The Juliette Society(31)

Jack’s anger is like the raging ocean; it whips itself up, with no concern for the destruction it wreaks, no remorse for whatever gets caught in its path, and there’s no way to avoid it, no way to placate it. It’s not a violent anger, but a quiet rage; a misalignment of the passion that drives everything he does. And so the only thing to do is to wait it out, until the wind dies down, until it abates and subsides. Until calm prevails. But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

I do what I usually do to quell the anxiety, to quiet the voice in my head that won’t stop talking. I masturbate.

I close my eyes, slide my fingers between my thighs and think of Jack, still sleeping, as if none of this had happened. As if he had never woken when I came to bed. As if he was completely oblivious to the time. Whether it was four or three or two or one.

I wake him with a kiss on the forehead, my sweet prince, and watch him slowly rouse from slumber. He looks up at me, still woozy, and says, ‘I waited up, but I was so exhausted.’

He doesn’t say, ‘Where were you?’ Cold and accusatory.

But, ‘When did you get back?’

And I lie. A full lie this time, but a white lie, so he’s none the wiser.

And he smiles, ‘I missed you.’

He starts to kiss me, softly, sweetly, tugging at my lips with his.

He cups my breast, brushes the nipple with his thumb.

I reach down and stroke myself where all the sweat gathers, where the smell of my sex is strongest. I stroke it and then lick my fingers and stroke it some more.

He gently bites my top lip, sucks it. Tugs at my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

I feel it harden.

I feel him harden.

I feel myself getting wet.

I wet my finger, run it up the lips of my pussy and imagine it’s his tongue, wetting the wings of my labia, feeling them flutter and spread, circling my clit and flicking it. Blood rushes to my head, to my clit. I feel dizzy.

I feel the head of his cock bouncing against my thigh as he crawls over me, positioning himself above me, poised to enter. And I turn on my side to accommodate him, bending the top leg at the knee, like a dancer doing the Can-Can, to give him a clear view of the runway as his craft comes into land.

He takes his cock in his hands, guides it towards my pussy, towards the hole, where the wetness gathers. He pushes into it, just enough to wet the tip. Pulls out and slides the head up the pussy, making me slick with my own juices.

He pushes into me again, just enough to bury the tip. And holds it there. Not in, not out. Just waiting. Teasing.

And my finger probes around the hole, scooping up my juice and spreading it up towards my clit, wetting it, brushing it, feeling it throb.

He pushes into me.

I push a finger into me. And moan.

His cock stretches my hole. And I feel my pussy close around the head.

Two fingers now.

And he slides his length in slowly. Teasing. He slides in all the way until he’s pressing against my pelvis. I can feel him hard, pressing against my wall. And he holds it there. Teasing.

I’m up to the joint now, and moving towards the knuckle, sinking my fingers as deep as they will go. My fingers are slick with juice, thick and sticky, and white as snow.

He shifts his weight, rotates his hips slightly, like he’s piloting a ship, inching the wheel around so the rudder shifts. And I can feel his cock move inside me, brushing ever so slightly against the soft fleshy wall.

And suddenly I can feel that I’m about to come. I can feel a surge building up inside me and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. I want to be overwhelmed. I can feel him inside me and I want to come.

I’m going to come.

And as I come, I call out his name. Because I want him to hear, even though he’s not there.

Jack. I’m going to come.

Jack, I’m coming.

I’m coming, Jack.

Jack…

And I judder and buck as the orgasm shocks through me. My pussy tightens its grip on my fingers and I can feel the sheets, wet underneath me. But I’m not finished yet. I’m not satisfied.

My pussy is like a cat that’s hungry all the time. A cat that doesn’t know when to stop eating. My pussy is hungry all the time. And I can’t stop myself from feeding it. So another scenario.

This time, Jack comes home, still roiling with anger. And I just want this to end, I want this to be over.

Now.

So I wade in, I give him an excuse and let the waves crash over me. And when it’s over we both feel cleansed, we both feel raw and emotional and connected again. We both want to fuck.

Because there’s nothing like make-up sex to fill the void and heal the wounds. Rough, angry and frantic, like it’s the first time you ever fucked. And might be the last.

Not in the bed, anywhere but the bed. Maybe up against the wall. Me facing the wall, hands above my head like I’m holding it up, trying to stop it from falling on top of us, my skirt bunched up over my ass, my panties around my knees, standing on my tiptoes. Jack slamming into me from behind. And all I can think is, Fuck me harder.