I’m the only person I know that fantasizes about being a “little woman.”
You come home from work. I come home from work. We are home. I cook us dinner. You move around me, helping, chopping fresh vegetables, making a salad, checking on the meat. We talk idly. It is good just to have you around me. You hover, touching my hips, my shoulders, kissing me behind the ear. You sip your scotch, I’m on my third glass of Merlot.
We eat dinner on the couch, snuggled up to one another. Maybe there is a movie on, maybe we just talk to fill the silence. I love the sound of your laugh.
You clean the dishes. I dry them. I can’t wait to take you to the bedroom. I can’t wait for the actual dessert. I push you into your easy chair, your scotch still in hand, and pull your pants down. I suck your dick like it’s my job, because I’ve been waiting to feel you in my mouth all day. I don’t do it because you asked or because you ordered. I do it because there is a need in me… to hear you groan, to feel your abs contract beneath my fingers, to feel your cock twitch beneath the attention of my lips.
Your free hand encourages me, nestling deep in my hair and stroking my scalp and my nape alternatively. I love the sound of your voice when you call me ‘baby,’ and when you tell me how good my mouth is. You cum and I drink it all down with the aftertaste of wine still lingering in my mouth. You reclaim yourself and pull me to bed.
You return the favor like a man who is starved for the taste of my pussy. I love the way you eat me, like I am all the sustenance you would require. I come so well that I cry, and you drag a second orgasm out of me, riding on the back of the first. I am sensitive and unbearably shy after you rend me in such a way. When you kiss me, I can taste my pleasure on your lips, clinging to your tongue. I like the way my girly juices drip from the stubble on your chin.
When you fuck me it is on your terms. You put me over the bed and hold my wrists high above my head. Your body crowds mine, making me feel small, girlish, claimed, owned. You whisper the dirtiest things in my ear. I am yours. I am your girl. I am your sweet, proper little house girl who becomes your slut in the dark. You love the way my body clenches around you. You love that I’m almost too tight for you. You love that I struggle like I don’t want it, when it is so clear that I need it.
When we both climax, you wrap me up in your arms, still sticky and dirty with sex, still inside of me, and we fall asleep.
I don’t work in the morning, but you do. I wake up early and slide from your arms stealthily just so I can make you a hot breakfast, and strong, sweet coffee. I admire my wrists while I shuffle the pan on the stove. Your fingerprints are there in hues of bruise, marking me as yours, marking what belongs to you. Other parts of me are sore too, and I know… I know that these are not my only bruises.
You meander to the kitchen, led by your nose, by the scent of a warm meal. You are tousled and tired and beautiful in the dusky morning light. I slip you a piece of my cold fruit and feel your lips around my fingers. It makes me tingle and shudder. I hand you your coffee and am showered in your praise of my job well done.
We eat breakfast. I admire the way you move. You compliment my cooking and I beam and blush beneath your intense gaze. I pour myself another cup while you clear the table. You head for the shower and I follow some minutes later.
The sight of you, a hand on the tile, another in your hair, water cascading down your strong shoulders and well-defined back undoes something in me. You turn and your smirk is wolfish, predatory. Your cock is hard and before work, I need to taste you again. I strip and fall lazily to my knees beneath the stream, hot water giving me goosebumps as I take you in my mouth once more.
When I am done, you wash my hair and I scrub your back. You leave me to get ready while I finish my shower.
I am tousled and dewy and warm in my fluffy towel that you have left for me. You kiss me on the mouth in the open door frame, one finger beneath my chin, forcing my face up. You plant a peck on my nose and I blush. You’re out the door and off to work, and I’m walking around the house in nothing but my towel, planning dinner and a trip to the market.