Last Saturday had been a long day for Elise. She was stressed and irritated, the culmination of a two and a half week period where she’d basically given herself over to caring for others and it had finally worn her down. Her shoulders and neck were pained, with tension so tight it left her having to turn her entire body to look in a direction other than she was facing, as if she’ been in a car wreck–figuratively she had been–and should be in a neck brace.
Shortly after we arrived in our hotel room, I offered to rub her neck. She undressed down to her panties, and grimaced as she lay down at the end of our oversized bed at the Marriott. My poor sweetie. There was no hint of eroticism in the air as I dug in with my fingertips, pressed deeply, and tried unsuccessfully to massage the tension out.
Afterwards, as she stood and sighed in pain, still weary, Burt Bacharach played softly in the background. I hugged her closely, wrapped her up in my arms and swayed just a little to the music. We were almost dancing, silent, holding on. She hugged me back tightly.
I felt a need to be silent; no attempt at reassurance or comforting words. I thought if comfort came, it would come physically, by holding and moving gently. We swayed together for a few songs, then kissed, loosened our grip to caress and then kissed more, moving from ease and steadiness into a spark of arousal, the beginning play of erotic touch.
Soon the heat burst through and there was nothing else, only her lips, her eyes which though tired, now sparkled, and her neck which I began to kiss and lick, tickling her at times, so she pushed me away.
“Get in the shower now,” she said, breathless. Her arms kept me at a distance. I was sweaty from a long walk earlier in the day and needed a shower, but it didn’t matter.
I kissed her harder, tickled her neck with my tongue, bit softly, grasped her hair, took off her panties, pushed her against the wall and fingered her, one then two, raised her up on her toes, so she moaned. I had her pinned. I kissed her again, my fingers moving in and out of her wetness.
I turned her around and told her to bend over the bed, then stepped into the bathroom and undressed quickly, returning hard.
She was offering me her naked bottom. I entered her, quickly, awkwardly at first then finally thrust deeply, holding her hips, hearing the delicious smack of my torso against her butt as I went deep.
Elise loves to be taken, loves to be taken from behind. I knew that. But it’s also a more distant way to fuck. It separates us and I didn’t want that. I rolled her over, kissed her and eventually came hard and deep inside her.
We were quiet for a long time. We kissed.
She said, “I love you.”
I smiled and said the same words back. I turned off the lights. We were still, quiet. I listened to her breathe. My mind went back over the scene. I could see her bottom thrust back, bare, her small private hole exposed.
I grinned more awake now, and asked, “You like it from behind don’t you?” I knew her answer.
There was a long pause.
“I do like it,” she said, then added without hesitation, “I can imagine you’re someone else.”
Her words flipped on my cuckold-submissive switch. I smirked and got hard again and pressed against her as we lay together nearing sleep. I wanted her again but as stirred up as her brief words left me feeling, I was depleted and tired, and I knew she was, too.
I fell asleep with a grin.
I awoke in the morning desirous, wondering who it was she’d imagined as I was inside her, but I never asked. I was hard and Elise stroked me until I came, teasing me just a little.
Part of being a cuckold is not knowing. That is the romantic in me, a little torn by the possibility of not being chosen, feeling eluded, knowing I never really see her completely, knowing there’s a space between us I am always trying to rewin, a garden only she can water, can let me enter.
Elise doesn’t need another guy’s cock to let me know I’m her cuckold boy. One quiet, simple phrase whispered in my ear can remind me in an instant.