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Copyright © 2001 Frenulum. All rights reserved.
Five-thirty on a Friday afternoon. Bill clicked the icon to shut down his workstation, then turned to his phone. Dialing the code to forward all calls to the service, he watched as his long time partner and friend, Warren, began going through similar motions.
Bill looked around the office with some satisfaction. Another week’s worth of good, creative work behind them at the two-man advertising firm. He let his gaze linger on a set of contract proofs pinned to the wall, for which the sign off — and a cool two hundred thousand clams — had arrived Tuesday. One more feather in the partnership’s two-headed cap; one more step from their humble beginnings, scrounging for work making flyers for a local burger joint, toward their current enviable position as one of the hottest, most effective, and most exclusive creative teams in the region.
If there was one trick they’d managed to pull off, it was that they never worked on weekends. At first, it had been a matter of principle — preserving their sanity while working 18-hour days to get the business off the ground. Later, as their reputation grew and the need to hunt for work began to ebb, it became more of a game. Clients who asked for weekend meetings or deadlines were met with increasingly implausable excuses — “Sorry, I’ll be in Dar Es Salaam until Monday, and Bill’s tied up on a national security matter.” They kept expecting that a client would twig to the ruse, but so far none had.
Bill silently regarded Warren for another moment. He couldn’t see in his friend’s face or movements any of the anticipation he felt for the relaxing two days ahead.
He made a last survey of his desk to make sure he hadn’t left anything awry, patted a pocket to check for car keys, shut off his desk lamp, and headed to the door. Bill turned and looked at Warren once more.
“You don’t look so happy about getting outta this place for the weekend,” he said.
Warren looked up. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s just... let’s call it the downside of the creative mind.”
“What do you mean?” Bill asked.
“Too much imagination. Too easy to picture things as other than they are. Too easy to tell myself plausible stories,” Warren lamented. “Want to hear my story, partner?”
“All ears, my friend.” Bill had paused with his hand on the door knob. Now he let go and took a step back into the office, letting the door swing closed behind him.
“Here it is. Picture this with me,” said Warren. “I get home after a long day like this, tired, tapped out. Park the car. Haul myself up the front walk. Now, just as I get to the door, it opens, and there’s Nora. She’s got a big smile on her face, and the only reason for it is that I’m home. She’s wearing some kind of nice dress — you know, not formal or fancy, but feminine and pretty, like she’d spent some time thinking about how she’d like to look for me. Strike that: like she’d spent some time thinking about how I’d like her to look. And when I step inside she hands me a martini. An icy cold, wet, delicious martini that she made for me. Fresh out of the shaker, like she was watching for my car out the front window, with the condensation just beginning to bead up on the glass. Fragrant. Potent. Adult. And we sit down and have... you know, a real nice time relaxing and talking.” Warren paused, ears reddening a little as he realized the extent to which he’d opened up, and sighed.
“Can I take it from your sigh that this is not in the cards for tonight?” Bill asked with unfeigned sympathy.
“Yeah, no kidding. First of all, most nights Nora works late, and I get home first, which pretty well shoots down the whole scenario right from the get-go. If she is home for any odd reason, she’ll be lying on the couch in a baggy old sweat suit, hoping I’ll volunteer to make dinner. And instead of relaxing or talking with me, she’ll just want to gripe for half an hour about some City Hall asshole she had to deal with. It’s not about telling me something, it’s just... spewing.”
“No happy greeting, no pretty dress, no icy martini, eh?”
“You got it. You know, that’s how I think of it: my ‘martini dream.’” Warren made quotation marks with his fingers, and then shook his head as he caught himself doing it. “It’s funny, ’cause I’m more of a wine guy, mostly. Just for some reason, whenever I spin this little fantasy, it’s a martini. Maybe I just like those funky cocktail glasses.” Warren allowed himself a rueful, self-deprecating smile.
Bill smiled back. Warren’s ability to find humor in a situation, to bounce back from a setback, was one of the qualities that their friendship was built on. Bill searched for a way to return the favor by lightening his partner’s spirits. “Well, how’s about we hit Herb’s on the way out, and I’ll buy you one?”
Warren shot him a grateful look. “Thanks anyway, partner, but I think I’ll just go home and crash instead. Hey, who knows, maybe this is my martini-dream-come-true night — I’d hate to miss it.”
Bill shrugged. “Your call. I’m off, then. Lock up?”
“Yeah, I’ll be done in five minutes. Have a good one.”
“You too. Seeya Monday.”
“G’night... Hey, Bill?” said Warren, as a last thought struck him. Bill stuck his head back into the office. “Michelle ever meet you at the door with a martini?”
A smile flickered across Bill’s eyes; by the time it reached his lips it was the merest twitch. “Uh, no. I doubt it ever occurred to her.”
“Yeah, figures,” sighed Warren. “Well, anyway, see ya Monday.”
Bill drove home in his usual freeway trance: navigation and helm relegated to some subconscious layer. Traffic wasn’t bad, and twenty minutes later he was off the freeway and on to neighborhood streets, approaching his house. As it always did when he got close to home, Bill’s cock began to swell in his pants. The body gets accustomed to routine, after all.
He pulled the car into the garage, shut everything down, and beeped the garage door closed. Now sporting a half-mast erection, Bill let himself into the house. He set down his briefcase, hung the car keys on a hook, and slipped out of his shoes. There had been no clients to see that day, so instead of a business suit Bill wore a polo shirt and casual slacks. He took the pants off, followed by his socks, and finally by his undershorts. Half naked, he walked into the living room.
In the center of the floor lay a large, flat, satin box-cushion, and on that cushion knelt Bill’s wife, Michelle.
She was nude. She knelt with her legs widely spread, her back erect, and her head bowed, eyes downcast. Her arms were held straight behind her back and her wrists were crossed.
Immovably crossed, although there was no binding. Some bonds are stronger than rope, stronger than steel.
What would an outside observer have made of this? Michelle’s thighs spread wide, opening her sex, withholding nothing. Her pubic pelt shorn, concealing nothing. Her arms behind her, denying nothing. Her head bowed, claiming nothing. A slave, an onlooker might have said: a slave subjugated, bound, diminished.
But a wiser one might object: here is a strong, capable, powerful woman. Her presence in this place and her slave’s posture are of her own choosing. Her arms are free to move if she wishes them to move. She is focused, not cowed; centered, not subjugated. This is not slavery. This is an oasis.
Bill approached and walked two slow circles around his wife, savoring the sight of her as he did at each day’s homecoming. He took in the womanly curve of her fine, firm ass; enjoyed the way her breasts were outthrust by the drawing back of her arms; treated himself to a glimpse of her hairless pussy, pulled agape by the spread of her legs to reveal the delicate lips within; and gazed tenderly at her bowed head, covered with its cap of short golden curls.
Their ritual was years old. It had evolved gradually in their early months together, as they discovered what medicine was most effective for stressful, busy days. For Michelle, spending a short time in a giving act, with all its submissive trappings, was the perfect antidote to a day in which her word was law, and helped her to avoid any accidental bossiness or abruptness during her time with Bill. For Bill, the yoga-like concentration on a single beautiful sight and a single incomparable pleasure was the best way to calm and focus his mind, so that he could put all the demands and activities of business aside and devote his full attention, for the rest of the day, to his wife. At some point along the way the ritual had become silent, the only communication between them conducted with a few small gestures, and the silence had increased its peacefulness and sanctity.
Bill stopped in front of Michelle and stepped close to her. Michelle’s head lifted until her mouth was level with Bill’s erect cock. She raised her eyes and looked lovingly into his, seeing the love returned in his own gaze. And then she began.
First she sucked him: simple, shallow, straightforward, plying her tongue along the hot spot beneath his cock head — just to coax his body to send that last measure of stiffening blood into his prick. Within a minute he was iron hard. It was, to Michelle, one of the most erotic things in the world: that the soft, small, flexible pink nubbin of a penis could transform itself into this stunning, majestic, rigid wonder of a cock. She loved to feel the elastic strength of it; loved to pull it down and let it spring upwards to slap her chin or cheek. She loved to force it down the curved passage of her throat, fighting the insistant rigidity of the mighty prick.
When she was satisfied that his hardon was full, Michelle slipped her mouth off of it and started licking it. She coated the cock shaft generously with broad laps of her spitty tongue, letting saliva run down his prick and balls only to be lapped up again and released over his cockhead. Michelle kept her mouth open; kept her kisses and licks as sloppy and messy as she could, knowing that before long she would want his cock as slick and slippery as possible. Turning her head, she extended her tongue even more and gently drew one testicle into her mouth, delicately washing it with spittle, and then devoted equal time to the other ball.
All during her ministrations, with her arms irrevocably bound behind her, Bill’s cock constantly eluded her mouth, pulsing and twitching from its own internal beat, or springing free of her lips and tongue, and soon Michelle’s face was spit-soaked as well, her cheeks and chin shining with moisture. When she lost it she chased it, seeking the precious fuck-pole with an eager, outstretched tongue.
She sucked him in again with her mouth held open wide and, turning her head to one side, let his cockhead press into her cheek. She forced her face onto the unyielding rod, stretching her mouth as wide as she could, almost to the point of pain. She had never seen what she looked like, sucking his cock in almost sideways so that the imprint of his cockhead was visible from the outside, but she had seen Bill’s face whenever she did this, and knew how erotic the view must be. With her face bulging she ran her talented tongue up and down the captured portion of his staff, as his cockhead was gently massaged by the slick pressure of her cheek. Michelle turned her face a little more and Bill’s prick sprang free with an audible pop! and then whipped back to smack her on the chin. She repeated the motions several times, reveling in the intense sensations and enjoying the comical pop! smack! at each release.
He’s hard enough, Michelle judged. And he’s slick enough. She held his cock briefly between her lips, her tongue making tiny circles around his jizz-hole, while she took a few deep breaths.
She impaled her head on his erection, taking the shaft deep into her throat, until her nose was pressed into his abdomen and the cockshaft had vanished. Her mouth was open wide, and even with her throat packed full of hot meat, Michelle managed somehow to extend her tongue, the tip caressing the top of Bill’s ball sac, stretching outward, sweeping from side to side. She let the involuntary contractions of her throat muscles massage the choking cock. Her gaping mouth secreted copious amounts of saliva, which flowed down her chin in sticky cascades, ultimately dangling in wet ropes before breaking off to splatter between Michelle’s tits and run down to her naked pussy.
When she had held him as long as she was able, she backed off, feeling the bulging head of his cock come up her throat and into her mouth; backed off further to leave the spit-coated fuck-stick bobbing freely in the air in front of her face. Then, pausing only long enough to gather breath, she descended again and again, each time straining at the mammoth intrusion into her throat, each time triumphing as she swallowed it all. Bill responded by starting to thrust in time with her sucking, driving his iron-hard spooge pipe even more forcefully into Michelle’s suckhole.
From the growing taste of semen in her mouth, Michelle knew that Bill was close to cumming. She wondered as she always did how he would choose to finish. Sometimes he wanted a vigorous end: fucking her mouth hard until he exploded inside it. Sometimes it was her throat that excited him, and he would cum as she held him deep, the sperm jetting straight down her gullet, beyond tasting. Sometimes he liked to wait until the first spurt had fired, and then pull away so he could watch the bright white cream arc into her mouth, coating her teeth and tongue. And sometimes he’d pay her the ultimate compliment, hosing down her whole face with a decorative lacing of sticky semen, icing her like a beautiful, elegant dessert.
Deep again, and back, gasping for breath. Deep again. Then Michelle felt Bill’s hands on the sides of her head, fingers tangling in her curls: a sign that she should be still, and let him pace the final seconds of the blow job.
He pulled out of her throat, leaving just the head of his cock in her mouth. Michelle closed her spit-slickened lips tightly around the shaft, knowing that he’d want the extra friction and pressure they could offer, and wiped her tongue firmly beneath his sensitive glans. Bill began to thrust in and out of his wife’s sucking mouth, holding her head, fucking her face at his own tempo, which grew faster and faster. He never fully withdrew, and never thrust past the point of her tongue’s maximum effect, but fucked back and forth in Michelle’s mouth like a piston in an oiled cylinder.
Then suddenly his strokes shortened, in-out-in-out-in-out just inside Michelle’s caressing lips. The smell of cum blossomed in her nose, and then she felt it, as the preliminary gloop of ejaculate spilled onto her tongue, hot and salty and so familiar. She closed her throat so that the hard spurts would not be lost, so she could keep as much cum in her mouth as possible until she knew how Bill wanted her to handle it.
The second spurt was a jet, the force palpable in Michelle’s cum-hungry mouth, and so were the next two. The main barrage having been fired, Bill’s pulsing shaft continued to pump out gob after gob of spunk as he kept fucking it into his wife’s sweet mouth.
Finally, emptied, Bill slowed his strokes. Michelle eased the pressure of her lips, and as Bill rocked his cock back and forth in her mouth through the lake of spooge she still held captive, some of the spicy cream oozed over her bottom lip to dribble down her chin. She kept her eyes on her husband, watching for one of the silent signs that would tell her what to do with the treasured mouthful — would he want her to swallow it, or hold it for a while, savoring the heat and flavor of the viscous juice, or would he want to watch as she let it spill slowly out of her mouth to fall in sticky strands onto her breasts?
Bill felt his orgasmic tension begin to ebb, and withdrew his dick at last from Michelle’s spermy mouth. Watching her lovely face, he reached up and tapped a finger next to his eye. Immediately, Michelle’s mouth flew open, her head held so that the thick wads of cum would form a lake right behind her lower teeth, just barely held from spilling out over her lip. Using her tongue, Michelle lifted loads of semen to the roof of her mouth and upper teeth, so that Bill would be treated to the sight of all those sticky strands, dripping, flowing, forming and breaking around her mouth. She closed her lips briefly and let jizz wash against them, then opened wide again with a clear bubble of cum forming a window into her mouth. When it popped, she made another cum-bubble and another. Then she swirled her tongue through the spermy lake again, splashing it against her teeth, coating her mouth. Droplets and streamers of creamy cum ran down the inside of her cheeks and hung like banners from her palate. She tipped her head back and gave Bill a broad smile, beautiful white teeth behind friction-reddened lips, and as he watched forced cum out through her teeth, until her smile disappeared behind a cloudy white puddle of spunk, just barely contained between her lips, threatening to overflow. She opened her mouth wider, letting the spooge trickle back into it, wiping her tongue over her spermy teeth to gather up all the stray gobbets of goo.
As she played and played with her mouthful of jizz, Michelle watched her husband watching the show, passion and enjoyment evident in his face. When he gave her a slight nod of the head, she closed her mouth and swallowed his creamy load. She sent her tongue scurrying around her teeth and over the roof of her mouth, collecting stray dribbles of spooge, and swallowed again. When her mouth was empty she filled it immediately with Bill’s fuck-pole, still stiff despite his climax, and began to suck again, gently, just caressing him with her lips and tongue as his hardon slowly relaxed.
Bill took his time enjoying the sweet sucking sensations as Michelle gradually eased him down from his orgasmic peak, watching her gently rocking on his cock. When he’d had enough he simply reached out and caressed the top of Michelle’s head, stroking her curls, and with a last strong suck she let his cock escape.
Their eyes met and they shared peaceful smiles; then Michelle lowered her gaze and once again bowed her head. Her posture was otherwise unchanged: still locked in the pose of a bound slave.
She waited until Bill had left the room before uncrossing her wrists and letting life flow back into her arms. Michelle rose stiffly from her cushion and headed up to her bedroom to get dressed. The daily ritual had had its accustomed effect on her: after a long day of making risky, rapid, high-stakes decisions and spurring her staff to action, she felt calm and rested and ready to be an equal partner to Bill, in whatever the evening might hold in store. And most of all, she felt that the day’s cares had properly been put in perspective. What truly mattered was their love, and her part in expressing it.
And as far as what might be in store for the evening, Michelle had a definite preference. She had been feeling a little frisky all afternoon, and spending half an hour with a beautiful hard cock in her mouth had only intensified that feeling. To that end, she selected a light sundress that definitely called for a slip, putting it on nevertheless without one, and a pair of white panties that were made more of air than of lace. There was plenty of sunlight left in the day, and if that dress, her long legs, and a properly situated window couldn’t get Bill’s romantic attention, she didn’t know her man. A quick freshening of makeup and she was on her way down to meet him.
Bill, in the meantime, had dressed again and was puttering around the kitchen, Friday being one of his days to prepare dinner. He looked up as Michelle entered the room.
“Hi, honey!”
“Hey, babe!”
And then the ritual exchange, in unison:
“How was your day?”
“I can’t remember!” They smiled at the jest that would never grow stale.
“You look great,” said Bill, “What a pretty dress.” And as he uttered the compliment, his partner Warren’s unfulfilled dream came flashing freshly to mind.
“A martini,” thought Bill. “How quaint.”
Author’s notes on Martini Dream
This one sat untouched for about three years, with the
office dialog and the final paragraph separated by a note
to write the blow job scene. Guess maybe I got carried
away when I finally got around to it.
Please tell me if you enjoyed my story. For that matter,
please tell me if you didn’t.
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