So that’s what I was fucking afraid of this whole time?

“That’s from Bloomingdale’s, right?”

Margarita’s walking out of the walk-in closet, smiling in a way I never see her smile. Her pale, hazel eyes are focused on mine even more penetratingly than they were in the wood flooring in the living room earlier.

“It’s the only place you can get a Pan Am bag these days.”

Yes, that’s what my wife is carrying, and the thing I was afraid of. A blue leather bag.

With the logo of the defunct airline on it. From a fucking department store.

Of course, I’m not sure what’s inside the bag.

Margarita’s tried to tell me once or twice, but…

“I’m ready,” I announce aloud.

“You fucking better be. I didn’t reach up and grab this shit from the top shelf for nothing.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, my heart rate feels like it’s starting to get a bit…swifter than usual. And my ol’ ticker really shoots up towards the stars when Margarita drops the bag on the floor with a weighty thump.

It’s a thump that means something, and I’m about to find out what.

“Seriously, Thomas, that cardigan’s getting frizzy. Take it off.”

Look, it’s a comfortable fucking sweater. The last thing I thought I’d be doing at this point in the evening is…

Fuck that shit. My hands can’t move fast enough to tear the cardigan off my shoulders. I’m starting on the buttons of my dress shirt when I hear a zip. Margarita’s opening the bag, and her fiery grin is now focused downwards at whatever she’s grabbing through the open zipper.

My heart hastens, my mouth parches, my breathing becomes heavy and slow—and so does time for a moment. It’s like I’m watching a series of vivid, brilliantly colored still frames as Margarita’s hand emerges ever so slowly from the piece of luggage.

Holding a small, purple and white squeeze tube with a plastic cap.

“Is that...toothpaste?”

“I know you’re not joking, Thomas. But you’re not charmless, either. Why’d you stop undressing?”

With the mystery and the anticipation tearing me in a thousand different directions, I finish slipping off my dress shirt, and I start pulling off my undershirt while Margarita opens the tube.

The second I pull the shirt up over my eyes, I hear a couple rapid footsteps then the sudden sensation of greedy, eager hands pushing me down onto the mattress. There’s the feeling a warm balm of some sort being voraciously rubbed into my chest with one hand, while another grasps the top of my shirt and rips it off my arms.

The first thing I see once my shirt is off is Margarita’s hands—both of them now—massaging a violet gel across the muscular expanse of my chest, moving up towards my shoulders.

“I’m confused, is it toothpaste or not?”

“It’s concord fucking grape flavored, okay?”

“That doesn’t answer the...”

The feel of Margarita’s teeth digging lightly into my shoulder, followed by her tongue and her lips polishing off all the gel she left there, is enough to stop my words in their path.

“It’s edible massage gel,” I hear her voice snarl softly into my ear. “I mean…fucking hell, dude.”

Those wonderful words are followed by Margarita’s teeth grazing my earlobe once again, leading seamlessly into the tip of her tongue sliding slowly down the side of my neck, returning down to my shoulder, and ending its journey on the border of my sculpted fucking pecs.

The tip of her tongue, providing a riling sensation like a trail of carnal fire in its wake, becomes the side of her tongue as Margarita moves across my chest slowly. Her tongue maneuvers in ways that are both twisting and twisted in their ability to send my mind and my soul into paroxysms of excitement and desire.

“Yeah, you’re so fucking good at licking up that fucking gel.”

That’s my voice, but…yeah, that’s me saying that. There’s no fucking script anymore, though. This shit is coming from the pure, ferocious nature of the moment.

“My fucking cock is so fucking ready for you.”

“Okay, Thomas,” she’s doing that French thing again, “plenty of gel left in the tube.”

“Holy fucking shit! How did we just let that bag sit in the closet for so looooonngggggg…”

The word turns into a deep earthquake of a moan as Margarita reaches right into the waistline of my trousers and grabs my stiff, throbbing shaft with a firm fucking grip.

Really fucking firm.

“Fuck, fucking squeeze that shit.”

“Oh, you fucking like that, huh? You sure you can handle what I can do with some concord fucking grape flavored gel down there?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care if I lose my mind, or I just fucking die from the intensity. It’s all I fucking want in life right now or maybe ever fucking again.”

“You fucking asked for it, then.”

Margarita tears my belt from its loops faster than I ever thought it could be fucking done. And she doesn’t just tear my trousers off…

She fucking tears them in half.

And, at some point, she got a massive glob of the massage gel in her hand—which she proceeds to slather roughly over every part of my fucking cock.

“Arghhh!”

It’s so fucking intense—it feels like my brain’s about to short fucking circuit.

“I fucking told you,” hisses Margarita.

When her tongue starts gliding unevenly around my shaft, I can hear myself yelling again, but all I can feel is the tremendous fucking intensity of pleasure flowing around my lower half, around all of me.

My mind goes in and out of blankness, but during my more lucid moments, all I can think about is how I’m going to return this pleasure—and then some.