To my darling husband,
I was clutching my jaw and drowning in the tears that streamed down my cheeks in to the crevices of my wrinkled smile. My hand was still poised in the aftermath of slapping you across the face. As your cheek reddened I love you more. My breath quickened as you pushed me backward over the edge of old couch. It was a couch that had followed us through the years we chased each other across the city, moving from apartment to apartment. That couch was as familiar and comfortable as a couch could be.
My back bent backward at an awkward angle, I could hear a cracking that could have just as easily been the couches pleading wooden planks or my vertebrae shifting. I could feel your muscles tense when you gripped my right arm at the elbow and turned me over forcefully β bending me fully over the bruised upholstery of the couch arm with my bottom ripe as two apples peaking from beneath the black pleated skirt roughly digging into my thighs in the friction with the couch.
I heard you spit on your hand, in our ritual, right before you pulled back slightly and then began a round of firmly spanking my rounded buttocks. It stung with such sweetness and pain that I dug my teeth into my bottom lip in the excitement. Your hand began to stay on my ass longer with each slap, ending in a squeeze and hardy grope. Finally, a moistened finger found it's way, prying into the puckered hole. It was freshly cleaned and I pushed backward toward your hand, pressing toward you, trying to be satisfied. As you enter the hole I let out a deep groan, igniting your passion and hardening you.
I pulled down my tight shirt, nearly ripping it, pulling out my breasts to pinch my stiff nipples. Harder, I moaned, and you pushed your finger into my ass harder. Get inside me, I pleaded. I sighed as you pulled you finger from my ass, gasping as you replaced it with a moistened dick. You pounded into me, groping with one hand, reaching for my clit as I tugged furiously at my nipples, biting down on my lower lip hard enough to taste salt in my saliva. Should I come inside, you asked. Yes, yes, I moaned, barely able to get the words out. I shut my eyes, seeing myself instead being battered by a stranger over a pool table in some seedy bar after hours.
Then I felt it β a final push that traveled through my entire body. You collapsed on my back, sweat matting your hair on you stomach and chest. Your arms wrapped around my body. I felt your dick slowly shrink. Stay in forever, I begged. You laughed as you always do when I say this. I would have happily never moved from this spot, wrapped over the edge of the old couch, if you were to never soften and leave your spot.
It was a ridiculous ritual. Originally it was meant to keep our sec lives from getting boring. Everyday, when you returned home from work β I met you in the pleated black skirt that barely covered my ass, showing that there was nothing beneath the skirt to stop you from plunging into me at your will. My shirt would spill my breasts out showing the shadow of my nipples.
When your key would reach the lock, you would hear a buzzing, and then as you entered the hallway, you would see me β on the couch with my latest vibrator, moving it in and out at such a rate that you always stare with awe. You would feign anger over the supposed replacement for your beautiful cock. We would fight. You would throw the vibrator across the couch, and demand that you show me how to really fuck.