This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
The first time I said, “hurry” to my husband I was seventeen. Shirtless. Braless. His mouth latched around my nipple. My fingers dovetailed in his hair. We weren’t yet married and his parents were due home. But it was easy to forget about them when his tongue lathed my breast, and my titflesh disappeared into his mouth as he nipped and sucked. Until they came through the door and I couldn’t redress fast enough.
I had said it a hundred times since – especially after his fingers pitty-pattied my clitoris to orgasm. Like when his engorged penis nudged deep inside me, and my womb shivered with his presence.
“Hurry, lover, hurry,” I said as we rocked together like a buoy in a wake until he spent himself within me, and I orgasmed again.
It’s been too long since he heard it last. We stood at the door, his arms locked around me. Our lips pressed together. He exhaled and I inhaled, embedding his breath in mine. His cap blocked my fingers when I reached to touch his crew cut. The stripes at his shoulders struck me as prison bars rather than evidence of excellence, but the pride in his voice as he assured me, “It will be okay,” reminded me why I love him.
“Hurry home, lover, hurry home,” I whispered in his ear.
And now I say it every day.
Copyright © 2003 by Desdmona.