Intimate Games 1

I looked over at Archie, stretched out on the garden sofa beneath the patio lights. My husband -- barefoot, relaxed, absorbed in his book -- was the picture of calm. Our quiet evening together in the backyard was meant to be soothing, but something inside me itched for more. I wanted to stir the air between us. I wanted something to happen.

I closed my book without a sound and watched him. He didn't notice -- just kept turning pages with that little crease between his brows he gets when he's focused. I slipped from my chair, my bare knees pressing into the soft rug by his feet.

He glanced down at me and smiled, briefly, warmly. Then he returned to his reading. He wanted to finish the book.

But I wanted something else.

I reached for his zipper with steady fingers, and in one smooth motion, I unzipped him and popped open the button of his jeans. His cock was in my hand seconds later, warm and heavy with promise. I felt, more than saw, the moment he lowered the book.

Still, I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on him, but not on his face -- only on the part of him I was claiming.

I know he likes that. And I like when he doesn't say a word, but lets me take the lead.

I leaned forward, parting my lips as I lowered my head. He was already starting to harden as I took him into my mouth -- slowly, deliberately. I know how much he loves this. The warmth of my tongue, the soft pressure of my lips, the way I surrender without looking away.

I let my tongue circle the tip, teasing him, coaxing him fully erect. Then I sucked gently, building rhythm, letting the sound of it fill the quiet air around us.

I pressed lower, letting him slide deeper, my lips sealing around him as I eased down, inch by inch, until I felt the thick weight of him touch the back of my throat. I held there for a moment, then slowly drew back, breathing through my nose, my hand steady at his base.

And then down again. And up. And down.

My eyes never left him -- his cock, glistening now, pulsing with life. I stayed focused, determined, worshipful. He was hard. So hard. I could feel the tension building in his thighs, the way his breath began to catch, even if he hadn't said a word.

But I didn't stop. I didn't want to stop. Not until I had exactly what I came down here for.

I knew his eyes were on me.

Even though the book was still up in his hands, angled like a shield, I could feel his attention slipping. A quick glance from the corner of my eye confirmed it -- he hadn't turned a page in a while. He was pretending to read, but I knew better.

He was watching me. Watching this.

And even if, by some miracle, his eyes weren't on me, there was no way he could concentrate on anything else. Not with the way my mouth moved along his cock -- slow, steady, deliberate. My lips wrapped around him, tongue tracing the underside with each stroke. Every breath I took, every shift of pressure, was for him. Was about him.

I let myself get lost in it -- the rhythm, the wet sounds, the taste of him. I thought about taking him deeper, all the way down. Swallowing him whole.

I can't do that. Not really. But I thought about it.

I imagined what it would feel like -- his cock slipping past the point where I usually stop, filling my throat, his body tightening in response. I imagined the sound he'd make, the way his hips might lift just a little, involuntarily. The way his fingers might finally let the book fall.

The thought alone made me hungrier. I sucked a little harder, stroked a little deeper, pressing my tongue against him like I was trying to memorize his shape.

I couldn't take all of him. But I could make him feel like I could. And right now, I was on my knees, with his full attention, and his cock pulsing in my mouth.

He was harder now -- rigid, throbbing, so close I could feel it in every twitch against my tongue. I knew the signs. His breathing, the way his hips tensed ever so slightly, the subtle flex in his thighs. He was right at the edge.

And I didn't let up. I didn't want to wait. I didn't want to tease or draw it out. I wanted it.

I wanted his orgasm -- urgent, helpless, inevitable. I wanted him to give it to me, whether he was ready or not. Whether he meant to or not. I wanted to take it.

So I kept going. My mouth never stopped. My lips, my tongue, my need -- all working in unrelenting rhythm. I knew he was past the point of return, and when it came, I felt it all.

The pulsing deep inside his cock. The spasms that shook through him, beyond his control. The sudden, hot rush of him spilling into my mouth. I swallowed without hesitation.

Not once did I look at his face. I kept my eyes where they belonged -- on him, on it, on the part of him that had just surrendered everything.

I didn't stop. Not even as he softened. I kept sucking, slower now, gentler, but thorough. I cleaned him with my mouth, inch by inch, like he was something sacred. I wanted every trace of him. I took everything he gave and left nothing behind.

And only then -- only then -- did I begin to let him go.

Even as I pulled back, I was still sucking, still savoring. My lips clung to the tip until the very last second, until I let them slip free with a soft, wet kiss.

The sound was quiet but deliberate. A seal. A claim. A goodbye -- for now.

Finally, I looked up at him, doing my best not to smile.

He was watching me, eyes half-lidded, heavy with something between thought and desire. He wasn't smiling either. There was a stillness in him, like he'd slipped into a different place entirely -- calm, quiet, but utterly focused.

"Lie on the floor," he said.

His voice was low, steady. He still hadn't moved, the book now forgotten, resting somewhere off to the side. That was the first thing either of us had said since the beginning -- since our books, since I slid to my knees, since everything shifted.

There was something about the way he said it -- measured, calm, almost gentle, but absolutely certain. It wasn't a request. And yet it wasn't harsh, either. Just... real. Serious.

I hesitated for a heartbeat -- not out of reluctance, but curiosity. I didn't know what was coming. We had no usual rituals, no practiced patterns to fall into. What I had just done wasn't something we had ever planned. It just happened. And now this moment, too, was happening.

I slid down to the carpet slowly, the air cooler against my back. I stretched out, then bent my knees, feet flat on the floor, thighs parted just slightly. Exposed. Waiting.

I looked up at him.

He still hadn't moved.

His gaze was locked on me, and something in his expression had changed -- darker, deeper. Like something had clicked into place inside him. Like something had woken.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence between us was thick with anticipation.

I didn't know what he was going to do next. But I knew I wanted him to do it.

"On your side -- face me."

His voice was calm, almost quiet, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. Still, he hadn't moved. He just watched me, unmoving, unreadable.

I obeyed.

I rolled onto my side, the carpet cool against my bare skin, knees drawing together, arms folded loosely in front of me. I faced him, exposed and waiting, my breath slow but shallow.

Then he said it. "Bring yourself off."

I blinked.

My mind stilled for a second -- startled. It wasn't something we'd done before. I had surprised him earlier, and now... he was returning the favor. Not with touch, not even with a whisper of movement -- but with a command. A challenge. A mirror.

I hesitated.

I could stop. I could laugh it off, change the subject, say something that would scatter the mood like dry leaves. I could pull on a blanket, rise to my feet, rewind everything.

But I didn't want to. Not tonight.

There was something alive between us now -- something electric and raw. I realized I could do this. I could choose it. I'd already made the first move -- slid to my knees, wrapped my mouth around his penis, took him into me without asking. That had been mine.

And this... this could be his.

He hadn't touched me, hadn't even leaned forward, but somehow, I felt completely claimed. I could be wanton. I could let go.

Still holding his gaze, I let one hand drift down my body, past the curve of my waist, over the soft skin of my belly. I hesitated just a moment more -- less out of shame than out of reverence for the weight of this moment -- then I slipped my fingers between my thighs.

His eyes didn't flicker. He was watching everything.

I reached down and unsnapped the front of my shorts, the soft click of the metal breaking the silence between us. My fingers slipped beneath the waistband, past the edge of my underwear, sliding into warmth and wetness. I didn't rush. I didn't look away.

I drew my knees up slowly in front of me, curling slightly onto my side, almost like I was hiding -- but not really. Not from him. Not from this.

He watched me. I watched him.

Our eyes locked, unmoving, unblinking. Neither of us smiled. We simply stared, holding each other in that strange, suspended moment -- intimate, charged, and somehow more naked than if I'd stripped completely.

I touched myself. Obeying him. Obeying my husband.

And it didn't feel like giving up control. It felt like claiming something together. A game, yes -- but not a light one. A real one. One that came from somewhere deeper than words.

I was soaked. My fingers slipped easily, pressing and circling, each motion deliberate. I wasn't pretending. I wanted this. I wanted to come. I wanted to show him what he'd made me feel. What I was still feeling.

He'd already come -- because of me. My mouth. My will. I had started this.

And now... he was making me finish it. But he never said another word. He didn't have to.

His eyes stayed on mine, dark and unblinking, like he could see everything -- every twitch of pleasure, every shiver of need, every flicker of surrender.

And I kept touching. Breathing faster now. Letting the rhythm build. Still watching him. Still being watched. Still obeying.

It felt good -- so good. I shouldn't admit it, but it was true: I could make myself feel things he couldn't. Not exactly. Not in the same way. My fingers knew me too well, moved without hesitation, without distraction. They found the rhythm instantly, tuned to the pulse of my own need.

I hated to think it, to even compare -- but it was there, unspoken, undeniable. My breath was quickening. I could hear it now -- open-mouthed, shallow, as if I'd slipped into some other space. A private one. Yet not private at all.

Because he was still watching. He hadn't looked away for a second. His gaze didn't drop to my hand. It stayed on my face.

And I liked that -- no, I loved that. That he wanted to see me this way. Not just the act, but the feeling behind it. The thoughts flickering through me. The loss of control as it crept closer.

It made me feel exposed. It made me feel... seen. And still, it felt good. Too good.

What was I, right now?

Moments ago I'd knelt in front of him and taken his cock into my mouth like it belonged there. Now I was lying on the floor, legs curled, hand buried between my thighs, brazenly masturbating in full view of the man I married -- like a performance, but not a performance. Something deeper. Something real.

For his pleasure. And for mine. It felt wicked. Unapologetic. Raw. But also... intimate. Strange, how the dirtiest things could sometimes feel the most honest.

My body tightened under my own touch. I wasn't close yet -- but I was on the way.

And he was still watching. Still silent. Still completely still.

And that, somehow, made it all the more intense.

I heard him shift before I saw him move.

He slid off the garden sofa and onto the floor beside me. One moment he was a still presence in my line of sight, the next, his hands were on me -- firm, deliberate. He pulled at my hips, raising them, positioning me without a word.

I let him.

My cheek pressed against the carpet, knees tucked beneath me, my body folding into the shape he wanted. The air touched the back of my thighs as he tugged my shorts down, then my underwear, baring me completely. I shivered -- not from cold, but from being revealed, taken, owned in that quiet way only he knew how to do.

I was already soaked, fingers still moving between my legs. I didn't stop. I couldn't.

I heard him, felt him -- behind me now. The closeness of his body, the heat radiating from his skin, the unmistakable sound of his zipper. Then I felt him.

He was hard again. Hard as stone. Ready without question. I could sense the hunger in him -- not frantic, not impatient, but decided. Focused.

And I was just as ready.

I didn't even glance back. I didn't have to. His presence was unmistakable, powerful, overwhelming. There was no mistaking what was about to happen, and I welcomed it.

The first push inside me stole the breath from my lungs. I gasped -- my body arching toward it, around it. The feeling was so sharp, so complete, it almost hurt. But I craved it. Needed it. He filled me like he had every right to.

And I let him, helplessly, hungrily. I kept my hand moving. I couldn't stop now. Not with him inside me. Not with the way he moved -- slow, then deeper, like he wanted to leave part of himself behind.

The pleasure was so intense it blurred the edges of my thoughts. I was lost in it. In us. In this wordless, breathless rhythm that felt so good it made me want to cry, or scream, or dissolve completely.

I wanted to die. But more than that, I wanted to come apart in front of him. Because in that moment, it felt like surrendering to him meant finding the deepest part of myself.

I blinked.

For a second -- no, just a sliver of one -- I thought I was imagining it. But then the image resolved in my spinning mind: a face. I'd seen a face. Not in my head. Not a fantasy.

Between the hedges, just beyond the garden fence -- someone had been there. A woman. My breath caught. Barbara.

My neighbor. From next door. Friendly, casual Barbara who always had something to drop off or ask about, who'd probably just been coming by for some small, harmless thing. Until she'd seen... this.

She must have frozen there -- maybe for just a heartbeat -- long enough to see. And then she'd vanished. No knock. No greeting. Just a retreating blur of movement, back toward her house.

My pulse thudded against my throat. I could almost feel her thoughts racing, her judgments forming, her curiosity blooming into something else. What had she seen, exactly? How much? How long had she been watching?

I shifted slightly, trying to keep my body still, as if not moving would somehow erase what had happened -- or what had been seen.

And still, inside me, my husband hadn't stopped. He hadn't seen her. Or maybe he had. And didn't care.

My heart beat faster, a strange, dizzying cocktail of shame, arousal, and the electric thrill of being caught.

Barbara. I didn't know what she was thinking as she hurried away -- but I knew she wouldn't forget what she saw. And neither would I.

Suddenly, I didn't care.

Let her look. Let her see. If you peek between bushes, you deserve the truth -- every wet, unashamed second of it.

The thought barely flickered before it dissolved under the weight of what I was feeling. His cock moved inside me with slow, relentless precision. Each thrust stripped away another layer of self-consciousness, burned away the sting of being seen. All that was left was need.

I moaned low in my throat and kept my fingers working -- urgent, desperate now. I was close. So close I could barely breathe.

And he didn't stop.

He held his rhythm, deep and measured. He was still unbelievably hard -- so hard it almost hurt in the most perfect way. Maybe it was because he'd already come, maybe it was just him, or maybe it was me -- but he kept going, as if he could read every signal my body sent and answered them one by one.

It went on and on. I was nearly mad with it.

The teasing pressure, the fullness, the friction -- it was almost too much, and still not enough. I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg. But I didn't. I just kept moving my hand, whispering broken words to no one.

"Please... please..."

He didn't speed up. Not yet. And that drove me even wilder. That control -- his control -- was almost unbearable. I wanted him to lose it. I needed him to. And then -- I felt it. The way his hips shifted. That barely-there pause. That exhale. He was about to let go.

Finally.

He began to thrust faster, deeper, harder. And I cried out, my body arching into him, my fingers frantic now. It was coming. It was coming hard. My skin flushed hot, my breath hitched, my thighs trembled -- and everything inside me coiled tight, ready to snap.

I didn't just want to climax. I needed it. Like air. Like heat. Like him.

It hit me. Like a wave crashing from the deepest part of the ocean, sudden and unstoppable.

I gasped -- no, choked -- on the sound that tore from my throat. My body arched against him, shaking, grasping at nothing. My fingers froze and then clenched, buried between slick skin and soaked cotton. Every part of me tightened, seized, and then -- released.

I came hard.

Harder than I expected. Harder than I wanted to admit. My mouth was open but I couldn't speak, couldn't say his name, couldn't form any word that wasn't just a raw moan.

He didn't stop. His cock kept driving into me, as if he needed to feel the full length of my pleasure, needed to drag it out until there was nothing left in me to give. And I gave it. All of it.

My thighs quaked. My legs kicked once, involuntarily. My fingers slipped, still trembling, still wet, and I let my hand fall away. I collapsed forward, cheek pressed to the soft rug, panting like I'd run miles. He hovered there, inside me still, breathing just as hard. But he didn't speak.

Neither did I.

There was nothing to say. Everything that mattered had already happened. Outside, the cicadas hummed. And somewhere beyond the bushes, a door closed.

But I didn't care.

Let Barbara watch. Let the whole neighborhood watch. I'd just given my husband a blowjob on the patio, come with his cock inside me while fingering myself like a shameless thing -- and I'd loved every second.

And now... I was only beginning to understand how far I was willing to go.

****

"So," Barbara said, casually leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. "You were obviously enjoying yourself last night."

I froze. I'd wondered how this would go -- if we'd pretend it didn't happen, if we'd avoid eye contact forever. But here she was, standing in my kitchen, helping herself to coffee, and bringing it up like we were talking about a new movie.

I tried not to flinch, but I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. "You were the one enjoying the show," I said before I could stop myself.

My voice came out lighter than I expected -- half-defensive, half-teasing -- but the second the words left my mouth, my heart skipped. Did I really just say that?

Barbara turned to face me, mug in hand. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile curled at the edges like she was suppressing a laugh. She was amused. Not embarrassed, not shocked -- amused.

"I was just walking by," she said with mock innocence, sipping from her mug. "Wasn't my fault someone left the curtain wide open. Or in this case... no curtain at all."

I couldn't help it -- I laughed. A quick burst that broke the tension like a pin to a balloon. The ridiculousness of it, the fact that she was still standing there, unbothered, teasing me with the same warmth we used to share over wine and idle gossip -- it made the situation feel strangely... intimate.

"I didn't think anyone could see from there," I said, finding my voice again.