The thing is, I don't love everything about it. I don't love the possibility of mess. I don't love the need for preparations before the act. I don't love the diminishment of spontaneity. Anal sex, at least for us, requires some preparation. I need to, what we call, "clean myself out." I'm not going to elaborate beyond that. I think you all know what I'm talking about.
If there's a chance for anal sex in my near future (like, in the next hour or two), I clean out. If I don't, then as far as I'm concerned, that prospect is gone, and I stop thinking about it as a possibility. Often, Husband will warn me in advance to "get ready," just to make things clearer, to make sure all options are open. (Options often mean orders.)
But the thing is, the aversion to potential mess is my worry alone. Husband doesn't care. (I almost wrote doesn't give a shit, but that would've been crass.) What he does care about is having all-access to my body, every hole open to his pleasure....
He lay on top of me, on my back, pressing my body face down into the mattress. I could feel his breath on my neck, his stiff erection against my bottom. His fingers intertwined with mine, grabbing on, holding me still as I arched my head up and groaned.
I could feel his cock sliding against the crack of my ass, rubbing, caressing, and burying at the same time.
"Uh, Husband," I said, a tickle of worry in my voice, "I didn't clean."
"Why not?" He answered, stopping his movements. His words were a hiss against my ear, making me shiver.
"I...I didn't know I should...I didn't think of it."
"You should have," he said, resuming his rubbing. "I don't care." His movements began to hone in, his intentions clear. I gasped.
"Seriously, Husband, please--"
He pushed me further into the mattress, spreading my legs wider with his own as his cock met its target. "I don't care about a mess," he said again. His fingers pressed into my palms, holding my hands still. I could feel his prick against my entrance, probing, testing my resolve, as I squirmed and twisted beneath him.
"Please, Husband, please, please--" A sharp intake of breath cut off my words as I felt him press in. It was then I realized, he was enjoying my discomposure, my distress. He liked feeling me struggle beneath him.
"Please, Husband, you can't--"
He stopped, and I realized I had just gone way, way too far.
"I can't?" He whispered. "Can't I? I wouldn't worry about the mess right now if I were you. I would worry whether or not I'm going to use lube."
"Please!" I said, voice straining.
"You should really pay more attention to these things. I'll take any hole I want. You should know that by now. Do you understand?"
"Oh, God."
"Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Sir!" His cock was pushing into my rear channel, that clenched and squeezed in alarm.
"Get down on the floor, on your hands and knees, and we'll do this right," he said.
With shaking limbs, I complied, falling to the floor and bracing myself on my hands and knees. I heard a drawer open and a bottle top snapping; a second later, cold slippery lube was dripping from my crack. Husband wasted no time: he positioned, aimed, and thrusted home. I whined, and whimpered, and shrieked more than once. But quickly he was pumping hard, with an easy rhythm, having broken through all resistance.
"Play with your clit," he ordered. It was an easy command to obey. Now that the deed was done, his cock ensconced up my ass, there was nothing for me to do but enjoy it. I twisted one shoulder down and lay my face against the carpet, as I snaked my hand between my legs.
As I rubbed my clit, my body began to thrust back against his cock, until all he had to do was stay still and let me do all the work.
"That's it," he encouraged. "That's it. Come now. Come for me."
I did, shaking and crying. He came soon after me, holding me by the hips and pumping hard.
As he pulled out of me, breathing hard, I collapsed across the floor. My shoulder ached, my knees hurt, and my face felt heated with shame, as well as carpet burn.
"There's no mess," he said, his voice full of humor. "I don't know what you were worried about."
I didn't reply.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head up, not roughly, but just enough to gain my attention. "I can do whatever I want," he said. "So don't think about what I can do. Worry about what I will do. And be ready next time."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl."
My body is his. He concedes to my little worries and concerns when he's feeling indulgent, when he's in the mood. But when he's not?
I'm still made to capitulate. And God, it feels divine.
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