The man knew when to push my buttons, but he also knew when I needed something soft and sweet around the edges. He was my rock in all things. Plus, considering how the morning went, I figured he’d be in a mood too. Misery loves company and all that.
Me: How’s your day going?
Thatcher: Fantastic. How’s yours?
Fantastic? He was home alone on a Sunday with our four-year-old son, and his day hadn’t started off with the Supercock getting his normal, orgasmic release. Surely, he was joking, right?
Me: Fantastic? That’s honestly a little hard to believe… Are you okay? Is the Supercock okay??? Check to make sure he’s still there.
Thatcher: LOL. Everyone is fine, missing you like crazy, but fine. How’s the photo shoot going?
Me: Fine. I wish this guy’s dick wouldn’t be as soft as fluffing cotton candy, though. I mean, I don’t need a full-on erection, but Jesus, a half-chub, something. The women who read this mag don’t want to look at pictures of hot, muscular man meat without a hint of sausage.
Thatcher: Sometimes, I wonder if I should be concerned that my wife is texting me about other dudes’ dicks…
Fishing for compliments… Jesus. Didn’t he know I was busy working? I didn’t have all the time in the world to fluff his ego with comments about the gloriousness of his cock.
Obviously, I had time for this donut, but I didn’t have time for that.
But it was a certainty of life that my husband had a glorious cock. Long, thick, almost always hard, and subtle curves in all the right places. If I was being honest, if I hadn’t fallen in love with a giant ogre, I might’ve married him just for his penis.
Me: Awww, don’t be sad. You know your dick is my favorite dick in all the land!
His response buzzed my phone thirty seconds later.
Thatch: Keep going…
Me: What do I get in return for stroking your ego?
Thatch: Tonight, after we get home from Wes & Winnie’s, I’ll eat your sweet pussy until you’re begging for my cock.
Usually, I had principles and I didn’t give in to my husband’s demands, especially when it came to things I knew he wanted just for the ego stroke. But I was a fan of Thatch’s version of pussy pleasure. A big, big, big fan.
Me: I LOVE YOUR HUGE COCK. IT IS MY FAVORITE COCK. NO OTHER COCK HAS EVER/COULD EVER COMPARE. YOU’VE RUINED ME FOR ALL OTHER COCKS.
I hit send and added one more quick message to our chat box.
Me: Better?
Thatch: Just make sure that little cunt is wet and swollen for me tonight.
Me: Deal, Daddy.
For some reason, Thatch had a thing for me calling him Daddy. And when I say “a thing,” I mean he fudging loved it. It only took one Daddy and insta-boner for the Supercock.
And, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy giving him boners in the middle of the day without any hope for relief. I was a bit sadistic, I guess. But I knew Thatcher secretly loved it.
Thatch: Fuck, you know it makes me horny when you call me that…
Me: Sorry, Daddy… :(
Thatch: Fucking hell, Cass. Don’t switch to the innocent routine. You know that makes it worse.
Me: Okay, Daddy.
I forced my face to go soft and made big doe eyes as I took a selfie—making sure the top swells of my tits were nice and visible—and attached it to the message.
Thatch: Jesus Christ.
“Cassie!” my assistant, Amanda, called, and I looked up from my phone to meet her eyes. “Should I get the guys ready for the group shot?”
“Yeah, let’s start with only four, though. I don’t think the entire group is going to work at this location,” I said and then typed a quick message to Thatch.
Me: I gotta go, Daddy. See you tonight?
Thatch: I can’t fucking wait.
Me: Ditto, Daddy.
Thatch: You’re evil.
Me: I know, right? :)
Thatch: Tell Ace Daddio says hi. I hope he’s being good for you at work.
Wait…what?
Ace wasn’t with me.
Ace was supposed to be with Thatch.
I glanced down at my rounded, pregnant belly. Yep. That one is still there.
Where in the ever-loving marshmallow fluff was our other kid?
Me: WHAT? Ace isn’t with me!
Thatch: He’s not?
Oh. My. God. Where is my child!
My heart started to pound in my chest, and my breathing proceeded to come out in tight, short pants. I was literally five seconds away from hyperventilating.
Me: Call the pol—
Jesus. Why am I texting him? I thought to myself and switched to emergency response tactics and called his phone instead.
I mean, how in the motherfluffer did this happen? How had we lost our child?
I knew I hadn’t left the house with him. But where in the hell was he?