I sat at the foot of the bed, about four feet south of the wetspot. I had not made the wetspot, our new Dom had. He'd promised my wife Joy ("the Joy of Sex," as he laughingly called her) a big load and he hadn't lied. In grey shape it reminded me a little of the state of South Carolina. Joy had wiped her vagina afterwards and then tossed the tissues on the bedroom's parquet floor. I would have to pick the sticky wad up later. In fact I'd probably be reprimanded for not having already done so. Instead I sat there numbly, my bottom sore, pulsingly sore, staring down at the erection I'd been forbidden to stroke, or even touch. It too was pulsing, in delayed rhythm with my heart. Our Dom wasn't circumcised. We'd seen that in the email pics he'd sent us. But seeing the Thing up close...
...had reminded me of some kind of exotic thick-bodied reptile. Not a snake so much as a lizard. Joy had been gone quite some time, several minutes now. How long did it take to show somebody the door, and lock it behind him? What was he doing, shoving His tongue down her throat again? Giving her little tits one last feel? Our Dom had whipped my cock and balls as well as my ass. But strangely, I didn't feel the effects on the front side of my body the way I did the back. One's manhood is said to be a delicate, tender thing. But in fact our "equipment" is quite tough, quite resilient. I wondered what the stripes on my ass looked like. Red? Pink? Crisscrossing? I hadn't had a chance yet to peer at them over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror.
Joy returned, finally. Still naked of course. She walked with her head down.
"What was that all about?"
"What was what?"
"It sure took long enough."
Joy looked down at me. She was standing over me, her silver-pierced belly-button at about eye level. "I had to let him out of the apartment didn't I?"
"You were gone, like, ten minutes," I exaggerated.
"Hey, don't get snippy with me, OK?" Joy had plopped down next to me on the foot of the bed, though I sensed reluctance in the act.
"No, I..."
"He's our Dom. I'm no different than you. I have to do what He asks me to."
"So what did He ask?"
Joy sighed. I'm over this now, her sigh implied, OK? "He told me to get down on my knees and suck Him again..."
"Christ. Again?"
Joy nodded. "A parting BJ, He said." Joy hesitated. "He also said the reverse of what He said to you earlier."
"What's that?"
"That my technique isn't as good as yours. Or 'Fuckface's' as He calls you."
"Oh nice. Nice."
Joy looked over at me—pulled back in fact. "You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself."
"When?"
"When you were down on your knees sucking His cock."
"He made me!" I protested.
"No I know. But I'm talking about the WAY you sucked Him. It did not look like your first rodeo, honey."
"It's not that difficult, Joy. You open your mouth, you—"
"Fondling His balls at the same time...caressing His ass the way you did...? You looked like a pro."
"It kind of comes naturally, Joy."
"I wouldn't call it natural."
"That's homophobic, Joy." We were sitting together in our Fort Greene, Brooklyn apartment after all.
"You're supposed to be hetero is all I'm saying. My husband."
"I am!"
"You sure didn't look it tonight."
"He made me! He's our Dom!"
Joy started to reply; stopped. Her hands had been resting on, then gripping, her sweet and slender pale thighs. Our previous Dom had been black. Now she folded them, her hands. She'd been slumping over, like me. Now her back straightened. We both said, in tandem:
"That was—"
"What?" Joy asked.
"No, I was just going to say..."
"What? Tell me."
"No, just that that was pretty amazing tonight. He's pretty amazing..."
"Yip," Joy agreed, chirping like a returning spring warbler. We had a bird feeder out on the landing of our fire escape. You had to crawl through the kitchen window to get out on the scape, fill the feeder. We also had two cats, one a Persian. The cats sat on the window sill, behind glass, watching the birds eat, both aroused by the sight and frustrated. In warmer weather, or when the radiator heat was really cranked up, Joy liked to go around in nothing but panties, below the waist. She would be cooking in our little kitchen, or washing dishes, and an old man across the way, across two conjoined backyards, would be watching her through binoculars. Sometimes I thought she used to dress in panties just to show off for him, just to give the old guy a thrill. I'd once proposed to Joy that we find out who he was and invite him over. He could watch us while we fucked or, if he could still manage to get it up, he could fuck Joy while I watched; or she could suck the old man's cock to seminal completion. We even knew his address. He—we assumed it was him anyway—sent Joy Hallmark cards from time to time. There was no salutation—he didn't know her name—and no signature: just a line of x's and o's under the corny verse. Once he'd managed to scribble, however: "Oh your [sic] so hot baby!"
We'd laughed about him—if it was him—not knowing the difference between the second-person possessive and a simple contraction. Joy was a school teacher. I was a writer, albeit an unpublished one.
"He fucked your brains out just now," I said to my wife, about our new Dom.
Joy nodded assent.
"I've never heard you scream like that."
She looked over at me again, smiling sourly this time. "You've never fucked me like that, hon. Get real."
This was a recurring theme in our marriage of, what, nearly seven years now? Eight? "No, I'm talking about the other Doms we've tried."
"Them neither."
This was bad English. Sort of like the old-fuck voyeur across the way writing "your" instead of "you're." Not wanting to sound overly pedantic at this delicate moment, I let it pass. I changed the subject.
"How's your ass?"
