Plugged

On our way back home, I told Simon about Jamal. About Linda's suggestion that he could fix the terrace door lock and paint the ceilings in the kitchen and living room. About the way Linda had looked when she said his name.

Simon considered it. "Good idea. Call Linda. See if he can come Friday."

I did. Linda answered on the second ring, her voice still carrying that post-sex satisfaction.

"Jamal can do Friday," she said. "Ten o'clock. I'll come with him ... moral support, you know ..."

"You just want to watch him work."

"Obviously."

Simon stopped at Jameson's to pick up our kids.

---

Tuesday morning, after Simon left for work, after the kids were at school, I stood in the bathroom with the plug in my hand.

It was smaller than I'd imagined. The silicone was smooth and cool, the gem catching the bathroom light. I'd already showered. Already dried off. Already spent ten minutes staring at this thing like it might bite me.

I used lube and bent over the bathroom counter, positioned the tip against my anus, and pushed.

The sensation was ... unexpected. Not pain. Pressure. A stretching that made me inhale sharply and hold it. Slowly, so slowly, the widest part passed the ring of muscle and then it was in, seated firmly, the gem resting between my cheeks like a secret.

I stood up.

I walked.

It didn't hurt. It felt ... present. A constant awareness of being filled in a place I'd never been filled before. Every step shifted it inside me, a subtle nudge against nerves I didn't know I had.

I went commando that day. No panties. Just a skirt and the secret weight of the plug and the knowledge that I was walking through my ordinary life with something extraordinary hidden inside me.

At about 4 I put on that new bodysuit ... looked into the mirror and felt incredibly sexy ... and naked! It was completely see through ... I put on my blouse and the skirt over the bodysuit, the things I had been wearing all day. Now I looked socially acceptable again.

By the time Simon got home, I was half-mad with it. The constant pressure had kept me in a state of low-level arousal all day - not enough to come, never enough, just enough to make my skin feel too tight and my breath come too fast.

We ate dinner. I could barely taste the food. The kids were babbeling all the time. Finally, they asked if they could go outside to play, and off they went. I walked over to the sink. I leaned forward and lifted my skirt.

"Simon."

"What?"

"Look."

I heard the chair scraping back and a shift in his breathing. Then footsteps crossing the kitchen floor.

"Oh," he said. "Wow."

The blue gem glittered in the kitchen light, nestled between my cheeks.

His hand smoothed over my ass, one finger tracing the edge of the plug. "How long have you had this in?"

"All day."

He made a sound - something between a groan and a growl - and then his belt was coming undone, his zipper opening, his cock pressing against me as he bent me further over the sink.

He entered me in one stroke. The fullness was staggering - his cock in my pussy, the plug in my ass, every nerve ending lit up like a circuit board. I gripped the edge of the counter and pushed back against him.

"Fuck," I breathed. "Be quiet ... the kids ... !"

"You like this."

"I love this."

He fucked me hard against the kitchen sink, both hands gripping my hip. The dual sensations built like pressure in a chamber, and when I came it was with a silent cry, suppressing a loud moaning. My body was shaking all over.

Simon followed moments later, his release hot inside me, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck.

After a brief recovery period, Simon pulled his trousers back on and went out to collect the children.

Later, when we were going to sleep, I undressed my skirt and blouse and showed him the bodysuit in all its glory ...

Simon's eyes almost dropped out. "That's hot! ... You look incredible in it ... I guess we can find a way to use it properly."

"Oh yeah, not tonight though ... but I promise we'll put it to a good use ... good night, I really am tired now."

---

Friday came faster than I expected.

The doorbell rang at 10 a.m. exactly. Linda stood on the porch in cutoff shorts and a tank top that left nothing to the imagination. Behind her, Jamal.

He was everything she'd said - six feet of lean muscle, skin the color of dark honey, a jawline that could cut glass. His T-shirt clung to his chest and shoulders in ways that made my brain skip. His jeans sat low on his hips.

"Morning," he said, and his voice was deeper than I'd expected. "Linda said you had a lock that needed fixing?"

"And paint," I managed. "Ceilings. Kitchen and living room."

"Easy." He smiled. "Show me the door."

He fixed the terrace lock in under ten minutes. We watched from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in our hands, as his hands worked with a confidence that made my stomach tighten. He tested the lock a few times, his biceps flexing with each turn of the handle, then declared it done.

Linda and I sat in the kitchen with coffee while Jamal prepared the paint. I'd bought everything he'd need - brushes, rollers, drop cloths, ceiling white. He spread the cloths with practiced efficiency, set up his ladder, and began cutting in around the edges.

I tried to focus on Linda's chatter - something about her mother, something about a recipe she'd tried - but my eyes kept drifting to Jamal. The way his T-shirt rode up when he reached overhead. The line of muscle along his forearm. The focused expression on his face as he worked.

At 4 pm, Simon walked through the door.

He took in the scene: Jamal on the ladder, paint roller in hand. Linda on a chair, legs tucked under her. Me opposite to her, coffee gone cold.

"Good timing," Jamal said from the ladder. "Living room ceiling's done. Kitchen tomorrow."

Simon nodded slowly. "Looks good."

Linda stood and stretched - an exaggerated movement that made Jamal glance down from his ladder. "We should go," she said. "Leave you two to your evening."

They gathered their things. Jamal promised to return tomorrow for the kitchen. Linda hugged me at the door, her lips brushing my ear.

"Told you," she whispered. "Nice to watch. Maybe I show him my bedroom tonight. Hopefully."

I looked her in the eyes: "Linda ... !"

Then they were gone, and Simon and I stood in our fresh-painted living room, the smell of paint thick in the air.

"Tomorrow," Simon said.

"Tomorrow," I agreed.

Saturday morning arrived with the particular chaos of children who'd been promised a playground.

I wrestled sunscreen onto small limbs while Simon packed snacks. The kids ricocheted through the house like pinballs, their weekend energy undimmed by the early hour. By 9:45 we were ready - or as ready as any family with a seven- and eight-year-old ever got.

"Jamal should be here at ten," Simon said, checking his phone. "I'll wait. You take the kids."

"Sure?"

"Go. I'll catch up."

The playground was a ten-minute drive, a sprawling wooden castle of slides and swings and climbing structures that made my children's eyes go wide every single time. They spilled out of the car before I'd fully parked, racing toward the equipment with abandon. I followed at a slower pace, finding a bench with a clear sightline to both the twisty slide and the monkey bars.

The morning sun was warm but not oppressive. A breeze carried the smell of fresh-cut grass and someone's charcoal grill from the park's picnic area. For a few minutes, I just watched - my son conquering the rock wall, my daughter hanging upside down from the highest bar, her hair a wild curtain beneath her.

My phone buzzed. Simon.

"Jamal's not coming. Linda called - something came up. Postponed to Wednesday."

"Everything okay?"

"She said she'd explain later." A pause. "I'm on my way. Save me a bench."

He arrived twenty minutes later with coffee. Good coffee, from the place on Queen Street. He'd remembered my order - oat milk, one sugar - and the kiss he dropped on my forehead tasted like his own black brew.

"You're a saint," I said.

"I know."

The kids spotted him and shrieked with delight. Simon set down his coffee and jogged over to them, immediately roped into a game of tag that had him weaving between the slides and dodging giggling small people. Watching him - broad shoulders, dark hair mussed by the breeze, hazel eyes bright with laughter - I felt that familiar catch in my chest. Nine years. Two kids. A mortgage near Lancaster. And still, this man could make my pulse skip just by existing in my line of sight.

"Renée!"

I turned. Cassie Hendry was walking toward me, her husband Mark trailing behind with their two kids in tow. Cassie had the kind of effortless style that made other women want to hate her and then immediately want to be her best friend - today it was a sundress and sandals and a messy bun that looked deliberate rather than lazy.

"Hey, stranger." I stood to hug her. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Last-minute decision. The kids were climbing the walls." She gestured toward the playground, where her children were already merging with mine in some elaborate game that involved the slide and a lot of pointing. "How are you? How's Simon?"

We settled onto the bench together while Mark wandered over to join Simon in the tag game. The conversation flowed easily - school districts, summer plans, the eternal question of what to cook for dinner when nobody wanted anything. Cassie was easy like that. We'd known each other since our oldest were in preschool together, and somewhere along the way, casual playground encounters had become actual friendship.

"Conestoga Pines," Cassie said suddenly.

"What about it?"

"We're going. Public swimming. The kids have been begging." She checked her phone. "We're heading over around half past twelve. You should come. All of you."

I looked at the playground. At my children, who were now attempting to teach Simon some hand-clapping game that he was failing at spectacularly. "Swimming."

"Swimming. Sun. Water. Kids exhausted by four o'clock." Cassie grinned. "Tell me that doesn't sound perfect."

"Let me check with Simon."

Simon, it turned out, was enthusiastic about anything that involved wearing fewer clothes and being in water. We drove home, gathered swimsuits and towels and sunscreen and snacks, and met the Hendrys at the entrance to Conestoga Pines at exactly 12:30.

The pool was crowded but not overwhelming. We claimed a patch of grass near the shallow end, spread our towels, and released the children into the water like small, splashy missiles. I stretched out on my towel, the sun warm on my stomach, and let myself drift.

Cassie was beside me, her sunglasses reflecting the sky. "This is the life."

"This is absolutely the life."

Mark and Simon were in the pool now, supervising the children's increasingly ambitious cannonball competition. I watched Simon lift our daughter onto his shoulders, watched her shriek with joy as he launched her into the water. Watched the way the water beaded on his chest when he surfaced, how his stubble-shadowed jaw caught the sunlight.

Cassie nudged me. "You're staring."

"I'm appreciating."

"Mmhmm. I know what you mean ... looking at your husband ..."

The afternoon dissolved into that particular summer rhythm - swim, dry off, snack, swim again. Around 3:30, my daughter appeared dripping at my elbow with a request that was more demand than question.

"Can we go to Emma's house? Please please please?"

Emma was the Hendrys' youngest. The two of them had been inseparable for the past two hours.

I looked at Cassie. Cassie shrugged. "Fine by me. We can feed them dinner if you want - pick them up at six?"

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. They'll crash by seven, I guarantee it."

So at four o'clock, we bundled the children into cars and dropped them at the Hendrys' place. Our son was already talking about Mark's vintage video game collection before he'd even unbuckled his seatbelt. We barely got a goodbye wave as they disappeared through the front door.

The car was quiet.

Simon pulled out of the driveway and headed toward home. His hand found my thigh. Just resting there, warm and solid, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of my shorts.

"That was a good day," he said.

"It was."

"Kids are happy. We have two hours." His thumb pressed a little harder. "Alone."

Heat bloomed beneath his palm. "I noticed."

"Did you?"