Two Sides of a Coin

Two Sides of a Coin
by RedBud

“Didn’t you see it?”
Her husband didn’t answer. The laundry he had stepped over was still on the floor. “What about the house?”
“What about it?” she shot back.

He ticked off one finger after another. “The garage door opener. The leaky roof. The bathroom faucet. Changing the oil. Mowing the lawn. Picking up the kids…”

“And you want a medal for that?”
“You just said…”
“It’s like you don’t live here!” She cried, exasperated, fists in her hair.

“I…”

“You go to feed the dog and when there’s laundry to pick up, you step over it; when you put clothes in the dryer, it’s me who cleans the filter; how can you not see the mess in the children’s playroom? You just step around it. Why can’t you pick something up on your way to feed the dog? I spend an hour, Jake, an hour, every week, planning what we’re going to eat. I make a grocery list.”

“I buy groceries…”
“I leave the list on the refrigerator door! I spell it out. Easy. How hard would it be, for you, to open the door to see if we need milk?”
“So none of what I do matters?” he cried. “Nothing?”

But Jake’s wife was gone. He could hear her cry of anger. Was she crying? – his helplessness enraged him. He wanted to leave for for an hour or maybe two. But he didn’t. He took a deep breath. He waited. He took another deep breath and then, slowly, he looked for her. He wouldn’t walk out this time.
And after several dead ends he found her in the kitchen.
She was leaning with the small of her back against the counter top. Her eyes were red and she was wiping her nose. “I know,” she said, “you hate it when I cry.”

“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“I’m sorry,” he said with a hard swallow.
She offered him a fleeting, sheepish smile. “You don’t hate me?”
Jake rolled his eyes.
“Just say it,” she sniffled.

“I don’t hate you.”
“No, say it the other way.”
“I. Love. You.”
“How much?” she asked.
“Anything,” he said.
“There are cheerios under the kitchen table,” she sniffled again. “I’ve cleaned them up every morning for two months.”
Jake sprung into action. He ran a dishtowel briefly under the faucet, then knelt and reached under the table. He heard his wife giggle.

“What?” he asked.
“You’re kinda’ sexy,” she answered. “When you’re on your hands and knees.”
“Cleaning?”
“Yeah, you’re sexy.” She stepped forward and squeezed his ass as he captured the last cheerio in the wet cloth.
He stood. Paused. Kissed her. Then returned the dishtowel.

“You missed one,” she said, reaching round him. “Poor man. Let me show you how to do it.”
He might have bristled, but the way she said it and the way she moved stopped him. She took the dishtowel, and they way her hips swiveled, and the way she glanced back at him as she lowered herself to her hands and knees, in front of him, hardened him. Then the way she arched her back and stretched as she reached for a cheerio somewhere under the furthest corner of the table steeled him.

He unhooked his belt. He lowered the zipper of his jeans. His sudden desire was full and ready.
He knelt behind her. She moved only slightly. He lifted her skirt. She arched more and widened her knees. He moved her panties aside and pushed. She inhaled and sighed, she with the heavy thickness suddenly filling her, he with hot wetness that kissed and meltingly enveloped him. Then his hands were on her hips. He slid back, to the length, until the just the tip still opened her, then pushed forward again, crying out with the familiar pleasure of belly.

And she she cried out with the familiar strength of his thrust.
His desire for her was rigid, palpable, unyielding. She spread her legs yet again and lowered her forehead to the floor. “Fuck me,” she breathed. “Yes. Like this.”

And he did – inflamed by her femininity. He thrusts moved more and more quickly. He held himself upright as she knelt in front of him. He pulled her by her hips against himself, then away, then back again. He was in control. He was the husband and she was the wife. And leaned back closed his eyes and savored her quick gasps each time he filled her belly.
“Oh god,” she breathed. “Hold me tight. Hard! Deeper! Harder!”
She stiffened, head back, knees splayed. He pulled her back hard She came – soft, choked spasms that he felt in her abdomen.

It was time to finish.
“Don’t move,” he growled.

Her answer was a low acknowledgment as he reach for her shoulder with his left hand and gripped her hip with the right.
He was quick, hard and final. A chair skittered noisily under the table.
His last thrust finished deeply, his kneeling wife pulled hard against groin. His lust emptied into her warmth, his spurts quick and demanding. She groaned. She felt safe. She felt his strength holding her and pouring into her. When he finished, when his grip loosened, she lowered her cheek to the tile floor, eyes half shut.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“For what?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing… it felt good to do it like that.”
“It felt good to be done like that,” she answered.
“I’ll do better… with everything.”
She smiled, but he didn’t see. She reached between her legs. She cupped his balls and felt her man harden inside her.

:Will Crimson
April 24 2010

Latest Comments

  1. ALA says:

    Good God. That was … an awesome bit of writing!!!
    I’m all hot and bothered now….

    It’s too bad my kids don’t like Cheerios.

  2. boundbydesign says:

    Ohh dear. I’m never going to be able to look at Cheerios the same way again…

  3. willcrimson says:

    Trust me. It’s not the Cheerios. If you need an excuse to drive your man crazy, just about any crumb will do. :-)

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