Claudia, a happy wife

Eleven o'clock and the front door clicks open like it's announcing something.

Claudia comes in beaming. There's no other word. Her face is bright and loose, a little wrecked, all at once—smiling so wide her eyes crinkle, cheeks flushed, humming some song under her breath like she's still hearing it. Her hair, that blonde hair she pins so carefully every morning, is a mess. Not windblown. Messy. Strands stuck to her temple, the back of her neck.

And her white office blouse—the one she saves for the team-building evenings, the one she irons—has a button missing. Fourth one down. Just a gap there, a little triangle of skin showing, and she doesn't even seem to notice.

She prefers to have them on Fridays: "Those sessions go for hours, honey; I can’t sit or walk afterwards, so I prefer to have the next days off.” She would say.

Third or fourth of these meetings, I count. Always after work, always in some five-star hotel with convention rooms, terrible coffee, and a buffet nobody eats. She's always wired when she gets back. But this time she's glowing—actually radiating. Her mood is something else entirely: exhilarated, excited, happy in a way that spills out before she's even got her coat off. I haven't seen her like that in a long time.

And then she goes and says "God, I'm tired, honey," and kisses me on the mouth, quick, warm.

Her mouth tastes different. Not alcohol—I know her wine breath. Something else. Something faint, warm, unfamiliar, gone before I can place it.

"Are you coming up, darling?"

She doesn't wait. She's already on the stairs, heels in her hand, humming again.

I go around switching things off. The kitchen light. The lamp by my chair. The TV is still murmuring to nobody. When I get upstairs, she's already in bed. Fast—faster than she could possibly have showered. Didn't hear the water run. Didn't hear the bathroom door. She must be as tired as she says.

I brush my teeth. I slide in beside her in the dark, find my spot by feel, and she turns toward me and whispers,

"I need a relaxer. Could you eat me out?"

Just like that. No preamble.

"Sure."

I crawl down between her legs, and she opens them wide for me without being asked.

She smells strong tonight. Rich, deeper, a heavy warm smell that sits in the back of my throat. I decide it's the excitement, put my mouth on her.

Two, three licks and she's already moaning. Louder than that should earn. Then her hand comes down on the back of my head, presses me hard against her opening; she's so wet my chin is slick in seconds. That´s how she wants it, she's been thinking about this the whole drive home.

"Lick me. Suck me, darling," she coos, and I do, working my tongue up through her, get a mouthful of something sticky, thick, not quite like her—heavier, saltier, coating my tongue—she shudders, pulls my head tighter, and I just lap it out of her like she asked.

Our sex life is more than dead, honestly. This brings me back. To college. Nineteen, both of us, and it was always this—never ordinary sex. She'd turn up at my dorm at midnight almost every night, "studying" all day apparently, get straight into my bed, ask me to lick her. “A real man makes me cum with his mouth.” Her words. She'd lie back, talk while I worked, and God, she could talk.

She'd come in with her hair down, uncared for. The little click of my door, and never say hello first. She'd say something like "Get down there"—smiling, like it was a joke, not an order—kick her flats off, climb onto my narrow dorm bed, pull her skirt up, open her legs, and put her hand on the back of my head. Then, while I licked, she'd talk.

God, the things she'd say.

She'd start gentle, almost lecturing, like she was explaining a course to me. "It's not the same, you know. A big one. It's not the same as a normal one; it's a whole different animal." And I'd be lapping at her and she'd go on, her voice going dreamy, low, one hand absently stroking my hair like I was a pet doing a trick well.

"It's heavy. That's the first thing. It's heavy, it's warm, it hangs there, it's—God, it's veined, all of it, thick blue ropes standing out on it. When it touches you, it's like being touched with something alive. You can feel the blood in it. You can feel it throb against your leg, and you know what that means. It means it's ready for you. It means it's going to have you."

She'd shift her hips up into my mouth, keep going.

"You look at it. You can't not look at it. That's the thing nobody tells you—you admire it. You lie there, look at this thing that's going to be inside you, and it's beautiful, it's honestly beautiful, the head of it all fat, smooth, shining, and you're just—you're so glad. You're glad it's going to be you. You'd thank it if you could."

Then she'd get to the positions, and she'd do them in order, like a syllabus.

"Missionary first, always missionary first, because you want to watch it happen. You want to see it come down at you—that fat head hovering, taking aim—you want to see it split you, and it does; it splits you. It's like being opened with a rod, slow, your pussy just yields. It has to. It's made to yield. But it doesn't give up easy, either. It fights the whole way. You feel your own walls working around it, rippling, gripping, trying to make room, trying to be big enough, every inch it wins off you a burn, a spread, a little wet noise that sounds like something being wrung out, your cunt screaming at you—screaming from lust, screaming more, screaming it can't, opening anyway. Inch by inch.”

“That's the thing about a big one: it takes you an inch at a time, makes you feel every single one of them, and by the time he's halfway you're not a woman anymore; you're just a hole being made bigger and thanking him for it. Then he's flush all the way, so deep your belly's full of him, and you can feel him in your throat, and he starts, every shove bumping your womb like a knock on a door. Knock. Knock. Like it's asking to be let in."

"Then he turns you over. Doggy. You're up on your hands, face in the pillow, so open, so much more open. He gets both hands on your hips, pulls you back onto it, and it's—it's not slow anymore. It's just work. That's what you are. An opening being worked on. And you love it; you're drooling into the pillow and loving it."

"Then you're on top, because he wants to see you, and you can't even ride it properly at first; you just sit down on it, gasp, then you're bouncing, your tits moving, he's watching them, watching your face, and you're so proud. You're showing off. Look what I can take. Look what I'm doing."

"Then the wall. Then the edge of the desk, bent over your own notes. Then standing up, one leg up on his hip, and he's holding you off the ground by your ass, nothing under you but him. Then spooned on your side, him not even moving much, just little grinding pushes, deep as deep, almost lazy, almost cruel how lazy it is, because you're so full you can't think. Then your legs up over his shoulders, folded nearly double, hammering straight down into you—that's the one that does it; that's the one where you feel it in your womb, your eyes roll back, you say things you don't remember saying."

Her voice would crack by then. My tongue would be aching. She'd have both hands knotted in my hair.

"It's a piston; that's what it is. It's a machine. There's no manners in it; it just rams, and a girl's whole body goes along with the ramming whether she likes it or not, and she does like it, she loves it, she'd crawl after it, she'd—"

She'd pull my head up hard against her, grind, gasp, and finish the thought in a whisper:

"—She'd do whatever it wanted, anything. You don't argue with a cock like that; you just do what it wants, and you're grateful you're allowed to."

Then the seed. She never forgot the seed. She'd say it with her eyes shut, her mouth slack, almost reverent.

"Then he floods you. It's hot, it's so hot, it comes in pulses, big ones, there's so much of it, more than you'd think a man could hold, it fills you right up, keeps coming, you can feel it hitting your womb, all that baby seed, and you want it, you want every drop of it in there, you want to be kept full of it. It makes you want to stop taking anything. It makes you want to be bred, properly bred, on your back with your legs still open, his hand flat on your belly holding it in. Knocked up with 19 years."

Then she'd say the thing about white cock and black cock, always the same way, like a comparison she'd worked out and was proud of.

"White boys are civilized about it. They're polite. They check on you. There's a rhythm to it, a pattern, consideration. But a black cock isn't civilized; it doesn't have manners; it's a ramming machine with one single purpose, and the purpose is to breed that young cunt. That's—God, that's the point; that's what a pussy's for, and when it's happening to you, you understand it. You understand everything. You understand what you are."

Then, without ever saying this happened—never once saying it had—she'd slide straight into the first one, lie back with her eyes shut, and build it out loud, like a girl telling herself a story in the dark.

"Imagine a party. Second year. A boy, older than you. He's got you against the door of a bedroom nobody's using, he gets it out, holds it against you, and you look down at it—imagine looking down at it—it's impossible. It's a joke, it's something from a diagram, all that length, that fat blunt head, the veins standing up on it, pointed at you. Pointed at your little pussy like an accusation, and you think, "That's not going in. That cannot go in. There isn't room."

"He doesn't push. He just leans. Puts the head against you, leans his hips in, lets his weight do it, and your pussy has to decide. It decides yes—because it's sopping by then, in the imagining it's already sopping—it opens for him; it kisses the head of it, opens, then goes tight, tighter than tight, because there's a point where a pussy realizes how big the thing is, starts to fight. He just keeps leaning."

"It splits you. Imagine that. It splits your young cunt in two. A burn like a hot wire going up into you, the worst thing you've ever felt for about four seconds, then the head's through—the fat part's through—and it's so much. More than you can hold. You're stretched to a shine, a raw ache on every side of it, your knees go, you're hanging off his neck, making a noise like a kettle."

"The pain doesn't leave. It stays; it lives right under the pleasure, and after a minute it turns into the pleasure. It's the grit in it; it's what makes it good. Half pain, half lust, and you can't tell them apart anymore, and you stop wanting to tell them apart. You want the ache. You want to be sore for him. A sore pussy is a proud pussy."

"Then he sinks. That's the part where you'd learn something about yourself. You'd feel every inch going in, feel it in your belly, so much fuller than full, your cunt holding on around it—gripping the whole shaft, clenching like a fist that can't close—he'd still have more, nowhere for it to go, he'd put it there anyway. All the way. Until he's flush. Until his ripped stomach is against your mound, not a hair of room left in you."

"You'd be so full you couldn't breathe. Little shallow gulps. Your whole lower belly a tight drum, the shape of him sat right up at the top of you like a plug in a bottle, your lips stretched white around the base of it, wet running down your thigh—you'd be sobbing and grinning at the same time, I swear you would."

"And then he'd fuck. He'd hit the deepest part of you, the very back, the little mouth of you, not a gentle tap either—a hard wet knock, over and over. The first one makes you yelp. The fifth one makes you moan. By the tenth you're pushing your hips up to meet it, because you want it; you want the deepest part hit; your womb wants the knock. It's like your pussy's trying to open its own door for him, spreading that little ring out, trying to take the head of him in the mouth of it—you'd feel it trying, a muscle working, failing, trying again."

"You'd start hoping. That's the mad part. Lying there in your own head getting pounded, counting days. Am I near the middle? Is there an egg? God, let there be an egg. Let it be the right week. Let me be ripe. Because a cock like that coming up against your womb like that only wants one thing, and it makes your body want it too, and you'd be lying there with your legs wide, your back arched, asking—please, right now, do it now, put it in me now, knock me up, fill the whole thing, let me catch."

"You don't use anything. You simply don't. He reaches for his jeans, you put your hand on his wrist, he knows; he doesn't even have to ask. Then it's just him and you and nothing in between, meat on meat, skin on skin. That's the only way it counts. A condom's polite. Nobody wants polite. You want to feel the whole thing, every ridge, every vein; you want it slick with you, nothing else; you want to feel it arrive—that first hot pulse right up against the back of you where it's softest, then the rest of them—you want to lie there afterwards and know it's in there, no rubber catching it, nothing to save you."

"Because that's the fun of it. The risk. The danger of it. You're not on the pill, or you are and you skip a few, and every single time there's that little thrill in your belly that says this could be the one, this could be the night everything changes—it makes the whole thing sharper, makes you wetter, makes you squeeze him like you're trying to milk him. That's the unwritten rule on campus; everybody knows it. You don't ask a boy to put a condom on; you just don't, and if you end up in trouble, then you end up in trouble. Sometimes, God, sometimes you're lying there and you hope it's a black cock doing the job—you hope it's one of those great heavy ramming things, no manners in it, hosing you out—because you want the proof. You want to come back to your parents with a bump, soon holding a brown baby in your arms, watch the whole town put two and two together. The scandal. Oh, the scandal would be delicious."

"But honestly? Any bastard baby would do. White, black, or brown doesn't matter; that's not the point—the point is being caught, being filled up, kept full until it takes, walking around after with something growing in you that got put there by a cock that was too big for you, and you didn't care. That's what big cocks do to a pussy. They let it know its place. Its place is open, full, waiting to be bred."

She was nearly shouting by the end, hips rolling up into my face, hand knotted hard in my hair—then she came with a long, shaking groan, her heel drumming on the mattress, her voice cracking off into nothing.

Then she went soft as a rag. One hand patted my head, lazy, fond.

"God," she laughed, hoarse, breathless, arm thrown over her eyes. "I don't know where all that comes from."

I wiped my chin on the sheet, climbed back up beside her, said what I always said:

"Yeah. Where does all that come from?"

She was quiet for a second. Then, still with her arm over her face, casual as anything: "I just make it up."

She turned away, curled onto her side, sighing deep like a woman settling after a long day.

And I lay there in the dark with my mouth still tasting of her, the smell of her still on my face, and I thought, She makes it up. She's been making it up for years, in the dark, out loud, to me. Nineteen years old in a dorm bed, inventing a party, a door, an older boy, a cock she'd never had, describing exactly how it would split her, exactly how it would knock at her womb, exactly how she'd beg to be bred by it. Never once from memory. All of it imagined, all of it certain, all of it recited to the man who was down there with his tongue.

She should become a writer. Or a storyteller, her imagination so vivid, so detailed.

And I thought about the missing button on the white blouse, the strong smell, the sticky juice I'd sucked out of her, how she'd pressed my head against hers before I'd even started.

Where does all that come from?

To be continued.