Cum leftovers from Mike

The porch light was off. The smell of them reached me before the door was halfway open.

She was in the hall, naked, one arm up on the kitchen door frame, hip cocked. Not dressed, not close to dressed. Her bob was flat and dented on one side where she'd been lying on it. Two hickeys sat on her throat side by side, purple going brown at the rims, a third low on the collarbone. Rope marks banded both wrists, pale pink, still deep enough to look sore. Her thighs were a state—dried, cracked, and whitened, with one long flake of it halfway to her knee.

"You're late," she said.

"I know. The highway was—"

"Clean the house."

Something had changed in her voice since the morning. Not louder. Flatter. A woman giving an order she expects to be carried out. I winced at it. She'd been up there eight hours with a man who'd wrecked her, so I swallowed it, hung my jacket up, and put my keys in the bowl.

I wanted to start in the living room. The smell hit at the threshold—salt, rubber, and something turned. The cushions had been dragged off both armchairs, stacked four deep in the middle of the rug, and the throw had been folded over the top of the pile to soften it. A breeding bench built out of my own furniture. A wet patch on it the size of a side plate.

Eight hours. No condom, not once, not that I'd seen. I did not dare ask the question.

"Bedroom first," she said from behind me. "I want to sleep. Mike's just left."

Upstairs, then.

The stair carpet, the landing, and the door. The smell in the bedroom was a different animal—thick, close, with no air moving in it, semen gone stale at the edges. I threw both windows wide, stripped the bed, bundled the sheet without examining it, got the fresh linen out of the cupboard, and made it up square at the corners. I rearranged the pile of pillows and wondered why there was one in the living room and one in the bedroom.

Somewhere in the middle of that I noticed I was hard.

Her tone did it. The flatness. Bedroom first. I want to sleep. Twenty minutes of being told what to do in my own house, my cock pressed up against the seam of my trousers like a schoolboy's.

The last corner tucked. I turned round. She was in the doorway in a t-shirt, arms folded.

"No," she said. "Leave. Let me sleep."

I got out, closed the door softly, and stood on the landing with my hand still on the knob.

Then I put my palm flat against the front of my trousers. Two strokes through the cloth. Two. A hot pull, a wet surge, a spreading patch, my knees going loose. Down in my own hall, fully dressed.

Am I becoming a sissy? I thought.

I went down, cleaned quietly, and let her sleep. Glasses to the sink, towels to the machine, the sofa shoved back square, and the pillow pile unpicked and rebuilt into chairs. Everything but the vacuum. That could wait until she was up.

Behind the sofa, her stockings.

Balled up, kicked back there, black fifteen-denieter, laddered ankle to thigh, the waistband torn clean through on one side. He'd had them off her in a hurry—ripped them off to get at her asshole, which was what the wrist marks were from, and what the redness between her cheeks had been when she turned round on the porch. To rape her sphincter.

Cum on them. Dried ropes, grey-white, dense, laid across the nylon in three long stripes.

I picked them up. Put my nose down.

Sweet. Not what I'd braced for. Warm, a little sour, something under it like bread proving.

I checked the hall. Empty. The stairs. Empty. I put my tongue on the fattest rope.

Nothing on earth like it. Thick coming onto the tongue, tacky, salt at the back of my throat, that sweetness underneath. I licked the stripe the whole way up. Kept licking until it gummed up on my tongue, stuck, and sat there thick as paste. Swallow or not. God. Yes. I swallowed. Felt it go down slow. Something in my chest went over like a chair.

My cock hurt. Bent up hard against the seam, actually aching. I got my hand in, had it out, and came before I'd managed three pulls—over my fingers, the inside of my pants, so hard my eyes watered. Standing in my own living room. Licking another man's spunk off my wife's stockings.

I cleaned like a man with something to prove, my brain doing overtime, and then I must have gone down on the couch, because the next thing was her heel in my thigh.

I jumped up.

"Why isn't dinner ready?"

Two in the morning. She'd slept eight hours. I rubbed my eyes.

"What would you like?" I said. Almost whispering.

"Turkey. With gravy." She was already turning away. "Go on. I'm starving."

There was half a turkey breast left from Sunday in the fridge. I got it out, got a pan on, and got the flour down.

She came back in ten minutes, showered, damp, my old bathrobe belted at the waist, her hair up off her neck. Two hickeys had gone dark on her throat. A third sat under her ear—new, or newly bruised, or one I hadn't clocked before.

"What?" she said.

I looked away. "Nothing."

She got the kettle on, leaned against the counter, and watched me flour the meat.

"He fucked me for hours, everywhere." she said. “It was beautiful.”

I kept my eyes on the pan.

"Hours. Properly. Not the way you do it." She said it without heat, like a weather report. "God, his cock. Thick "here—"she held her fingers up, no ceremony about "it"—thick all the way down. I had trouble with the girth, you know. At the start. It hurt. I liked it hurting."

The flour was going brown. I turned the heat down.

"He filled me so deep, darling. So deep I felt full up to here." A flat hand, low on her belly. "Every time he pumped his seed into me, I had the biggest orgasm of my life. Every time. Do you know what that's like?"

"No," I said.

"No," she said kindly, which was worse. "I don't want your penis any more. That's not a row. It's just true."

She poured the water, dropped a stock cube in, and kept talking—how he'd held her down, how she'd begged, how he'd made her say it out loud with the postman six feet away, and how she'd come so hard she'd had to be held up off the railing afterwards. The gravy went in. She took the spoon off me to stir it herself, still going, voice warm now, almost fond.

"But I need a day to recover. Tomorrow I'm doing nothing."

"Right."

"Wednesday, you call him. Dinner. Six o'clock."

I got two plates down.

"T-bone steak," she said. "French fries. Nothing clever on top of it. He's a plain eater."

"Six."

"You'll take the day off. Clean the house properly—the whole house. New bedsheets on that day, not before. The good ones."

"Ok."

She stirred. I stood there with the plates in my hands.

"Ok," she said, mimicking it, then licked the spoon. "That's it? No questions?"

"No questions."

"Good boy."

She took the pan off the heat, and I set the table, and I hoped to God she never thought to ask where the spunk off her stockings had got to.

She took the pan off the heat herself.

"Sit," she said. "Down."

I sat. She put a plate in front of me, then one opposite, then sat down in the robe with her knees apart like a man. Ate four mouthfuls fast, hunched over it, then pushed the plate away and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"Right," she said. "Listen."

"I'm listening."

"Properly. Look at me while I say it."

I looked at her.

"He took me upstairs at nine," she said. "You know that part. You were standing in the living room with a bin bag in your hand, doing your little breathing exercises. What you don't know is he had me against the bedroom door before it was even shut."

She shifted in the chair, one knee up, foot on the edge of the seat. The robe fell open down the front to her navel.

"He kissed me first. Not gentle. Mouth open, straight in. Bit my neck here—" two fingers on the bruise under her ear—" then here, then here, hard enough my eyes watered. That's what these are. Teeth. Look at them. He wanted them seen."

They were going purple-black at the center. She tilted her chin so I could get a proper look, then sat back.

"Then he turned me round and put me face down on the bed and started working his hand between my legs. Christ. His fingers are thick. All of him is thick; that's the thing you don't get from the porch—you only got the shape of it. Down there it was different. He got three in me before I'd stopped shaking."

She got her own hand under the robe. Not shy about it. Palm flat, a slow press, her chin going up a little.

"Then he was in me. Not the way you do it, all considerate, checking in. Is that all right? He just pushed until he was in all of it, no asking. And I made a noise like an animal, a big ugly one, right in his ear. So he did it again. And again." Her hand worked. "You should have heard me. Eight hours, darling. Eight hours of noise out of me. Moaning—low, from the chest, the sort of moan that isn't for anyone, just coming out. Grunting. I grunt, you know. When it's good, I grunt like a sow, and I can't help it, and he liked it; he kept telling me to make it louder, so I did. So did he. He grunts too, right at the end of every push, thick in his throat. God, that sound. The bed was going into the wall. My hands were over my head holding the headboard, and he had both my hips up off the mattress, and it was just—"

She stopped. Breathed. Started again lower and quieter.

"You asked me this morning what it was like. I gave you a soundbite. Here's the rest."

Her fingers went still. She sat up.

"At about eleven he pulled out of me. I thought he was finished. He rolled me onto my front, dragged the pillows off the bed, and stacked them under my hips—you saw them; that's what the pile was for. He built it up until my asshole was in the air and my face in the quilt. Then he spat on his fingers and put them in my brown opening."

I moved my chair in.

"I've done it before," she said. "You know I've done it before. Twice with you, years ago, and I complained for a week. This was different. He put one in and worked it, then two, then three, and he took his time, and it still hurt—it always hurts; there's no way round it; the body just objects. So he pushed his cock against me and told me to breathe out. I breathed out. He went in."

She shivered. Actually shivered, shoulders going, a visible tremor that started at the back of her neck and ran down and finished in her thighs.

"God, that. That first bit. The ring of it. Stretching, wider than it wants, that burn is half a scream—and you can't get away from it because your hips are up on pillows and there's a man behind you with both hands full of your asshole. So I screamed into the quilt. He said, "Good girl," and pushed again.

She picked her water up, drank, and put it down.

"Now. Here's what you won't understand, so I'll say it slowly. It hurt. It hurt for the first minute, the whole way in. But I wanted him in there more than I wanted it not to hurt. That's the trade. He'd spent two hours being enormous in front of me, and my whole body was open like a door by then. Sending him away to be gentle somewhere else would have been worse. So I pushed back on him. Rode it out. Took the last of him and felt his hips land flat on my ass, felt his balls sitting on me."

Her hand had gone back under the robe, faster now.

"And then he fucked my brown tunnel. Slowly at first, long, letting the sphincter learn him—and it does learn; that's the thing, it gives up arguing. Ten, twelve pushes in, and it stopped fighting and just took it, over and over, and every one of them went right up through me. I could feel it in my stomach. I could feel it in my throat. He got a fist in my hair and pulled my head up off the quilt and made me say how it was, and I said it, I said harder, "Don't stop, don't you dare stop," and he gave me harder, and the ring of my little tight sphincter was burning like a lit match, and I came anyway. Twice. Crying. Snot on the quilt."

She was working herself properly now, wrist moving, breathing short.

"Then he finished in there. "Oh—God—" her voice cracked—"that's the bit. "That's the bit I keep thinking about. He went stiff all through and shoved up and held, and I felt the first one go, hot, right up inside, deep, somewhere a cock's not meant to reach. Warm. It was warm, darling, and it spread, and he kept pumping, and it kept coming, and it filled me up like a cup, and it had nowhere to go and stayed there. In my colon. Sitting in me. Nine, ten pulses. He was groaning over the top of me, that open broken groan, and all I could do was lie there with my ass in the air full of it and shake."

Her knees came together, then apart. The robe was well off her shoulders now.

"And when he pulled out, he put his thumb straight in to keep it there. Wouldn't let me up. Don't you lose any of that, he said. I lay on my front on a pile of your pillows with a man's thumb up my ass holding his spunk in me, and I thought, Right. This is what it's meant to be.

"And after our coffee break, right here, he grabbed me by the waist and brought me to our sofa, simply bending me over a pile of pillows he made, and fucked my willing asshole again. It took him an entire hour to cream me again; I came three more times on his ramming cock."

She came.

Not loud. A held breath, a long shudder, her heel drumming twice on the seat edge, then her hand slowing to a stop and staying where it was. She sat back in the chair with her eyes shut and her chin up, chest going, and let the whole thing drain out of her.

I hadn't touched myself once. My cock was a stripe of ache down my thigh.

"Right," she said, eventually, hoarse. "Clear the plates."

I stood up too fast. She watched me carry them to the sink, and just as the water went on, she said, "And you'll want to be up early Wednesday. That steak wants taking out of the freezer tonight."

To be continued.

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