Deep Sixed, by Stan Long

I love that first nudge of the buttocks, then the exploring hand with its fingers insisting I stand up and do my duty by her, a fast or slow salute; whatever pleases and then the white waves she makes with the sheets and bedding into which she nosedives while pushing up her pert, ivory-white ass. She looks up at me from over her elbow, her ass rising from the pillows like a Beluga coming up for air, working it as an invitation to mayhem of the raunchy kind until I find myself pleasing her as I have done a thousand times before. No wonder I’m a sucker for it, my subjugation complete, my stamina that of a marathon runner from long practice with my stride, mind a blank, diving but determined to surface before I have the bends, her painted face turned to look up at me in a fixed expression like the figurehead of the Argus, me its helmsman who can’t look elsewhere, scared to go blind. So I bend and comply with her insistence, her immoral rectitude that keeps me at it like a duty, like a soldier who must soldier on past pain, past pleasure, praying for a bullet to end it. Except it’s a kiss, a salty, slimy kiss she gives, twisting round to take me with her, down down down, daughter of Tantalus teasing me every inch of the way – how I hate/love, despise her my desire – my precious, precocious perversion of a wife.

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