Come Play With Me Again: A Mischief Erotica Collection. Justine Elyot

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       Wet Wednesday

       CeCe Marsh

      ‘You did what?’

      ‘I lost you last night at poker.’

      Even though I hear the words again, it’s hard to wrap my head around them. I don’t feel lost. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m right where I belong.

      Brad and I are in bed, recovering from our usual Wednesday-night sexathon – our ‘Wet Wednesday’ – that begins immediately after work and lasts until we can’t go any more, with occasional breaks for absolute necessities: food, fluids and trips to the bathroom. There aren’t usually many breaks, though. We much prefer what we’re doing in the bedroom.

      Wet Wednesdays are our Happy Hump Days, our midweek celebrations of sex that carry the two of us from long, lazy Sunday afternoons in bed to Friday up-half-the-night fucking sessions. Other weeknights we’re busy, tired, distracted by other things as often as not. Sex, sad to say, isn’t always our highest priority. But on Wednesdays, we don’t cook, we don’t even answer the phone. We don’t schedule anything for the evening but us. We try something new, get down and dirty, block out the world and focus on each other.

      Tonight has been typical: I arrive to find Brad’s car already parked outside the apartment building, since it was my turn to pick up dinner on the way home. I balance a pizza in one hand as I manoeuvre the key into the lock and enter to find Brad on the sofa, jeans open, cock in hand, a grin on his face.

      ‘Welcome home, baby. You got here just in time. The party’s about to start.’

      I walk over to kiss my man, lay the pizza box down on the coffee table and then bend down farther to kiss the head of his cock. Mmmm. Lick it a little. Even better. Slide my mouth around the entire mushroom end and suck sweetly, just the way I know he likes. Just until I taste the tiniest droplet of precome on my tongue. Just until I hear that groan out of Brad that makes my own honey start to run.

      That’s one thing Brad and I have in common – our steady streams of natural lube. He calls me ‘Slick’ because of how quickly he can make me wet, how easily my juice flows down and out, coating the swollen lips of my pussy, glazing my thighs, running (if he has me on my back) down between my split until it preps not only my cunt to take in his thick hard cock but also my tight-pink-rose behind. It puddles on the sheet. My man loves the wet spots I leave on the bed, the evidence of how much he arouses me, stud that he is.

      He delights in teasing out my wet as much as I love doing the same to him, working him deftly until I feel the slow but constant drip, drip, drip of him on my tongue while I’m licking, sucking, fucking him with my mouth. The taste of his essence is just one of the reasons I love running my tongue over his swollen shaft, sucking at his head as if drawing on the end of a massive straw; pulling at it with my mouth the way I bring up the dregs of a soft drink from the bottom of a cup where there’s little left but a few spoonfuls of melting ice. Listening to the slurp.

      Only that’s at the end of the drink. This is the beginning. I love the beginning.

      I love taking him into my warm, wet mouth while I grasp him lower, on his shaft: one hand midway, one at the root. My man’s a whopper, veiny and thick, and it takes both hands to give him what he needs: the first release of the evening. I hold him tight in my hands, stroking up towards my tongue, the tongue I am circling his crown with, the tongue I am using to tease his frenulum, the tongue I am darting in and out of his sweet slit, licking, licking, searching for that next drop of deliciousness I know he has for me: the salt of the earth.

      I sink to my knees then, between his, help pull his pants down to get at his balls, and slip one hand off his shaft to massage them gently. Next I replace that hand with my mouth to suck his warm nuts. He groans. While I am loving them, I continue to work his shaft, and I feel it continue to swell under my expert hands.

      When Brad sits forward on the sofa, I know it’s time for me to get fucked, and I relax my throat to take him in as far as he’ll go, knowing this means my lips will be kissing his torso, his thick cock all the way in me, in my mouth, my ‘other pussy’ that welcomes and loves my big hard man.

      And then I feel it, that last moment before he comes, when his balls rise up and his head swells that last little bit and he pulls out of my throat to shoot down it, spurt after spurt of warm, thick cream. I milk his shaft with my hands, emptying him of every drop. I suck and lick his tender head, cleaning him with my tongue. ‘Christ, Dana,’ my man groans as if in pain, yet I know he is spent and happy. His head is thrown back on the sofa, his face bathed in bliss.

      ‘What, baby?’ I ask, my head resting a moment on his knee.

      ‘Nothing. Just – Christ!’ I smile. He’s beyond words, beyond sense. I like taking him there, leaving him speechless.

      After a minute, Brad pulls himself back together and goes to fetch us plates and napkins. I eat a slice as Brad wolfs down two. He grabs a beer from the fridge for each of us and follows me into the bedroom. I’ve already kicked off my shoes, and Brad helps me out of the rest of my clothes and into my Wednesday-night attire: a loose T-shirt, cropped so short it barely covers my breasts. I love when he helps me undress like this, goes into my drawers to pick out what he wants me to wear, helps me put on one of the sexy tops he favours for fucking. He often babies me like this on Wednesdays; it’s part of our special midweek ritual, a subtle reminder to both of us that he’s the man in charge, while I’m at his beck and call when it comes to sex. He decides he wants panties on me tonight, so I leave them on.

      Whatever my man wants in bed, I give him. It’s always been that way. My mother taught me long ago: ‘When you find the right man, you let him be the boss, Dana, and you be sure to always give him what he wants, what he likes. Please him. You treat him like a man, and he’ll treat you like a woman.’ I knew even then – I was barely fourteen – she was talking about sex. So far, it’s proved to be damn good advice. Just ask Brad.

      He’s still in his jeans, but that’s because he wants to start me out with a good-girl spanking, over his knee, to lead us to the next focus of the evening: my pussy. He knows how wet he can get me with a dozen or two (or three) well-placed smacks on my all too eager derrière, and he likes to deliver them with me nearly – or entirely – naked, with him fully dressed or at least wearing pants. I’ve had all the cock I’m going to get for now. Until I’m spanked, soaking wet, sucked, licked, fingered and fully teased, and have begged him – begged him – for his cock, it won’t be sliding into my hot wet hole.

      He begins, as he always does, by massaging my cheeks, an action that ups the ante between my legs. I feel my clit start to pulse in anticipation of what I know is coming. The first slap is playful, and I can’t keep back that sex-fuelled laugh that eggs Brad on whenever he hears it. It’s a sultry sound, I know, and it bubbles out of me whenever my man teases me like this: slapping, rubbing, caressing, following up the caress with another slap, a little sharper, then smoothing out the sting with his strong, hard palm. Slap! Harder again, rub, caress. Slap! Still harder, and another giggle escapes me, followed by a sigh. He keeps it up until my eyes are full of tears and my ass is rising up to meet his hand, my body craving the pain that soaks the panties he’s left on me, my wet collecting in front of me, soaking through them to leave a big moist stain on his jeans. Sometimes he only smacks one cheek, rendering it red and aching while leaving the other white and wanting. Sometimes, like tonight, he moves from side to side, pinking me on both, spreading the burn.