Awakening My Husband's Inner Slut
by Mizz Cherry Poppins

 

 

* - * - *

 

Chapter 1

 

Friday

My knee slipped off the edge of the seat for the third time and I grabbed the headrest behind him to stop myself sliding into the footwell. Oliver laughed against my tits, which should have killed the mood completely and somehow didn't.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Don't stop," I said, and sank back down onto his cock until I was sitting on him properly again, with my skirt bunched round my waist and my stockinged knees sliding about on the leather.

The windows had gone completely white. Somewhere below us the whole of Avenbridge was lit up, which was the entire reason he'd given for driving up Wrenfield Hill after dinner, and I couldn't see a single light of it. I could see Oliver, though. His shirt was half unbuttoned and his hair was standing up where I'd had my hands in it, and he had his face buried in my chest like a man who'd been thinking about this all through dessert. I'd shoved my bra down under my tits when we climbed into the back, and my blouse was hanging off one shoulder, and every time I rocked forward he caught a nipple in his mouth and sucked until I made a noise I'd have been mortified by anywhere else.

A seatbelt buckle was digging into my left knee and I could not have cared less. I rode him harder, grinding forward instead of bouncing because there wasn't room for anything else, and his hands slid from my hips to my arse and pulled me down onto him every time.

"Fuck, babe, right there," I said. "Don't you dare change anything."

He didn't. He kept his mouth on me and his hands where they were, and I chased it, rocking faster, until I was coming with my fingers clamped round the headrest and my thighs shaking against his, and I said his name into his hair, more or less.

Oliver lasted about four more strokes. He gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks, pushed up into me with a grunt and then another, and pressed his face into my neck.

"Christ," he said against my skin.

He came inside me, and I held still on him while he twitched, both of us breathing like we'd run up the hill instead of driving.

For a while neither of us moved. Sweat was cooling on my back where my blouse had stuck to it, and his chest was rising and falling under my hand. A car came round the bend and past the lay-by we were parked in, its headlights sweeping across the fogged glass, and I pressed my forehead against his and started to laugh.

It took me ages to stop laughing, mostly because every time I nearly managed it, Oliver asked "What?" and set me off again.

"Nothing," I said. "You're thirty-four, you've got a mortgage, and you've just shagged me in a lay-by."

"We've got a mortgage."

"I'm aware." I lifted myself off him, which was not graceful, and felt his cum run down the inside of my thigh. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Babe, is there anything in here? Tissues? A receipt? Anything?"

"Door pocket."

I reached into it and pulled out a packet of wet wipes. It was a brand-new packet, with the seal still on. I held it up between us, and Oliver looked at it and then out of the window he couldn't see through.

"These are new," I said.

"We needed wipes."

"In the door pocket. Of the back seat." I peeled the seal off. "How long have you been planning this?"

"I haven't been planning anything."

"Oliver."

He scratched the back of his neck. "A couple of weeks. I drove up and looked at a few spots."

"You did a recce."

"I wasn't going to bring you somewhere with no view."

I cleaned myself up as best I could in a space the size of a phone box, still laughing, more quietly now. He had his trousers round his knees and his shirt hanging open, and he managed to look slightly wounded anyway, as if I'd found a mistake in one of his drawings.

The windows had started to drip at the corners, and now that we'd stopped moving the cold was getting in. I could feel it on my bare shoulder and all down my damp back. I pulled my bra up and did my blouse up two buttons out, then ran a hand down my leg and found a ladder going from my left knee halfway to my ankle, which was the seatbelt buckle's doing.

"Where are my knickers?" I asked.

"Front."

"How are they in the front?"

"You threw them."

I had no memory of throwing them. Oliver did his trousers up, opened the door and let in a blast of air that made me yelp, then walked round the car and got into the driver's seat like a normal person. I climbed through the gap between the seats instead, got a knee on the armrest and my arse somewhere near his ear, and landed in the passenger seat with my skirt round my waist again. My knickers were in the footwell next to my shoes.

"You could have walked round," he said.

"In my stockings? On gravel? No, thank you."

He started the engine and put the heater on full. The fan roared, the windscreen began to clear from the bottom up, and there it was at last, the whole of Avenbridge spread out below us, lit up all the way to the edges.

"Worth the drive?" he asked.

"It's all right." I put my knickers back on under my skirt, wriggling, and he watched me do it without any shame at all. "Is this my anniversary present, then? Because you're a week early."

"No. I've got a few ideas for that."

"Course you have. Is there a spreadsheet?"

"It's not a spreadsheet." He fiddled with one of the air vents. "It's a list."

I looked at him in the glow from the dashboard, with his hair everywhere and his collar sticking up on one side, so pleased with his wet wipes and his view. The cheeky bugger had been planning this for a fortnight and kept a straight face all through dinner.

"I want to see this list," I said.

Oliver turned the heater down a notch. "No, you don't."

"Oh, I absolutely do." I held my hand out.

He looked at my hand and then at the windscreen. "It's not finished."

"Babe. Phone, please."

He sighed, unlocked it and handed it over without even glancing at the screen first. The list was in his notes app under Anniversary, and it said: Dinner, somewhere we haven't been. Weekend away? Coast, check her diary. Card!! First anniversary is paper. Proper paper. Frame something?

"This is all really sweet, love," I said, and scrolled to the bottom to check there wasn't anything else. "There's nothing filthy on here."

"It's an anniversary list."

"You've just had me in the back of the car with the wipes ready."

"That wasn't on that list."

"So there's another list?"

He held his hand out for his phone and didn't answer, and I laughed so hard I banged my elbow on the door.

"Right," I said, when I could. "You've had your thing. I want a turn."

"Fine. What's your thing?"

I hadn't got that far. I stuck my feet up on the dashboard and picked at the ladder in my stockings while I thought about it.

"Feet," he said.

I left them where they were.

"The hot tub," I said. "At night, with the garden lights on."

"We've done the hot tub."

"Not with the lights on. The neighbours can see straight down into the garden."

"That's my point."

"That's my point." I pulled a loose thread out of the ladder and the hole got bigger. "Your turn. Help me."

He thought about it properly, frowning at the city like there'd be a test. "The hotel bar thing. We go in separately, and you pretend you don't know me."

"You'd last five minutes before you asked me how my day was."

"I would not."

"You'd ask if I'd eaten."

He didn't argue with that.

"Your office," I said. "After hours. On that big desk you won't let me put a mug on."

He winced, and then didn't say no.

"A weekend somewhere with no phone signal," he said.

"That's the nice list."

"The lists are starting to overlap."

"That's your fault for having two."

"I don't know, Chloe," he said eventually, and leaned his head back against the headrest. "It's your turn. Anything you want."

I looked at him with his collar still up, and his lovely, sensible hands on the steering wheel, and started reeling them off.

"One of those vibrators with a remote. In my knickers, at dinner, and you get the remote."

"In a restaurant?"

"In a nice restaurant."

He glanced at his phone like he might add it to a list.

"You tie me to the bed," I said, "and I'm not allowed to come until you say so."

"You'd never manage to keep quiet."

"Then you'd have to gag me. Or I tie you up, and you don't get to come till I say so."

"That's fair."

"And you've been after my arse since the honeymoon. You can have it for the anniversary."

He laughed. "That's not your turn. That's mine."

"Fine, then I'll have yours. I'll peg you."

I'd never once thought about that, not properly. I'd seen the word in some magazine quiz years ago, rolled my eyes, and turned the page. But now I was picturing Oliver face down on our bed with my hands on his hips, the way his had been on mine twenty minutes ago, and me fucking his arse while he groaned into the pillow, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Oliver turned in his seat to look at me. "What the… What?"

He wasn't laughing. He was staring at me with his mouth slightly open and a bit of colour in his face, and I pressed my thighs together and didn't take it back.

"Isn't that…" He made a vague shape with one hand. "You… wearing a…"

"Strap-on," I said. "Yes."

Then he did laugh, properly, with his head back against the headrest. "No. Fuck off. No."

I took my feet off the dashboard and swung round to face him, with one leg tucked up under me on the seat.

"You said anything," I said.

"I meant a weekend at the coast."

"You did not mean a weekend at the coast. You'd just had me in the back seat."

"I meant anything within reason."

"You didn't say within reason."

"It was implied, Chloe." He reached for the heater dial, found it was already where he wanted it, and took his hand back.

He hadn't started for home, though. The engine was running and his hands were back on the wheel, and we were still sitting in the lay-by with the whole city in front of us. I'd sat across a table from enough clients to know that a man who really meant no was usually already standing up.

"You're actually serious," he said.

"I'm about seventy per cent serious now."

"It's gone up?"

"It's gone up quite a lot in the last minute, yes."

He dragged both hands down his face and left them over his mouth, looking at me over the top of them.

"Go on, then," I said. "What's the problem?"

"Where do I start?" he asked through his fingers.

"Start with the biggest one."

He took his hands away. "It'll hurt."

"Not if we go slowly," I said, and I didn't make a joke of it.

"How do you know?"

"Same way you'd do it to me, I assume." I tipped my head at him. "You've looked it up. Don't pretend you haven't. You've been after my arse for a year, you'll have read the entire internet."

He went red right up to his ears.

"So you tell me," I said. "How would it work?"

"I'm not doing a presentation."

"You'd be brilliant at it. You'd have slides."

He snorted and looked out at the city, and I let him have a minute, because the next one was going to be harder.

"It's the…" He waved a hand at roughly my lap. "The thing itself. You'd be wearing a… and I'd be on my…"

"Hands and knees, yes."

"Don't."

"Sweetheart, I've been on my hands and knees for you more times than I can count. Half an hour ago I had a seatbelt buckle in my knee for you. Did I look ridiculous?"

"That's different."

"Why?" I asked.

He didn't have an answer. He tapped the indicator stalk with one finger, on and off, so it clicked away in the quiet.

"You'd look like a man having the best night of his life," I said. "I know what your face does when you're having a good time. I've just watched it."

He switched the indicator off. "And what if someone found out?"

"Who's going to find out? Are you planning to tell your mum?"

"Christ, no."

"Then it's you and me, in our own house, with the door shut. Who's going to see?"

He opened his mouth to argue and I raised my eyebrows at him, and he thought better of it and shut it again. Down the hill a taxi pulled away from the kerb, and he watched it go.

"Where would you even get one?" he asked after a while.

"A sex shop, babe. Where did you think we'd get one, the garden centre?"

"I know where," he said. "I meant someone would actually have to go in."

"I'll go in. I don't mind." I sat up so fast my knee hit the centre console. "Or we could go together."

The red that had only just left his ears came straight back. "You want me to walk into a sex shop with you?" he asked.

"Holding hands, if you like."

"Can you imagine?"

"I can, actually."

"I was only asking hypothetically."

"You don't do hypothetically, love. You do lists."

"It's a practical question."

"It's a practical question about a strap-on." I grinned at him. "There'll be nice ones, with proper lighting and women working in them who've seen everything and won't bat an eyelid at you."

"I'd bat an eyelid."

"You'd bat both of them. It'd be lovely."

"What do they even sell in those places?" he asked, not looking at me.

"Everything. Toys, harnesses, lube. Lingerie."

"You've got plenty of lingerie."

"Who said it'd be for me? A lot of men like getting dressed up for it too, you know."

He turned his head very slowly. "Dressed up in what?"

"Stockings. A suspender belt. Knickers. Something silky." I watched his face. "A lovely little nightie."

I'd only said it to wind him up. Then I pictured those long legs of his in stockings, and him bent over our bed in a nightie that barely covered his arse, and honestly, fuck, that wasn't a bad idea at all.

"Now you're taking the piss," he said.

"Partly." I reached over and pushed his hair off his forehead, where it was still sticking up. "You've got the legs for it, though. We could make a proper girl of you, princess."

"Don't call me princess."

"I'll think about it."

He looked down then, only for a second, at my leg tucked up on the seat and the ladder running down from the knee, and when he looked up he found me watching him.

"Not that pair," I said. "Those are wrecked. I'd get you your own."

"Chloe."

"In your size. Black, I think, with a seam up the back."

"Probably not," he said.

"That's not a no."

"It's a probably not."

"Which is a maybe with its coat on."

He gave up and smiled at that, then rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the screen. "It's late."

"It is."

"I'm not saying yes," he said.

"I didn't ask you to."

He put the car into drive and took the handbrake off, and we pulled out of the lay-by and started down the hill with the heater roaring and the city lights coming up to meet us. He didn't say anything else.

"Still not a no," I said.

 

◇ — ◇ — ◇

 

Monday

"It's just reading very… warm, darling," Henrietta said, from every speaker in my car at once. "Peachy. We said nude. Nude isn't peachy."

"Absolutely," I said, and mouthed fuck off at the windscreen while I waited for the lights to change. "I hear you, Hen. The thing is, nude covers quite a range, and the shade we shot is the one your team signed off in…"

"I know. I know. And I'm not blaming anyone." She was blaming me. "But when I stood under that billboard on Saturday, I just thought, oh. Oh no. It's giving apricot."

Henrietta Fane-Whitlock was Maison Severine's marketing director and the most Made in Chelsea woman alive. She said "darling" the way other people breathed, and I'd watched her take apart a forty-page deck with one long, polite sigh. Today she wanted all six billboards reshot. Six of them, on two weeks' notice, because a model in a lace bra, twenty feet high over a roundabout, was giving apricot.

"Let me talk to the studio," I said. "I think we can cool it down in the grade without going near a reshoot."

"Could we? Darling, that would be heaven."

The lights changed. I moved off and nearly sailed straight past the turning into Ravenswood, swung in late enough to get a horn from the van behind me, and waved an apology into my rear-view mirror.

"Was that a horn? Are you driving, darling?"

"Just turning in. I'll get you three cooler options by Wednesday."

"Cooler. Yes. Oyster, not apricot."

"Oyster. Got it."

"You're a star. Ciao, ciao."

By the time she rang off I was halfway down Pelham Grove, and I let out a groan that went on for most of the street.

It was the only good thing about Mondays, that street. There were big old trees down both sides, just getting their first yellow leaves, and the houses sat back behind low brick walls and hedges that people actually bothered to cut, each one a bit different but all red brick, with white-painted windows, wide bays at the front, and stained glass in the top half of the front doors. Ours was the one with the black door, because Oliver had spent a whole weekend getting the paint to the exact shade of black he wanted, which was apparently different from the five other shades of black at the shop. His car was already on the drive. The house next to ours already had its curtains drawn and its kitchen light on, and somewhere up the road a kid was bouncing a ball against a garage.

I parked behind him and sat there for a minute with the engine off, getting Henrietta out of my shoulders.

The house smelt of garlic and onions before I'd even got the door shut. I kicked my heels off in the hall, left my bag where it landed, and was already wriggling out of the jacket of my navy suit as I padded down to the back of the house in my skirt and tights. The radio was on in the kitchen, something with a lot of guitar that he liked and I tolerated, and Oliver was at the hob with his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel over his shoulder, pushing mince round a pan. Past him, through all that glass, the garden was going blue, and the hot tub was a dark lump under its cover at the far end.

"Hello, you," he said.

I didn't say hello back. I went straight past him to the fridge, got out the bottle of white he'd put in there, and took a swig from it before I'd even shut the door. When I turned round, he'd stopped stirring and was watching me over his shoulder.

"Uh oh," he said.

"You will not believe these people."

"Which people?"

"Maison bloody Severine." I got two glasses down and poured, without asking if he wanted one. "Henrietta stood under a billboard on Saturday and decided it was apricot."

"What?"

"The nude." I put his glass down next to the hob and leaned on the counter beside him. "She thinks it's too warm. Peachy. Apparently it's giving apricot."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means she's forty-one and has a nephew." I took a mouthful of wine. "It's a woman in a bra, Oliver. It's meant to be the colour of a woman. And now she wants it reshot. All six. In two weeks."

"Ouch."

"I know."

He tipped a tin of tomatoes into the pan and stirred. "Did she actually say reshoot? Or did she say she doesn't like it?"

I started to tell him she'd said reshoot, and stopped, and went back over the call in my head. She'd said she didn't like it. She'd said apricot about four times. I was the one who'd said reshoot, to be the first to say it before she did, and she'd jumped on the grade the second I offered it.

"She said she doesn't like it," I said.

"So it's a grading job."

"It's a grading job." I reached past him for a bit of mushroom off the chopping board, and he smacked the back of my hand with the wooden spoon without looking. "Ow. You're very annoying when you're right."

"I'm very annoying generally. You married me anyway."

I ate the mushroom. He went back to the sauce, and I filled the big pan for the spaghetti and put it on the back ring.

"Go on, then," he said. "What did she actually say?"

"She said…" I pulled my shoulders back and put my nose in the air. "'Darling, I'm not blaming anyone. It's not a blame thing. It's a feelings thing.'"

He laughed into the pan. "She did not say that."

"She said exactly that. Then she said oyster." I went looking for the salt, and he passed it to me before I'd got as far as the cupboard. "Not apricot, oyster. Like I'm meant to know what that looks like on a person."

"Grey," he said. "Slightly damp."

"Lovely. I'll put that in the brief." I got the parmesan out and started grating far too much of it into a bowl. "It's about two per cent warmer than she wants. Two per cent, Oliver. And last week she told me she's off carbs, then ate a croissant in our meeting. I watched her do it."

"Do the voice again."

"'Darling, that would be heaven.'"

"She sounds like your mother."

"Don't you dare."

I said it lightly. My mother had sat across a dinner table from my father for thirty-five years, and as far as I knew, neither of them had said anything surprising to the other in the last twenty.

I ate a pinch of parmesan every time he turned his back, and on my way past to get the plates I kissed the back of his neck, just under his hair, and he leaned into it without stopping stirring.

We'd had a whole weekend since Friday. A lie-in, a big shop, a film on the sofa on Sunday night with my feet in his lap. Twice I'd caught him looking at me like he was about to say something, and both times he'd asked if I wanted a cup of tea.

The spaghetti went in. He had at least ten minutes of stirring ahead of him, so I came up behind him and wrapped my arms round his waist and put my chin on his shoulder. He was warm from the hob and smelt of garlic, and he leaned back against me with a long, happy sigh.

"This is nice," he said.

It was. The radio had moved on to something slower, and I swayed with it a bit while he stirred, and my hips went with it. It took me a good few seconds to notice where my hips were, and what they were moving against. My pelvis was pressed right up to his arse and rocking, slow, in time with the music, exactly the way his did against me when he came up behind me in bed.

I nearly stopped. Then I thought about Friday, and about the look on his face when I'd brought up pegging, and I grinned into his shoulder and did it on purpose. I pulled him back against me by the waist and rolled my hips into him, slower and deeper, and right on the beat.

"Mmm," I said in his ear. "This does feel right."

He went completely still. The spoon stopped. I felt him work out what was happening, which took about a second and a half, and then he jumped out of my arms so fast that he took the spoon with him and flicked a line of bolognese right up the splashback.

"What the fuck?"

I had to hold on to the counter. I couldn't breathe. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen with the spoon held up like he might defend himself with it, sauce dripping off the end onto the floor, and looking at me like I'd turned into somebody else.

"I'm just playing!" I said, when I could say anything.

"You were…" He pointed the spoon at my hips. "That was…"

"I was cuddling you."

"That was not cuddling!"

"It was cuddling with movement." The spaghetti started to boil over, and I went and turned it down, still laughing. "You leaned back into it, babe. You said it was nice."

"I didn't know what it was."

"Well, now you do."

He went and got the kitchen roll and wiped the splashback down very carefully, then the floor, then the spoon, then the splashback again where there wasn't anything left. I drained the spaghetti and plated it up, and while I was spooning sauce over both plates I gave my hips one small, slow roll against the edge of the counter, just to see.

"Stop it," he said, without turning round.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing it to the counter."

I carried the plates over to the table at the glass end of the kitchen and put his down where he always sat, next to mine. Oliver put his wine glass down, looked at his plate, picked it up and carried it round to the other side of the table, and sat down opposite me with his back very straight, like he was at a job interview.

For the first few minutes he was unbearably polite. "This parmesan's really nice," he said.

"It's parmesan. I grated it."

"You grated it well." He nodded at the bowl. "So when do you think the studio can turn the grade round?"

"Wednesday, hopefully. Thursday at the latest."

"Wednesday." He nodded again, slowly, the way he did with clients, like he was going to minute it. "Good. That's good."

I reached across the table for the pepper, and he whipped his wine glass out of my way so fast it nearly went over. He caught it and put it down very carefully on his other side.

"Sorry," he said to the glass.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Fine."

"What did you do?"

"Drawings." He twirled a forkful of spaghetti and looked at that instead of me. "The loft conversion."

"The one with the awkward stairs?"

"That one."

He ate the forkful. He cut the next one with the side of his fork, which nobody does to spaghetti, and still didn't look up. I lasted about another minute.

"For fuck's sake, Oliver." I put my fork down. "I rubbed up against you. I didn't stab you. Can you eat your dinner like a person?"

He looked up, and the corner of his mouth started to lift, and I watched him try to stop it. "I am eating like a person."

"You're eating like a hostage. You moved your glass away from me. You apologised to it."

He held out for another second, then gave up and pushed his plate an inch away.

"I've been thinking about it," he said. "Friday. All weekend."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Every time you looked like you were going to say something, you made me a cup of tea."

"They were good cups of tea."

"They were lovely cups of tea, love." I waited, and he didn't say anything else. "So what have you been thinking?"

He picked his fork up again, looked at it, and put it back down. "All sorts. Mostly that it's mad."

"Mad how?"

"I was measuring a stairwell this morning," he said, "and I lost count halfway up because I was thinking about it. I had to go back down and start again."

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"And I thought I'd have talked myself out of it by now. I can usually talk myself out of anything in a day."

I reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. "And you haven't."

"No." He turned his glass round by the stem, once and then back. "If we did… and I'm saying if…"

"Noted."

"Could it just be the one thing? Without the rest of it." He waved a hand at himself, from his collar down. "The dressing up. That's the bit where I'd just feel like an idiot."

I could have taken that. It was more than I'd expected by Monday, and the version of me that sits in meetings would have shaken his hand and got it in writing.

"I've been thinking about that bit too," I said. "Since Friday."

"Right."

"No, I mean a lot." I picked my glass up, then put it down again without drinking. "I keep picturing it."

He looked straight at me then. "Picturing what?"

"You. In stockings. Something soft on you, maybe something of mine." My face was getting warm, which almost never happened to me. "And you letting me. You trusting me enough to let me see you like that, and me being the one in charge for once, and…"

"For once?" he asked.

"You know what I mean."

"You're in charge of most things."

"Not in bed, I'm not."

He didn't argue with that either.

"It's not about you being less of a man, if that's what's going round your head," I said. "It's me and you. We do stupid, brave things. We did the hot tub in January."

"That was cold, not brave."

"It was both. And if you hate it, we stop. The second you say. No sulking, no pitch, nothing. We stop and get a takeaway."

"You'd sulk."

"I'd sulk a tiny bit. Quietly. In another room."

He was quiet for a bit, turning the glass. "I wouldn't even know what I'm doing."

"You wouldn't have to do anything. That's sort of the point."

"You wouldn't know what you were doing either."

I picked a strand of spaghetti off my plate with my fingers and ate it.

He put his glass down. "Chloe."

"What?"

"Would you?"

"I might," I said, "have a bit of experience. With the equipment."

"With who?"

"Not a man."

He stared at me across the table. "Not a…" He stopped. "Oh."

"Jess," I said. "And a girl at uni, before her. Only a few times with her."

"You never said."

"You never asked if I'd fucked anyone with a strap-on, hun. It doesn't really come up over Sunday lunch."

"Jess," he said, like he was trying to fit her into a new shape.

"The American." I couldn't help smiling. "She was very enthusiastic. About everything. Brunch. Hiking. That."

"She took you hiking?"

"She got me up a hill at six in the morning to look at a lake. Once."

"Only once?"

"Once was plenty. I moaned the whole way up, and she sang."

That got a proper laugh out of him, the first since the kitchen. Then he went quiet again, and started pushing a bit of mince round his plate.

"Was she…" He stopped and started again. "Did she like it?"

"She loved it."

"Right." He looked down at his plate. "And you were…"

"I got good at it." I couldn't keep the grin off my face. "It took a while, and a lot of lube. But by the end I could fuck her with it until she was shaking and swearing at me in that accent of hers, and I was very proud of myself. I'd have put it on my CV."

He ducked his head, and some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders. He also shifted in his chair and crossed his legs under the table, and I decided, very generously, not to mention it.

"I still don't know what it'd even look like," he said after a while. "In my head it's just me on the bed, looking ridiculous."

"It doesn't look ridiculous."

"How would you know?"

I ran my finger round the rim of my glass. "I may have had a look. On Saturday."

"A look at what?"

"People doing it. While you were downstairs making me tea."

He put both elbows on the table. "You looked it up."

"I looked it up. Before I had to shut the laptop, because you came in with a biscuit."

"What did you see?" he asked.

"A few videos. Enough to know it's not some weird niche thing. Loads of couples do it, and most of them don't bother with the dressing up at all."

"Right. Good."

"But a lot of the men love that part," I said. "The stockings, the knickers, being looked after. You can see it on their faces. It's like they've finally been allowed to stop being in charge of everything."

He didn't say anything.

"Honestly, it was hot," I said.

"I don't believe you."

"Then come and see for yourself."

He went very still. "See what, exactly?"

"Porn, Oliver. We could watch some. Together. You can see them doing it, and decide for yourself whether anyone looks ridiculous."

He stared at me. "Together."

"That's usually how it works when two people watch something."

"We've never…" He stopped. "We've never watched porn together."

"We'd never had sex in the back of the car either. It's been that sort of week."

"What if it's awful?"

"Then we laugh at it and go to sleep."

"And what if it's…" He rubbed his jaw. "What if it isn't?"

I reached over and took his hand, and this time I didn't tease him. "Then that's good news, isn't it?"

He looked up at the ceiling, then out at the dark garden, then back at me. "Not on the telly."

"Which one?"

"Either."

"Fine. Not down here, then. The one in our room. In bed. Much comfier than squinting at a laptop."

"We watch Bake Off in bed."

"And we'll carry on watching Bake Off in bed."

"How would it even get on there?"

"I'll put it on from my phone."

"And then it's in the history. Next time we put Bake Off on, it's sitting there on the home screen next to Paul Hollywood."

"Private tab, love. I'll mirror it from my phone, and the telly won't remember a thing." I smiled at him. "I work in advertising, remember? I know exactly what gets tracked these days, and how."

He thought about that for longer than a man who wasn't going to do it would need to. "And would it be one where he's… dressed up, or just…"

"I'll find one of each."

He stood up, picked up both our plates and carried them to the sink.

"Oliver."

"I'm doing the washing up first," he said. "Bolognese sets if you leave it."

He ran the hot tap, and I sat at the table with my wine and watched him wash a saucepan faster than I'd ever seen him wash anything.

I finished my wine and stood up. "I'm going for a shower."

"Okay," he said to the saucepan.

"And then we're doing it. Tonight."

He turned round with the saucepan dripping in his hand. "Tonight?"

"Tonight, babe. Not Thursday. Not 'once we've had a chance to think it through properly.'"

"I wasn't going to say…" He gave up halfway through and turned back to the sink. "Fine. For now."

"What does 'for now' mean?" I asked.

"It means I'm drying this first."

"Don't take all night with that saucepan," I said.

I went back down the hall to the stairs, scooped my heels up from by the front door on the way past, and the radio got quieter behind me with every stair. Our bedroom was at the front of the house, over the bay. I nudged the door shut with my foot, dropped the heels by the door to the dressing room, and got undressed. My skirt and blouse went over the chair, and I sat on the edge of the bed to peel my tights off one leg at a time, then undid my bra with the sort of groan you only let out when nobody's listening. I turned the shower up as hot as I could stand and stood under it until Henrietta and the billboards had run off me and down the drain. I pushed my wet hair back off my face and looked down at myself.

I'd never needed anyone to tell me I'd got good tits, but Oliver told me anyway, most days, usually with his face in them. They were big and heavy and they were mine, and he still looked at them like he couldn't believe his luck, nearly three years in. He was a hips man too. He liked the curve where my waist went in and came back out again, and he liked to hold on to it. I could see exactly where he'd held on to it on Friday. There were four faded marks on each hip, gone yellow and green round the edges, where his fingers had been when he pulled me down onto him in the back of the car.

I pressed my thumb into one of them, and it ached a bit, in a nice way.

Then I thought about it the other way round. Me with a harness buckled round my hips, right over those marks, and a cock sticking out of it. Oliver on his hands and knees on our bed in front of me, and my fingers digging into his hips like his had dug into mine. Me easing that cock into his arse an inch at a time, slowly, the way I'd learned to, and then fucking him harder once he started pushing back on it, until he was making noises I'd never once heard out of him.

My hand slid down over my stomach and between my legs. My pussy was wet, and not from the shower. I rubbed slow circles round my clit and pinched my nipple with my other hand, and kept picturing him with his back arching and his hands balled up in the sheets, saying my name like he was asking me for something. I went faster. My legs started to shake and I had to lean my shoulder on the shower screen, and I could feel it building, right there. Another minute and I'd have come.

It would have been so easy to keep going.

I took my hand away and turned the water off. Not yet.

I stepped out onto the bathmat and dried off, still throbbing between my legs, running the towel over my tits and down my legs and giving my hair a quick rub. Through the door I heard him come up the stairs, and then the creak of our bed as he sat down on it. I wrapped the towel round me, tucked the end in under my arm, and opened the door with my red hair still dripping down my back.

He'd put the bedside lamp on and was sitting on the bed in his boxers, propped up against the headboard with his arms folded, staring at the blank TV on the wall like he was waiting to be called in to see the dentist.

"You were quick," I said.

"You said not to take all night."

"I didn't think you'd listen."

"I'm only doing this for you," he said. "Just so we're clear. And I want it on record that…"

I smiled at him, pulled the tucked end of the towel out from under my arm, and held it closed for a second, just long enough for him to notice. Then I let go, and it slid down my body and landed round my feet, and I stood there in the lamplight, still damp, with nothing on at all.

"…that I…" He looked at my tits, then at my hips and the marks on them, and then back up at my face like I'd done it on purpose, which I had.

"That's not fair," he said.

"Nothing about this is fair. Shove up."

I climbed onto the bed next to him, picked up my phone off the bedside table and mirrored it to the TV. My home screen appeared on the TV, enormous, with forty-two unread emails from work in the corner, which I ignored. I opened a private tab.

"Ready?" I asked.

"No."

"Good." I started typing.

Every letter came up on the TV a foot high as I typed it. S-T-R-A-P-P-E-D.

"Chloe."

S-I-S-S…

"Chloe, what is that?"

…I-E-S. Dot com.

He read it out loud before he could stop himself. "Strapped Sissies?"

"It's just what it's called."

"I'm not a… that's not…" He unfolded his arms and folded them again. "Absolutely not."

"Babe, they're all called something like that. It's not about you. Don't take it personally."

"It's quite hard not to take it personally when it's a foot high on the screen."

I hit enter, and the page loaded into a grid of thumbnails in bright pink and black, with titles in capital letters, every single one of them shouting.

FORCED SISSY TAKES IT ALL

SISSY HUBBY PEGGED BY WIFE

MAKING HIM MY SLUTTY GIRL

"Oh my God," Oliver said.

"Okay," I said. "Hang on."

"I'm not doing any of that," he said.

"We're not watching any of that." I was already scrolling.

"Making him my slutty girl, Chloe."

"Will you stop reading them out?" I was laughing now, and trying not to, which made it worse. "Look. We're scrolling straight past the forced stuff. All of it. Watch."

The forced ones went on for a long time, which did not help my case, but then there was a row of tags along the top of the page, and I tapped one that said Couples, and the whole grid changed to videos that looked like they'd been filmed on a phone at home. The women in the harnesses looked like someone's girlfriend, and the men looked like someone's boyfriend, on all fours on the bed or on their backs with their legs held up.

He stopped talking.

I nudged him. "See? Normal people."

"Normal people with a camera."

"Fine. Normal people with a camera… and a lot of lube."

I scrolled a bit further and found one called REAL COUPLE: WIFE PEGS HUBBY FOR THE FIRST TIME. The thumbnail was a girl with a messy bun, kneeling on a bed behind a man who was grinning over his shoulder at her. That was the one. Two thumbnails along there was another, with a man on his knees in black stockings and a lacy suspender belt, and a woman standing behind him with her hand on the back of his neck. I could feel Oliver looking at it.

"That one's for later," I said.

He didn't say no.

I tucked my feet under me, leaned back against his shoulder, and pressed play on the first one.

The picture wobbled, then steadied on a bed with a grey headboard and somebody's phone charger trailing off the side table. A girl leaned into the frame from behind the camera, laughing.

"Is it on? Is the little light on?"

"It's on, babe," said a man's voice somewhere off to the side.

"Oh God," Oliver said. "They're going to be nice."

"Shh."

She stepped back so we could see her. She was wearing a black harness and nothing else, with a pink cock sticking out of the front of it, nowhere near as big as I'd expected. He was already on the bed on his hands and knees, looking back at her over his shoulder with the kind of nervous grin I'd seen on Oliver's face all evening.

"You okay?" she asked him.

"Yeah. Just go slow."

"I'm always slow."

She squeezed a huge dollop of lube into her hand, and Oliver made a small noise next to me.

"Is that normal?" he asked. "That much?"

"That's not that much."

"She's basting him."

"That's what I said at dinner. Lots of lube." I kept my eyes on the screen. "Watch what she's doing."

She was taking her time. She worked one finger into him, then two, talking to him the whole way through, low and teasing, and he pushed back against her hand and swore into the mattress.

"That's it. Relax for me. Good boy."

"Fuck… yeah. That's… fuck."

I wasn't watching the screen any more. I was watching Oliver, and Oliver was watching that man's face. He'd stopped making comments. His arms had unfolded at some point and his hands were flat on the sheet on either side of him, and the front of his boxers had started to tent.

He saw me notice and moved one hand to cover it.

I took his wrist and moved it back to the sheet. "No, you don't."

"It's a physical response," he said. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Tell that to your boxers."

On the screen, she'd lined herself up behind him and was pushing the head of the cock into him, inch by inch, with one hand on his hip.

"Breathe out for me. There you go. Oh, look at you taking it."

He groaned. It wasn't a polite groan. Oliver's cock jumped in his boxers like it had heard him.

I put my mouth by his ear. "See? Nobody looks ridiculous."

"He looks like he's dying."

"He looks like he wants every inch of it, babe. Look at his face."

Oliver's eyes went straight back to the man's face on the screen and stayed there while I put my hand flat on his stomach, just above the waistband. He didn't move it away, so I slid it down over the front of his boxers and wrapped my fingers round his cock through the cotton. He was rock hard.

"Chloe."

"Lift up."

"What?"

"Lift your hips up."

He lifted them, and I pulled his boxers down and off and dropped them over the side of the bed, and then it was just the two of us, naked in the lamplight, and the girl on the screen fucking her boyfriend while he swore at her to keep going.

"Fuck, that's good. Don't stop."

"You love getting fucked up your arse, don't you?"

"Yeah… fuck, yeah, I do."

I took Oliver's cock in my hand and stroked him slowly up the shaft, from the base to the tip and back down again, matching her pace on the screen. He let out a breath through his teeth and his head went back against the headboard.

"Imagine that's you," I said. "On our bed. Me behind you."

"Don't."

"Me holding your hips. Going slow, like her. Until you're asking me for more."

"Chloe…"

I could feel him getting close. His stomach tightened, and his hips started to lift off the bed to meet my hand, and he made a sound at the back of his throat that I knew very well, and I let go of his cock just before he got there.

He opened his eyes. "What… why did you stop?"

"Not yet."

"You can't just…"

"I can. Tonight I'm in charge." I waited until his breathing slowed down a bit, then took hold of his cock again and started over, slower than before.

I edged him twice more. Each time I stroked him until he was right about to come and then let go, and each time he swore at me. The second time, he grabbed my wrist, then let it go again when I looked at him. By then there was a wet patch of precum on his stomach, and he'd stopped pretending he wasn't watching the screen.

I picked my phone up off the sheets with my other hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Changing the channel."

I went back and pressed on the other one, and the room changed colour as it loaded. This one was darker, a bedroom lit by fairy lights. A man was kneeling on the edge of the bed in black stockings with a seam up the back, a lacy black suspender belt, a matching bra and a pair of lace knickers pulled down to his thighs. His legs were shaved and he was wearing red lipstick. Behind him, a woman stood on the floor in heels and a black lace bra, with a red harness round her hips and a black cock sticking out of it, shiny with lube. She was running the head of it up and down between his cheeks, and stroking her other hand down his back.

"Look at you," she said. "Look at you in your pretty stockings for me."

Oliver went completely quiet. His cock twitched in my hand.

I squeezed it once. He looked at me, then straight back at the screen, and didn't say anything.

"Who's my good girl?"

"I am."

She pressed the head of the cock against him and held it there, not pushing, and he tried to push back onto it. She stepped back, just enough that he couldn't.

"Uh-uh. Good girls don't take. They ask."

He was shaking. "Please."

"Please what?" she asked.

"Please fuck me."

She pushed into him in one long slow stroke, and he moaned, high and shaky, and dropped his head down onto the bed, his stockinged legs trembling, and I could feel Oliver throbbing in my hand.

My thighs were slick, and I could feel it every time I shifted on the bed. I'd been on the edge since the shower, and watching him watch them had pushed me right back up there, and I couldn't sit still any more.

"Right," I said, and let go of him.

"Chloe, please don't stop again…"

"I need your mouth. Now." I put a hand flat on his chest and pushed him down until he was lying on his back.

I got up on my knees and straddled his head, facing the TV at the end of the bed, with a knee on either side of his face. Underneath me, he said "Oh," very quietly.

"Hello," I said, and sat down on his face.

He made a muffled noise. Then his hands came up and took hold of my hips and pulled me down onto him, and his tongue slid into me.

He licked me in long strokes from the bottom of my pussy up to my clit, the way he knew I liked it, and I put a hand on his chest to steady myself. I rolled my hips against his mouth, slow at first. On the TV, the woman was fucking the man in stockings with long, deep strokes, holding on to him by his suspender belt, and he was moaning like he'd never been happier in his life.

"Good girl. Such a good girl for me. Take it."

"Oh God, it's so deep."

"That's it," I said, and ground down harder. "Use your tongue."

His tongue flicked over my clit, and then he sucked on it until my thighs tightened round his head. I could hear him breathing hard through his nose underneath me. When the man on screen cried out, Oliver's cock jumped against his stomach, and I watched it.

"Oh, you like that," I said. "Don't you?"

He groaned into me, which wasn't a no.

His cock was standing up off his stomach now, flushed dark and wet at the tip. I couldn't leave it alone any longer. I leaned forward over his body into a sixty-nine, braced one hand on his thigh, and took his cock in my mouth.

The noise he made went right through me. I sucked his cock as unhurriedly as I'd stroked it, deep and then back up to the tip and off again. Every time he started pushing his hips up for more, I stopped and held him still with my hand round the base until he gave up and went back to licking me. He was moaning into my pussy, and I was moaning round his cock.

"I'm going to come," said the man on the screen, "please, please can I come?"

"Not yet," she said.

Hearing her say it, with his tongue on my clit and his cock in my mouth, I couldn't hold off any longer. I pulled off his cock and ground down hard on his face, and I came with my hand wrapped round him and my thighs clamped round his head, swearing into the sheet by his knee. He held my hips and kept licking me all the way through it, until I had to lift off him because I couldn't take any more.

I rolled off onto my back next to him, breathing hard. My legs wouldn't keep still.

He was lying there with his mouth wet and his cock standing straight up, dark purple and slick at the tip. He looked like a man who'd been made to wait outside a shop for an hour.

"Chloe," he said. "Please."

I rolled onto my side, propped myself up on one elbow, and wrapped my hand round his cock again.

"Watch the telly," I said.

He watched. On the screen, the woman had pulled the man up onto his knees with his back against her chest, and she was fucking him and stroking his cock at the same time, her mouth right by his ear.

"Come for me, good girl. Let me feel you come."

I stroked Oliver faster.

He didn't last ten seconds. His back arched up off the bed and he grabbed a fistful of the sheet. He came so hard the first spurt hit his chest, and the rest went over my fingers and his stomach. He groaned the whole way through it, long and low, with his eyes on the screen.

I kept stroking his cock gently until he flinched and pushed my hand away, and then I leaned down and licked his cum up off his stomach, slowly, all of it, while he lay there with his chest heaving and watched me do it.

"Mm," I said, and licked my lips. "Somebody enjoyed that."

"I can't feel my legs."

"I'm not surprised. That was a lot."

"That was…" He gave up and laughed at the ceiling, breathless. "Bloody hell, Chloe."

I lay down beside him with my head on his shoulder. On the TV, the video was still going. The man in the stockings was lying on his side now, flushed and grinning, while the woman stroked his hair.

"Do you know what you were watching," I asked, "when you came?"

He didn't answer. Under my cheek, his chest was going up and down, slow and heavy, and I realised I'd been listening to it for a couple of minutes, thinking he was just getting his breath back. I lifted my head. His eyes were shut, his mouth had dropped open a little, and one hand was still balled up in the sheet, and as I watched, he let out a tiny snore.

I reached across him for my phone. Before I turned the TV off, I pressed the little heart under the video and saved it.

 

* - * - *

 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, I’d love to hear what you thought, so please leave a comment.
Mizz Cherry Poppins