On Her Return

The room was dark. The drawn shades barred the moonlight completely. But for the cone of light surrounding him in the bed from the overhead lamp the room was was blackness. At the sound he closed the book and placed it on the nightstand and sat up, propping the pillows behind him. He turned to the door by memory, not seeing, and followed her approach by sound as she made her way upstairs. The glare of the lamp blinded him to anything outside the tight circle of light, and he sat still, listening, controlling his breathing; waiting. He heard her soft footfalls on the hall carpet, sensed her motion in the doorway.

She waited for him.

"Come in." Motion at the edge of sight, the rustle of clothing, several tentative steps. "Closer, to the edge of the bed." He watched as her legs appeared in the light, but only to mid thigh. A torn black stocking drooped and showed bare skin above it. "You went to the House?"

"Yes. As you said."

"You're home early." As always, he tried to keep his voice neutral.

"They finished early. Said I could go."

"Small group, then?"

"No," she began, then hesitated. "No, it didn't seem so. I don't think so."

"How many?"

"Eight, I think, plus two women. It was hard to count."

"Are you hurt?"

She sighed. "No. A little sore, but no more than usual," she said with easy recall. He watched her weight shift from one foot to the other.

"Come here, to the side." He watched her move, the light climbing up her as she negotiated around the corner of the bed, showing the soiled and wrinkled skirt, the bottom of the blouse, buttoned incorrectly and incompletely. Her face remained in the dark. At her sides her fingers twitched nervously at her skirt. She knew what was coming. As it always did.

"Show me."

The fingertips moved to the front, bunching the fabric of her dark skirt. Here in the light he saw the wet stains. She did it slowly, practiced and experienced. The hem slid up, exposing the top of the intact stocking, then bare skin. In the light the glistening streaks were evident inside her toned thighs. There were some bruises, as before. Fingers had pressed her flesh here; hard. Still the hem climbed, exposing her leg where it met her hip on one side, then the other, and her sex came into view, still in shadow, then the light illuminated her.

He felt himself inhale at the lurid sight. Still wet, the thick layer of semen coated her lips and the surrounding area. He felt his breath catch at the sight, forced himself to remain calm, in control. As her legs parted slightly, a bulb of semen formed and hung from her labia, dangling loose until it touched her leg, then swayed in a loop.

"All inside?"

"No, not all," she began, and he heard the unsteadiness in her answer. He knew how she felt about this part. "And not all there," she continued. She took a shaky breath. "In the back, too"

"Show me." He watched her lower body turn, slowly exposing her bare buttocks. The sheen of semen and lube glistened in the harsh light. He watched her fingers, slim and elegant as they pushed the skirt up, and pulled herself open. He imagined the flush of her cheeks as she showed her abused rosebud, red and angry, clenching to hold in her earnings. His finger reached out, slowly approaching, and he stroked lightly across it, pushing a little at the crinkled opening.

"Relax," he told her. "Let it go."

He felt the muscle ease its tension and pulled his finger away as a stream of semen leaked out and ran down her leg. So much. He heard her shuddering sigh at the relief of letting go. He sensed her shame and her pride, and his chest swelled.

"And the rest, then. Show me."

She turned again, dropping her skirt, and her fingers fumbled at the blouse.

"Closer," he told her. "On the bed." As always.

She climbed on, between him and the edge of the bed, on her knees, the sharp edge of light showing her to her neck, where streaks decorated her collarbone, trailing down to her breasts. Her fingers undid the buttons nimbly, and she pulled the halves aside.

There were bruises and bite marks, and her nipples were swollen and hard. He saw the flush creep down her neck, highlighting the drying streaks. One breast was still wet, and the creamy stripes reflected the light for him.

"There is more, no?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Come, show me." Her hands came in front of her, near to his hip, and she knelt on all fours and dropped her face into the light. Still blushing and hesitant, her eyes were closed. There was cum in her hair, dangling wet drops, and streaks across her eyebrows and nose. Her mascara ran in streaks down her cheeks, and her lipstick, red and whorish, was smeared above and below her mouth.

"Open your eyes," he told her. "Look at me."

He watched one eye open, but the other remained sealed shut, cemented by the thick residue. He hissed a breath through his teeth, no longer trying to keep his desire hidden. She knew. He knew she knew, just as he knew her.

"Awful," he told her through clenched teeth. "You are an awful slut." His hands went to her face, touching the wet places, trailing his fingertips to her lips. They opened and took his fingers inside. "Fucking all those men. Women, too?" She nodded, her tongue swirling on his finger. "Letting them fuck you, over and over, filling you with cum." His voice was heated and urgent. His fingers slipped from her mouth, dropping to her breast, squeezing the wet nipple. She sighed at his caress. "Letting them cum on your face, like a whore, wearing it home and showing me, showing me your used holes." His fingers trailed down her chest, her belly, and settled between her legs, probing into the swamp inside her. She gasped. "Why do you do it?" he hissed.

"Because," she began, and shuddered as his fingers penetrated her and his thumb touched her swollen nub. Her head hung down, her hair settling in dark clouds around him. "Because I like it. And because you tell me to."

"Yes, you slut," he confirmed with tenderness. His other hand went to her head and lifted it, pulling her face closer, her mouth open and ready, and they kissed, hungry lips nipping at each other, tongues dueling and dancing and eager.

She pulled back, just an inch, and he felt her hot breath in her question. "And why do YOU do it?" She asked.

"Because I like it, too," he told her, and pulled her down to him, wrapping her in his arms. She nestled her head on his shoulder, and he waited until her breathing was slow and steady before reaching up to turn out the light.