to close my eyes. My fingers curl around his waist band, thumbs digging down in front, finding his erection creeping up.
This is still my show, though, so I press on. I lean in for another kiss while I begin the dismantling of his button fly. Tim pushes me back enough that he can keep the bottle rolling across my chest to the other breast, one handed he struggles to unbutton the top of my dress. We’re both making decent progress but he’s impatient, grunting and growling into my mouth.
At some point the water bottle slips from his hand, bouncing off my hip and rolling away. Only a very small part of me thinks about filing that away so I remember to clean it up later. At least I’m winning against myself. And, it turns out, against Tim’s fly. I pull his boxers down rather than pulling him through the slot. When his pants come crashing down I narrowly miss losing a toe to the keys, change and other miscellany that weigh his pockets down.
When I start to kneel he won’t let me. He uses a hand on one arm and pinches my opposite nipple. Somehow he has a button or two undone and has one hand crammed at an awkward angle into my utilitarian bra. I defy him slightly bending over to put my mouth on his cock. I need to coat it with saliva, make it easier for my hand.
Tim is frantically pleating my skirt, gathering it up toward my waist. I can’t pay attention to his progress because I’m concentrating on my tongue and his cock. I want to make sure I touch every inch of it but I’m easily distracted by the ridge of the head, the way my lips can fully kiss the tip, the exact place he touches the back of my throat when I suck him in. I haven’t done this much lately. Mostly something cursory to get him ready for “lift-off” but he doesn’t usually need much. the angle is tough, though, so it’s not too long before I straighten up, pumping him slowly with my hand.
`
With my skirt bunched in his hand he can finally see that I passed on the underwear. Without preamble he slides a finger along me and directly inside. God, I had no idea I was so wet. Neither did Tim. His throat catches in a wet noise of its own. Looking into my eyes he’s slow adding the second finger. When the fingers of his other hand slide over my clit my head snaps back and my hand convulses on his dick. His lips are at my neck, struggling to reach a nipple but we’re all tangled up. I want him in me now. All the way, and it won’t be a problem. I’m dripping but he’s stuck in his ankle-height pants and I’m impaled on his hand. He pulls and pushes and circles my clit and I almost don’t care, just want to come, damn the consequences. I hold on to one tiny particle of my competitive spirit and manage to ride it. No finesse, though, there’s not enough focus for that. I pull myself away from him, fingers scraping out of me without ceremony. Two steps across the kitchen to grab a chair and set it back down beside Tim.
Stay tuned for Part II.
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