Bills… bills… and more bills.
Just when we thought we could possibly drag ourselves out of this hell hole, the car packs up. Yes, the car… we can’t afford one each. My two feet and our crappy public transport system are my only means of traversing the city, but he needs the car to get to work. My recent repeated trips to the medical centre for a bug I just couldn’t shake off didn’t help matters but, he had insisted I go.
He is unhappy, stressed. Perpetually teetering on the edge, barely holding it together most days.
He says he should just get over it, be a better, stronger man.
He says I deserve better.
He says the little white pills that keep him just this side of coping are an extravagance that he should be able to live without.
He cries at night when he thinks I can’t hear him. When he thinks I am asleep next to him, I hear him stifling his tears into the pillow and my heart aches. I long to reach out to him, hold him and comfort him, but I know my man well enough to understand that he would be even more devastated to realise I have seen his hidden vulnerable side.
He says he got us into this mess, it should be him to get us out.
His self-doubt and self blame is blinding him to how little I care about money, about things, about nights out. I fear he has become blind to my total love and unconditional acceptance of him.
I needed to do something…
This morning, I stopped by the charity discount shop and browsed. I knew exactly what I needed to buy and had the grand total of €10 to spend. It wasn’t easy but I’ve always been frugal and I am good at sniffing out a bargain. Pleased with my purchases and smiling to myself, I headed home to cook our supper.
I hear the screech of the car braking in the drive and wince. He really shouldn’t be still driving that thing… that deathtrap. I worry every time he leaves the house in it. Glancing down at myself, checking one last time that everything is in place, I wait, half anxious, half excited, for him to come through the door.
“Christ baby, that was a hell of a day! That bastard Dan is still fucking me around. I swear one day I’ll go fucking postal on their asses!” he enters the kitchen and stops dead, mouth agape, hand frozen mid-air, about to do his customary head stroking that he always does when he is stressed.
Dropping his bag to the floor, the traces of a grin twitching around his lips, he tilts his head and asks, “What’s this?”
I stand on my tip toes, extend my arms out from my sides, and perform a very slow pirouette in front of him, allowing him to take in the view.
The tiny black skirt I had found in the sale bin is scandalously short, barely covering my ass and is certainly not a skirt to bend over in public in. The lacy tops of my sheer stockings tantalizingly peep out from the hem, the suspenders holding them in place just about visible. On top, a sheer, translucent chiffon black blouse, that leaves no doubt as to the absence of any bra underneath, my nipples erect and pushing through the delicate fabric. The blatant look of desire on his face causes a heat flare between my legs and my stomach flips.
Coyly, I raise an eyebrow to him when I finished my twirl, a smile spreading across my lips as I take my bottom lip between my teeth and bite it, looking straight into his eyes.
He stands, transfixed, as I lithely lift myself up onto the counter top and part my nylon-covered thighs to reveal my bare, smooth pussy, already pink and glistening wet for him.
Slowly, deliberately, I unbutton my blouse and allowed it to fall away from my shoulders, placing my hands flat on the worktop, pushing my full breasts out towards him.
“Jesus…” he breathes and takes a step towards me. I pull him into my arms and tease his lips with the tip of my tongue, feeling his hot breath against me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Grabbing a handful of my hair, his mouth presses against mine, pushing his tongue deep inside, meeting mine and exploring as his other hand grips my throat and he moves between my spread legs, rubbing himself against me.
My legs wrapped around him, I reach down, inadvertently touching myself and realising how soaking wet I am for him, and feel his erection through his trousers, grasping it through the light material and squeezing gently. I slowly unzip him and release his gloriously hard cock into my small hand, stroking it, massaging it. His fingers leave my throat, tracing down to cup my breast and squeeze my nipple, making me wetter and hotter. I feel the flush rising over my chest and face.
He breaks the kiss momentarily to lean down and nibble my hard nipple, biting it gently; hurting me but not really hurting me. I take the opportunity to whisper into his ear, “I want you in my mouth. I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day,” my hand still working on his smooth, silky erection.
Looking into my eyes, he lifts me off the counter and I gesture for him to sit on the floor, his back against the cupboard to support him. Kneeling on the cold hard floor at his hip, I lean down and take his testicles into my mouth, swirling my wet tongue over them, humming and sucking very softly, all the time stroking his length. I lick up along his cock, toying with the head before taking it into my mouth and teasing the tip with my tongue, savouring the clear liquid that had leaked out.
I love sucking him. I love making him come in my mouth.
Sucking, licking, my mouth wet and hot, I work to give him pleasure, to help him forget his worries, to get lost in the moment. His hands knotted in my hair as he writhes under me, I bend down further, opening and relaxing my throat to allow him glide in, feeling how big he is in my small mouth, filling me entirely. My fingers slide underneath, finding his soft spot behind his balls, pressing it, stroking it, loving hearing the growls and grunts from him as he gives himself entirely to me. His hot salty load shoots into my mouth and I eagerly swallow it, licking clean any residue that remains left on him.
His hands grip my head and bring my face to his, his eyes searching mine.
I see everything in those eyes; his love, his gratitude, but also his wonder and struggle to accept that he is enough for me.
Just him. That I love just him.
I rise unsteadily to my feet and offer him my hand, walking him into the lounge.
Again, his eyes widen in surprise, taking in the picnic of bread, cheese, deli meats and wine that I have laid out on the carpeted floor. I throw a cushion next to the picnic and tell him to sit while I remove his shoes and turn on music. The songs of our early dating years flood the room and he laughs, opening his arms to me. I curl up next to him and we fall back to lie on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms, his nose buried in my hair.
As the first song ends I realise I can hear him softly crying. Raising myself up onto my elbow, my breast resting against his chest, I wipe his tears with my fingers and plant butterfly kisses over his eyelids.
“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry, for everything,” he whispers shamefully.
“Ssssh, Baby, I love you. I don’t need anything else. We will work this out. Remember when we first got together? We had nothing! Less than we have now, but we made it work. We made it work because we loved each other. We are far from over and we are far from broken. Do you believe me? We have each other, what else do we need?”
He manages a sad smile, kisses me gently and says, “What would I do without you, huh? My little sliver-lining girl.”
We lie together, his hands stroking my bare back.
Supper can wait.
There is more love to be made yet.
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