Grace

 

The parcels came in discreet packaging, just like Thomas Heath’s had. It was like deja vu as they mounted up behind reception, only this time I had much more than an inkling of what dirty treasures were hiding in each package.

I wondered if this really was the beginning of a whole new era for our marriage, hoping in every tingling part of me that my husband would push me to the same horny limits the other man had that night. Hoping that I’d be able to drive him to a whole other level of excitement in return, succeeding where I’d failed with Thomas Heath.

My shortcomings from that evening still pained deep — my heart still fluttering with embarrassment at the memory of disappointing the man who’d paid so much for my body.

I felt like a fraud no matter which way I looked at it, taking all that money for services lacking in… quality, but I couldn’t voice it, not to Brett. I couldn’t tell him about the rescued business card hidden amongst the paperwork in the reception drawer. Daren’t tell him how I still thought about him and Thomas Heath doubling up for a night beyond my filthiest dreams. How it kept me awake in the early hours, even when he’d fucked me to exhaustion.

Brett could skirt the idea of us bringing in another man all he liked, I’d believe the reality of it when it was right there in front of me. He teased, dangling the prospect of two at once so temptingly during my most exposed moments, but I wasn’t sure he really meant it, not enough to carry it through.

Even if he was considering it, one day far off in the future, there’s no way it would be Thomas Heath he’d be calling. His eyes darkened at the mention of his name, despite the way he still jerked himself off so regularly out of my sight in the bathroom.

I knew it was happening, bolt closed or not. He probably knew I was rubbing my clit to my own tune just as frequently.

As far as blind eyes go, this was one I figured we’d live with. The Thomas Heath effect. Neither of us mentioned his name as we unwrapped our purchases and surveyed the range of items so inspired by his night with us.

Big rubbery dongs and strings of beads. A set of cuffs with the same absence of safety locks, and a length of chain to thread under the bed, just like he’d had. Crotchless lingerie and nipple tassels, a fresh pair of hooker heels for me to repeat the striptease I’d so nervously done for both seated men, and a feather tickler for lighter games of bondage and submission.

I could hardly wait to get the guests out of the bar that night, glancing over at my husband with hungry eyes during every lull in the conversation across the bar top.

I loved seeing the way he looked back at me, his eyes dancing with sparks of his own. I wondered if he’d take me to that wild place Heath had, driving me to the edges of reason with hands that pushed every physical boundary my body could bear.

I wiped the bar down in a frenzy when the last of our customers said goodnight, flashing the dirtiest grin I could muster over my shoulder as Brett loaded the dishwasher behind me.

“We’ve got our own nine hours tonight,” he told me. “Maybe your pussy will still be dripping at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe,” I said with a smile. “Maybe my ass will be dripping too. Maybe I’ll still be spluttering with a mouthful of cum as I’m taking the food orders.”

He got to his feet and pressed me into the counter, words dripping with promise as he hissed them at my ear.

“You’re getting a filthy mouth on you, Mrs Foster. Any more trash talk like that and I may have to punish you.”

“Spank me,” I giggled and poked my tongue out. He gripped it in his fingers and I wiggled it hard, coaxing him tighter as his body came at mine.

“You don’t want to be spanked,” he growled. “You want to be fucked. Stretched. Gaped fucking wide from all those plastic dicks with your name on them.”

“Show me,” I pleaded, linking my fingers in his as my nerves tightened.

I wanted this. Needed this. Needed more of the filthy wonders Thomas Heath had blessed me with.

If Brett could give them to me, I’d be the happiest woman on the planet, regardless of my own failings when it came to giving the thrills right back.

I shut the thought down, just like always, trying hard to ignore the consistent pang of uselessness that popped its head up high at the most inopportune moments.

“Come on, dirty girl,” Brett hissed. “Let’s get you in that bedroom.”

I followed him gladly, bouncing on killer heels all the way through the kitchen and into ours. He kicked the door closed behind us, hoisting me up before we’d made it anywhere close to the bedroom. I wrapped my legs around his solid waist and pressed my mouth to his, conveying in that kiss just how much I was his for the taking, if only he knew how to take it.

The new toys were all unboxed and ready, lined up on the dressing table in an imitation of Heath’s arrangement. We’d done it together in an afternoon lull, both of us handling the products with dopey grins on our faces as we’d weighed up the order of play.

I wished now that we hadn’t, that this was as much of a surprise as it’d been that night. That he ploughed me with plugs beyond my dreams, forcing them into me in a routine of his choosing, his pleasure.

Just so long as he got more pleasure in return than Heath did.

“I want you to come inside me,” I whispered as we crossed the bedroom threshold, and Brett quirked an eyebrow as though I was saying the sky was blue in summer.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” he asked and dropped me from a height down onto the bed.

I bounced, tits still jiggling as I stilled, and his dick was out in seconds, veined and thick as he presented it to my open mouth.

“Gonna take you to all the places he did,” he snarled, and I flinched at the sentiment, even though I was hoping for the same.

He forced his dick all the way to the back of my throat, another imitation of the natural filth in the other man’s moves.

I said nothing, just took it, praying that he’d find his own personal groove and rule it hard, like Heath, just in original Brett Foster flavours. But he didn’t.

I knew it as he pulled me backward and fastened the cuffs around my wrists in the very same way Heath had. I pushed aside the cynicism as he tore my flimsy dress from my ribs. yanking my skimpy bra down over my tits and palming them hard.

“Gonna fuck you so fucking deep,” he told me, dick in his hand as he looked me up and down.

I didn’t tug on my cuffs. Not when he tore my knickers from me and not when he slammed three fingers all the way inside. I wanted it to feel good, and it did. It felt really good. But his eyes kept on searching mine for some kind of bubbling sexual bliss, as though I should be unravelling right then and there as he worked me with frantic pumps of his wrist.

I shifted so he hooked the right spot, but he shifted his wrist right back again for greater leverage. I whimpered louder than I needed to, and the performance made me cringe. I gave him the sultriest stare I should manage, belly lurching as he picked up pace down below.

“That’s nice,” I told him.

“Nice?” he barked. “I want more than nice. I want fucking wonderful.”

So did I.

I bucked against his movements and closed my eyes, seeking out the same gorgeous strain that Heath had forced on me, telling myself this was it, the moment we found that epic groove of deviancy amongst the host of crazy toys. I told myself he’d be better than Heath, just as I’d be better for him than I was that night. That we were on the edge of a whole new awakening, just ripe for the plucking.

It was when the first thick dong pushed in deep that I knew we were far from a whole new awakening.

My pussy protested by clamping tight, thighs tense with the urge to slam shut and say this was a no go.

“Take it,” he growled, and I did. I arched my back and stretched my legs open wide, convincing myself the ache inside me was a prelude to ecstasy and orgasms running wild.

“My clit,” I whispered. “Touch me.”

His fingers were rough and heavy, like Heath’s but missing the moment and falling short. I tried to make my grunts sound horny, not pained, but through gritted teeth they were anything but.

“You want to be my dirty little slut,” Brett told me, and I did, my nod was all genuine. “Come for me,” he ordered. “Show me how much you want it.”

And there we had it. That age old chasm of a decision to be made in the heat of the moment. One I’d thankfully never had to make until this night.

To fake it, or not.

He deserved better than that, and I knew it. He’d never asked for anything other than my genuine reaction to his touch, nor pushed me for volume or porn-star outbursts.

I’d never considered being anything other than my natural self until that one desperate expression was on his face, seeking reassurance under his filthy stare.

So I gave it to him.

I moaned and murmured, thrashing my feet against the bed like a woman gone wild.

I hated it. Every single second of the stupid playacting. Every false moan insulted both my integrity and his, but more than that, it insulted the way his body knew mine.

I didn’t notice he’d stopped thrusting that big fat toy until too late, so lost to my writhing outburst that I’d lost track of his efforts, my pussy allegedly losing all control.

I was begging for harder, like that when he tugged the plastic dick free of my aching insides and tossed it aside. It seemed too much of a contrast to shut up my whimpers after being so absorbed in my pleasure, so I didn’t, face burning as I kept up my silly fake moans.

“Don’t stop,” I hissed. “Please, Brett, don’t stop.”

“Quit it,” he said, and his voice was as flat as a pancake.

The chains jangled as I hauled myself as close to sitting as I could manage. “Quit what?” I asked, another dumb move on my part.

He was on his feet and stomping away before I could call after him, my fingers wrestling with those cursed fucking cuffs despite knowing full well there was no safety catch.

“Brett!” I shouted, but he was long out of sight. “Jesus, Brett, let me out of these fucking things!”

I’d read about this in a horror novel years ago. A woman getting trapped in handcuffs in some remote log cabin somewhere and having to peel her skin from her wrists like an orange. I remembered thinking, even back then, that I was lucky Brett and I were so compatible. Would never suffer the kind of shitty miscommunication that lead to sex games gone bad.

Yet, here I was, pussy cursing my dumb decisions along with the rest of me.

When Brett came back through to the bedroom his eyes were on fire and his jaw was hard. He unlocked the cuffs with a hiss of breath that stopped my own, barely staying around to see me on my feet before he was off on the move again.

I grabbed my dressing gown and pulled it tight around me, only venturing out into the living room when I’d calmed myself in the bathroom enough not to sick up everywhere.

I went on the attack as soon as he came into view, arms gesturing at nothing as I launched into a stupid tirade about him dumping me when I was flying high.

“What the fuck?!” I insisted. “What was that?! Pulling away in the moment like some kind of fucking sadist!”

His laugh was bitter enough to cut. “Cut the fucking crap,” he snapped. “Jesus, Grace, just fucking listen to yourself.”

His arms were folded as he pressed himself against the far wall, the bad feeling so palpable I could feel its stench between us.

“What?” I said. “What’s all this about?”

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.”

I dropped to the sofa with my head in my hands, wishing I had one of Thomas Heath’s swanky cigars to light up on the front. “This is supposed to be a good night for us,” I said. “We’re supposed to be experimenting.”

“Experimenting, yeah. Not fucking lying through our teeth.”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t lying. It felt good.”

“Not that fucking good, it didn’t. I was fucking there, Grace. I know what you fucking looked like when he was hitting the mark. I know what the real wanton Grace Foster sounds like when she’s begging for more and means it.”

“You told me to show you how much I wanted it…” I started, but he shook his head. I carried on regardless. “I wanted it. I wanted to want it more than anything. I wanted to lose myself the way I should do. The way I want to lose it. With you like I did with him. Better than I did with him.”

“But it wasn’t happening, was it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, Brett. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

“You and me both,” he snapped, and stared outside.

The tears pricked, so pathetic. Guilt on top of guilt. For lying, for faking stupid moans just to please him. For feeling such a ridiculously vulnerable need to please him in the first place.

I got up quietly and slipped away, leaving him staring out to sea as I sought the same solace for myself.

My pumps weren’t even laced as I stepped out onto the terrace from the side door. I didn’t give a shit for the lack of lighting overhead as I stumbled down the patio steps and out toward the front.

I cried at the sea. Big, racking sobs with only the ocean and sky as witnesses, cursing Thomas Heath and his shitty fucking cash for walking into our life and ripping the good right out from under us.

I hated my body for wanting the other man’s touch enough to unravel. Hated my self-conscious need to please in the aftermath of being such a failure.

Hated Brett for letting this happen just as much as I hated myself.

I’d cried myself cold by the time I calmed enough to breathe in the salt breeze and stare out at the horizon with clear vision. My cheeks were puffy as I patted them dry with the sleeve of my robe, sniffing back the grotty snuffles as I turned on my heel and headed back to the warmth inside.

He was already in bed, his body stiff as a board as I slipped in next to him with my dressing gown still wrapped tight. I’d have cried all over again if it hadn’t been for the simple touch of his foot reaching back for mine.

I knew it was all he could manage, and that was ok.

Reaching mine back to meet his was all I could manage too.