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Making love, through blind lust.
Pleasure belongs only within marriage. Right? That’s always what I was taught. My husband was my first, he taught me to make love. but now, he’s teaching me how to fuck.
My husband, James, has always had a way with words. Filthy, teasing words that slide under my skin even when I pretend they don’t. I guess I liked that bad boy quality about him.
“You were built for sin, Elena,” he’d murmur against my neck on lazy Sunday mornings, his palm cupping one heavy breast like it was a ripe fruit he couldn’t decide whether to bite or worship. “These massive tits of yours… almost wasted on just me.”
I’d roll my eyes, swat his hand away, and remind him I was raised in a house where ankles were scandalous and desire was something you confessed in hushed tones if you spoke of it at all. Touching myself? Unthinkable. Pleasure came from duty, from letting my husband take what was his, quick and familiar in the dark on my back. It had always been enough.
Lately, though, his words carried a new edge. “You were made for more than one man’s hands,” he’d say, tracing the deep curve of my waist while I cooked dinner. “You should be shared, baby. Really shared.”
