“Baby, you’re not jealous of that silly woman from the restaurant, are you?”
My “no” comes out a little too forcefully. He is not convinced.
He chuckles while he nuzzles my ear. My husband has a way of making me reach my release just by doing that. But I know what he’s up to and suddenly my inner domme is not having it. Through gritted teeth, I get real bossy. “Assume the position, David, I’m gonna show you what’s mine.”
David growls roughly into my neck, spreading goose flesh everywhere. “Fuck, baby. Not fair.” He finally rests his back against the head rest, his legs spread out to cradle me as I nestle myself between his thighs. Still lying on my most comfortable side, I rest my head against his pelvic bone so I’m eye level with his huge, throbbing, glistening cock.
I gently tilt his shaft toward my mouth, then slip the tip of him between my lips, licking off the pearly bead of precum.
“You taste yourself on me, Millie? You taste that gorgeous pussy on my skin?”
I moan and take him in deeper into my mouth, my body flooding with pleasure at making him feel owned by me.
His words incite a fire so hot, and combined with our flavors mixed together, I barely need any stimulation at all to come.
A year ago I never would have thought I’d eagerly take a man’s cock in my mouth, let alone be this bold about it. Or about sex in general. A year ago, I was an unsatisfied virgin looking anywhere for advice. But David gave me something far better than advice, or even better than sex.
Everything about this man speaks to everything in me, And not just his radio voice.
It’s his real voice, his mind, his soul, whispering directly into mine, and mine into his.
Epilogue 2
Five Years Later
David
I can tell the energy of the house is wonky as soon as I start downstairs after recording my podcast.
Soundproofing a portion of the finished attic space to create a makeshift studio wasn’t my choice; I’d rather be accessible at all times in case Millie or our daughter Emily needs me. But a few years back, Millie could tell I was missing something, apart from my day-to-day work as a doctor and my volunteer work at the free clinic. She could tell I missed speaking into a mic, offering advice, interacting with an audience. So, she encouraged me to start a relationship-and-parenting advice podcast. And she insisted on the soundproofing to make it as professional as possible.
On this night, the night before our daughter’s fifth birthday, Emily is sound asleep, so I’m trying to be quiet as I head down the creaky wooden staircase of our house. Doesn’t much matter how hard I try to be silent as a ninja, though, judging from the racket coming from the kitchen.
“Ugh!” The frustrated scream stops me in my tracks for half a second at the bottom of the stairs. If I valued my life, I would turn tail and run the other way when I hear my wife’s frustrated exclamations coming from the kitchen.
But I’m Doctor friggin’ Dave. I run toward danger, even if that danger comes in the form of last-minute party-prep panic.
“Millie. Baby.” I speak calmly and haltingly from the kitchen doorway, careful not to provoke the exasperated mama bear any further. Studying her from behind, I see my wife and the mother of my child has somehow gotten white icing in her messy bun.
The typical male part of me wants to ask whether she has icing spilled on other parts of her and whether she requires my assistance in cleaning it off. But I would not be Doctor Dave if I didn’t know how to read an audience. I can tell this is not the time for my filthy suggestions.
“How can I help?” I ask.
It’s then that I see her shoulders shudder and her hands grip the table to prop herself up. She’s staring down at a quite messy but still delicious-looking three-tiered birthday cake.
Through sobs, Millie blurts out, “You can go back in time and marry someone who actually knows what she’s doing at this motherhood thing!”
One thing I can’t stand is when Millie is hard on herself. Nope. Not having it. In an instant I’m wrapped around her, letting her cry it out all over me. She’s still holding a messy spatula in one hand as icing and tears are probably making a sticky mess on my t-shirt. But I don’t care about the mess. All I want is to make it better.
“Oh. OK. Well in that case, do you think the random lady who once slipped her hand down my pants would do a better job at making a homemade cake? Or, decorating the party room with a hundred pink balloons and tissue paper flowers?” I ask, gesturing at the explosion of pastel in the living room adjacent to the kitchen.
She breathes out a small watery laugh against my shoulder. “No, she’d probably have spent all your money by now.”
I smile and gently pet her hair, then lick off the icing that transferred onto my hand. “You’re right; no money left to raise babies, let alone buy decorations. What about Boob Graze Lady? You think she’d make a better wife and mommy?”
Millie shudders against me, but this time, it’s in laughter. I exhale in relief; she’s coming around. “Nah,” she says, using my shirt to dab at her eyes before looking up at me. “The way she was watching me eat, she probably doesn’t allow for birthday cake. She probably lets her kids eat carrots as a high carb treat on special days.”
There’s my girl. I give her a squeeze. I look over at the cake. “Baby, I think it looks fine. It’s midnight. Why don’t you leave that for the morning and come to bed?”