Hot Head

JAMES SATURNE

I was making a habit of coming home grumpy when my wife hit her breaking point. I came in on a particularly hot day to a very cool house, and I snapped at her. “What the hell, it’s like a refrigerator in here. I know it’s hot but, Jesus, Janet…”

She looked up from where she was standing over the hot stove cooking dinner. Her mouth was rigid with sudden anger.

She turned to me, put her hands on her hips and said, “Enough.”

I opened my mouth, but then closed it. She’d surprised me. I’ll admit it.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to a chair with a wooden spoon. Her face was flushed from the steam of whatever was bubbling on the stove.

I don’t know what possessed me, but without a single word, I dropped my ass in the seat and shut up.

She swished around the room in her long floral skirt and a sleeveless top that somehow made her look authoritarian.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked almost under her breath. And then she began taking my suit jacket off. I let her.

“I’m…tired,” I said weakly, knowing deep down it was a piss-poor excuse for my behavior.

Janet grunted, not impressed. She took off my cufflinks, set them on the table and then rolled up my cuffs. I watched her, mesmerized but utterly unsure of what she was doing.

“Put them out,” she barked, nodding toward my hands. Her voice startled me so much that I obeyed. My wife is about a foot shorter than me, petite, curvy and usually very soft-spoken.

I put my wrists out, and to my great surprise, she pulled a nylon scarf from the pocket of her skirt. She wrapped the scarf around my wrists and knotted it tightly, but not tight enough to restrict blood.

My mouth popped open but then closed. Then I repeated my fish impression again. I noticed, ironically, that my dick was hard. Not just hard. It was a rock in my pants—eager and utterly ready for action.

“I’m in no mood for your shit,” she said, looking down at me. “I’ve had a long day, too. And then I come home, turn on the lovely air-conditioning, and proceed to cook you dinner when I’d have been happy with a cheese plate, and then you arrive barking at me?” Her lovely blue eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“I…I…um, I’m sorry,” I finished weakly.

And I was. I was sorry. But I was also as horny as hell.

She studied me and cocked her head so her long, dark hair fell over her shoulder. “Fine. Prove it. Down on your knees.”

“My what?” I yelped. But I noticed that my cock went from just hard to hard and desperate. My erection twitched in my pants, and before I could stifle my voice, I moaned.

She leaned in and said, “Can’t you hear?”

“I…I…” There I was stammering again, and so I simply shut my mouth and tilted myself forward so that I dropped somewhat painfully to my knees. The hardwood floor was unforgiving. So was Janet because she didn’t help me.

She smiled at me and then closed the space between us, her bare feet silent as she moved. She hiked up her long, gypsy skirt, and I saw that she was bare underneath. That did new and interesting things to my cock. I was leaning forward, making a rather embarrassing noise before she even uttered the sentence.

“Prove you’re sorry. Eat me. Make me come.”

By the time she got to the final word, I had already pressed my lips to her pussy. I nudged my tongue between her wet folds, tasted her musky loveliness. I only wished my hands were free so I could push my fingers inside her wet, velvety cunt.

The cold air-conditioning blew down on me and kept me from being miserable in what remained of my suit. The irony wasn’t lost on me. To show my gratitude for the cool air, I ran the rigid tip of my tongue over her clit in perfect circles. My wrists thumped with my trapped pulse. I was sweating because I’d never been bound. I was also humping the air like a dog in heat.

“Pay attention to what you’re doing,” she reprimanded, threading her delicate fingers through my sweat-damp hair. She pushed her hips forward, grinding her wetness against my mouth. I shoved my tongue into her cunt, tasting how salty-sweet and hot she was there. I wanted to bury my cock inside her. I wanted to take her from behind. I wanted her to take me, riding me like a beast.

But all I could do was stay on my knees, at her mercy, and make her come.

I ate her like I never had before, my tongue darting and tasting, licking and teasing. I sucked hard, drawing on her pussy so that she whimpered. Then I released my pressure and focused my attention on her erect clit. I nipped it lightly with my teeth before teasing it with soothing strokes of my tongue. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back, and I rubbed my bound hands against my hard prick. I was so aroused I felt like I might burst.

“Jesus,” she whispered, keeping my mouth and attention stable with a hand on the back of my head.

She ground against me as I lapped up her juices. She came with an uttered curse and a rush of fluids that I diligently and eagerly drank down.

She dropped to her knees, pushed me onto my back and undid my zipper. There was no time to actually take my pants off—or even remove my belt. She lifted my bound hands above my head and tilted the chair back long enough to put a leg between my bound arms. Then she set the chair back on the floor, and my wrists were ceremonially anchored by that single leg.

I found it unbelievably arousing. When she touched my cock to take it out, I moaned like I was dying.

“Don’t you dare come until you give me one more,” she said with eyes wild. “We’re still not square.”

I nodded like a madman. “Yes, yes…” I chanted.

She climbed on me, and I imagined her slick pussy leaving marks on my dress pants. I almost came, but I managed not to—not yet.

She rode me feverishly, her hair in her eyes and her hands clutching my shoulders. I gritted my teeth, trying to rein in my pleasure. I felt like the smallest deviation in friction would make me come.

And then she began to writhe rhythmically, and I whimpered.

Janet chuckled and moved faster. She watched my face. When I shuddered and said, “Please!” she nodded, rocked her hips and came.

I lost my control then, fucking her from beneath, my hips bucking crazily. She drove down each time to meet me. The chair screeched on the hardwood from the motion of my wrists pulling at it crazily. I thrust up once more, and she leaned down and bit my nipple.

I came with a loud cry, almost knocking the chair over.

When my breathing stabilized, I looked up at her and licked my lips. “So what’s for dinner?”

“Chicken cacciatore. You still pissed about the AC?”

I smiled. “Actually, it feels nice in here.”

“I thought so,” she said.