Beg for It(2)

These were the moments when being alone hit her so hard. When there was nobody to shout for, “Hey, can you grab me that washcloth?” Nobody to argue over what to watch on television. Nobody to remember to bring up the garbage pails, except her, and she always, always forgot.

Of course, one of the huge reasons why she and Douglas had ended up splitting was because he hadn’t been the sort of man to do those things for her, at least not without a lot of reminding. It had always been so difficult with him. He wasn’t a bad guy. Not a terrible husband. He was simply more interested in whatever it was he wanted than he’d ever been in taking care of anything else.

Her boy would’ve made sure the cloth was hanging on her hook before she even got in the shower, and if he hadn’t, he’d have been there at once to bring it to her. Thinking of this as the water at last warmed to a reasonable temperature, Corinne let herself sink once more into memories.

He’d learned her. Known her. Sure, things had turned bad and it had ended, but that was always the way. If things weren’t bad, they didn’t end.

Corinne’s hand slipped between her thighs at the memories of her boy on his knees, head bowed, rubbing her feet while she drank iced coffee and flipped through silly gossip magazines. All those hours spent on her feet waiting tables had left her with painful arches and cramping toes. Other men might feign a brief interest in massaging away the pain, but only so far as it meant them eventually getting in her pants. Her boy rubbed her feet until they no longer hurt, even if they both knew she didn’t plan on f*cking him.

That had been the difference between him and all the other men she’d ever dated. Other men had claimed they wanted to please her, and some of them had tried, but in the end it had always come down to them giving her what she wanted as long as it was also what they wanted to give her. Her boy had taken care of her needs before his own, no matter what.

“You don’t want a boyfriend, you want a dog,” one ex-lover had accused in the final fight that had ended that relationship.

He hadn’t understood her at all.

With one hand still flat on the wall, she let the fingers of the other slide through her folds, finding slick heat between her thighs. When she brushed the tight knot of her clit with her thumb, everything inside her contracted. Tensing. Pulsing.

She thought of her boy in a slightly different position, still on his knees but his back and shoulders straight. Chin lifted. Hands crossed behind his back while he faced the corner for some small infraction she could no longer recall. Sometimes he’d sassed her just so she would be pushed to discipline him.

“Fuck,” Corinne breathed and turned her face up to the water as she opened her mouth.

God, she missed kissing. Tangled tongues, sloppy wetness, the heat of breath on her face. A hand on the back of her head, keeping her close.

She tweaked her clit between her thumb and forefinger, slowly. Then faster. Her fingers curled and slipped on the wet tile. Her hips rocked, and she settled her feet a little wider apart. She wanted, needed, to be filled, but all she had was the thickness of her first two fingers. The heel of her hand pressed her clit as she f*cked into herself.

She remembered taking him in the shower. Laughing, teasing, she’d told him he’d been a dirty boy and needed a good scrubbing. Compliant as always, obedient, her boy had allowed her to put him under the spray and had stood patiently while she soaped a cloth. It had quickly become too difficult to laugh around the sharp intake of her breath as she moved the cloth over his firm, taut muscles. He’d always been so, so lovely.


“Hands on the wall.” Corinne’s voice is low and a little harsh, the tone meant to trigger him. It triggers her, too, when she talks like this. Commanding but not cruel.

He turns immediately, those big strong hands going flat against the slick surface. Without being told, her boy places his feet shoulder-width apart, giving her room to reach through his legs to cup his already hard cock, if she wants. For now, Corinne only strokes the soapy cloth over his back. Shoulder blades jutting, shifting at her touch, he shudders.

Her boy leans to press his forehead to the shower wall, bending at the waist. Corinne nudges his feet with hers to get him to open wider, careful that neither of them slip. When his feet are far enough apart that he’s leaning even farther, his ass easily accessible, she runs a finger down his spine. Counting the knobs there. Briefly circling the twin dimples at the base. Then lower, down the crack of his butt until she finds the tight pucker of his *, where she presses her fingertips and listens to him moan.

Her other hands slips between his thighs to cup his balls. She doesn’t squeeze, though when he pushes back against her, she lets out a low warning tone and allows her grip to get a little tighter. Just enough to warn him.

“Please,” her boy whispers. “Please, Ma’am.”


Corinne let out a hushed cry as she withdrew her fingers from her yearning, hungry cunt and used them to rapidly stroke her clit. She’d f*cked him in the shower, fingers, mouth, and tongue working him until he’d begged for the release she had not granted until he’d gone to his knees in front of her and given her two orgasms with his tongue. The water had turned cold by the time they’d finished, but neither of them had noticed.

She moaned his name, letting the thrum and beat of the water take it away so she could almost pretend she hadn’t said it aloud.

Her breath sobbed out of her as she slid two fingers inside her * again, curling upward. She let herself go with the pleasure. No more holding back. Stroking her clit again in a steady, constant rhythm, Corinne urged her body toward the edge.