Page 5 of The Story of You

“I’m sorry, baby. You’re going to have to forget about being a therapist.”

He laughs louder this time. “I have never wanted to be a therapist.” He steps out of his boxer briefs—the only kind I like him to wear—and his caged cock is on full display. He steps toward me, staring up; his head reaches my chest. “I want to serve you. I want to have your meal on the table hot and delicious for when you get home from a long day. I want to tidy our home and do your laundry and fold your socks. But most of all? I want to be your filthiest whore, Daddy.”

Spinning him around with force, I position him to face the desk, his hands land palms down and I smack his ass hard enough to leave a print. I make quick work of sliding my belt through the loops and the first place it lands is on his ass hard enough he hisses. I land a few more just to make him writhe.

Even if I didn’t own the building and have people working for me who are both used to and okay with our proclivities, my office is a lone one on the top floor away from everyone else. It’s also soundproofed. No one will hear him scream.

“That’s a good boy. Stick your ass out for Daddy and stand on your toes.” He’s obedient, rising with the grace of a swan, allowing his low back to swoop and lift his peach-shaped ass into the air. “Wider. I can’t even see your hole.”

I’m just being a sadist and he knows it. Standing on tiptoes is difficult in the easiest of positions, in a wide stance it’s taxing from the start. It’s perfect for putting any smug-jawed masochist in their place—right where they like to be. While the very idea of being made to do such a thing will send arousal through him, he’ll be terrified of failing me.

I take my time fishing the lube from my desk drawer so his calf muscles can enjoy some time burning and he can worry as to whether he’ll make it. I drizzle lube over his crease. He’s lucky I don’t have my usual patience today and the thought of him working of all things—even though it was my idea—has me on edge.

Just because you love the rain, does that mean you hate the sun?

With my slacks unzipped, I pull my cock out and stroke it a few times before I slide into Lak. I let his ass eat my cock, sucking it all the way in, and when my pelvis hits skin, I stop long enough to admire the rippling muscles of his back.

“You’re mine, Shanni,” I say, hating how broken I sound. This is why I don’t talk abouthim. Or think abouthim. I dig my fingers into Lak’s pelvis hard enough to leave bruises. I fuck him with earnest precision. He’s wearing a cock cage, which means he’s not coming. The most he can hope for is my dick hitting his prostate enough that he leaks come and empties his heavy balls.

My arousal goes wild thinking about it.

All this time, he’s remained on his toes. “Good job, baby. Mmmm. Hunngh.Fuck. You’re so goddamn gorgeous.”

I pick up the pace, needing to own him; have my jizz all over his insides—wash him with me. He groans and grunts with the struggle of keeping up with my thrusts. Sweat beads over his ass and thighs. He’s tight and slick around my cock, the lube still plentiful.

“Daddy, Daddy, please.”

My orgasm takes me by surprise. I get so caught up staring at my sublime husband that sometimes, it happens. Especially when he’s straining and suffering for me. I moan through my pleasure, the electric euphoria waves through me and I empty my dick inside him. It softens quickly at my age even though I’m a fit and healthy forty. I turn him around so I can kiss him stupid.

“You’re the sunshine and he was the rain,” I tell him.

“No. I’m always the rain, Raja.” He doesn’t expand on that, leaving it for me to figure out.

I kiss him some more, sliding hands into his soft dark locks filled with warmth. He squeezes me with his thick and agile thighs. I nuzzle his neck again. Something’s happened. This place on him; it centers me. So many years together and I can still find “new” with him.

I smack his ass. “Get dressed. We’re going home.”

* * *

Silas

Iwrap my hands slowly, letting the anticipation build. The dancer is in better shape than the last time we did this. Oliver’s told me all about his foot and the strides he’s made with the practitioner I found for Oliver.

I’m dressed in my black sweats, shirtless and barefoot. I’m near the heavy bag. I glance toward Oliver’s space. I’ve laid on that dancefloor, watching him practice so that he wouldn’t be alone. Sometimes it was hard not to fall asleep, not due to boredom—he could never bore me—but because I’d worked so many hours my human frailties were fighting me into submission.

“Okay, Oliver. Time for bed,” I’d say and pray that he was done.

“But Baba, I haven’t even begun dancing yet—that was the warm-up. I won’t make it as a principal dancer if I don’t get this right. I-I-I can do it myself. You can go to bed, Baba.”

I’d catch enough of the tremble in his voice to know how much he needed me there. I wanted to be there. He didn’t have a mother or a father. He only had me. Damn having to sleep. I wanted to build all his dreams for him. I’d get coffee and force myself to be awake for as long as he needed me.

Now, this Italian ballerina thinks he can do better than me?

“I know you have the wild idea that you should tell Oliver about this,” I say.

“I am a terrible liar, sir. He’s going to find out.”

“If you can’t lie, you’re defenseless.” Lying saved our lives many times. The truth is nice. It’s important. But more often than not the truth will get you killed or worse. It was when I couldn’t lie—that’s what destroyed me.