Death by Sext - Chapter 2

Death by Sext

~ chapter ii ~

story & visuals The Erotic Mage

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The train was slowing into the station and I was already at the doors like a dog that's heard the leash. A week away. Seven days of our no-cumming-until-together rule, and by now it felt like every cell in my body had a bit of cum in it. I typed: "I'm about to leave the train." "I know" he replied fast. I stared at the screen. What was that supposed to mean?

I stepped over the gap, minding it so I didn't begin the reunion flat on my face, and a voice landed warm against the back of my neck. "Need some help?" I turned, and there he was. He'd come to ambush me. Five years married and the man could still knock the air clean out of me. I dropped my bag and wrapped around him before I'd finished deciding to. He hugged back hard. When we kissed, the whole endless week set itself down somewhere and left the two of us alone.

"I wasn't expecting you here," I said against his mouth. "I know. Couldn't wait another second." "Take me home. Please. Now." He pulled back just far enough to look smug, lifting my backpack off my shoulder. "Let's go — I'm wearing something you'll like." I groaned. "You're going to get me arrested before we even leave this filthy train station." "Then we'd better hurry," he laughed.

On the platform he asked about the trip. I tried to answer like a functioning adult, but a week of missing him had relocated most of my blood, and none of it to my brain. One thing I'll always love about living in Germany: nobody around us understands a word we say. We come from a speck of an island where maybe ten thousand people speak the language — so we can stand in a packed metro car and say the filthiest things on earth wearing the faces of two men discussing the weather. I made full use of that to keep him teased throughout the full trajectory, looking deep into his eyes. The ride usually takes fifteen minutes and feels like nothing. Tonight it felt like three hours and a court sentence. I couldn't get the image of him with the red jockstrap from my mind, even though I was trying hard not to so that a boner wouldn't make it awkward for anyone around. After finally arriving, I remembered that our building had picked this week to keep its elevators dead, of course. Five flights of dark, badly lit stairwell stood between me and everything I wanted. I let him climb ahead of me. Purely strategic. I waited until the stairwell was ours — then, in one clean tug, I dragged his sweatpants down to his thighs. I nearly went down the stairs backward.

By our floor I was sure someone had added steps while I wasn't looking. Then our door, and the simple, stupid joy of it. Home. Inside, the place smelled of citrus and cinnamon. "Tea and cinnamon rolls?" I asked. "Thought you might want a taste of home." Something in my chest went soft and traitorous. "That's actually really sweet." "I know." Proud of himself. Always. I kicked off my shoes, hooked him back by the waistband, and put my mouth to his ear. "The taste I've missed most isn't the cinnamon." The color that climbed up his neck told me he'd heard me just fine.

I undressed him on the way to the bedroom, a layer at a time, in no hurry now that I finally had him. Shirt. Sweatpants — gone for good this time. Socks, because I'm a romantic. Every piece that hit the floor put another day of that week further behind us. The jockstrap stayed. Naturally. A dark wet bloom had spread across the red, and God, I loved that he'd gotten himself that far gone just from peeling me out of my clothes. I dropped my own along the way. My shoulders still stung from the sunburn the trip had gifted me, and he found it at once, thumb grazing the heat. "I love these," he murmured. "You're impossible." "No." He looked me over, slow, head to foot. "I've just been starving." That word did something to the backs of my knees. He reached for the lube on the nightstand and worked it over me with a patience that ought to be illegal, watching me come apart by inches, enjoying every second of my suffering. "You planned all of this," I said. Not a question. "Maybe." "You absolutely planned all of this." He laughed, low, and gave the plug a slow, deliberate turn — just to watch me lose my mind. "Soon," he said. "I've been saving the real thing for you all week." A week. The rule. Only inside me — I want to feel it. Seven days of gritted teeth, and here was the finish line, wearing my husband's face. After that there was no teasing left in either of us. He pulled me down onto the bed and I followed like gravity had finally picked a side — a week of holding back, and suddenly we were all hands and teeth.

"There you are," he breathed. "Missed you. All of you." I said it into his shoulder. "Especially this part." He grabbed my cock and started slapping it against his own face, and I felt the blood rush downward as I half-stood over him on the bed. Seeing him that hungry for me was doing things to me I still can't describe — but I gave him what he wanted. I grabbed the back of his head and helped, dragging the weight of my cock across his flushed cheeks and his waiting tongue. The mix of my precum and his saliva on his face was hot. So hot. *I had to get inside him.* "Don't you hold back." His hands found the small of my back and pulled. "You owe me a whole week. I want to feel every day of it." He lifted his ass toward me — he wanted it from behind, and I felt myself leaning in like we were made of magnets. I bit down on his cheek as I slowly eased the plug out: purple, a yellow stone in the base, fancy and precious — just like where it had been sitting a second ago. Hearing him moan gave me a jolt of confidence only he could give me. I lined myself up for maximum impact. It was about damn time. I gave it all to him. Every postponed night, every ruined train bathroom, every DON'T CUM he'd typed at me in all caps — I gave it all back with interest, and he took it laughing and gasping and cursing me in our useless little language that no one on earth could translate. After some hard give-and-take I peeled the jockstrap aside and freed his cock — soaking wet. I thrust harder, and he gasped, "Uhh… this… is… so… good… I might cum any second." "It's been too long," I managed. "Way," he agreed, breathless. "Too. Long—… let's finish this grandly." He stilled my hips and pushed me down onto my back, then sank onto my cock and rode me. "Let's do it like this." God, I loved a bossy bottom. I could feel his prostate as he leaned back, and I couldn't help driving it faster, working his hips back and forth.

And then the week broke. The rule broke. I broke — finally, deep, right where he'd spent seven days begging me to be, while he pulled me in like he meant to keep it. A split second later he was groaning too, making the finishing sounds I'd missed so much — and spilling hands-free across both of us. The wonders of hot sex!

For one white second I understood exactly what he'd meant on the train. *I might be the first person to die out of horniness.* It felt like that. Like the top of my skull lifting clean off. "You completely destroyed me," I said, from somewhere near the ceiling of my own body. He collapsed beside me, wrecked and glowing and grinning. "My ass," he announced to the room, "has been waiting for that level of attention all week." I laughed, and it came out soft and far away. The ceiling drifted gently out of focus. He was still talking — I could hear his voice, but it reached me from the bottom of a warm pool. The exhaustion, the relief, the frankly embarrassing amount of happiness, all of it blurred into one strange floating tide. "Hey." His voice, from somewhere. "You still awake?" "I think so," I said, and even I didn't believe me. Somewhere in the back of my dissolving head, I remembered what he'd typed on the train — *one last fuck and we die together.* I'd thought he was just being dramatic. The mattress stopped feeling like a mattress. The dark behind my eyes started getting *brighter* — which made no sense at all, and I was too far gone to argue with it. I blinked. The bedroom was gone. The apartment was gone. The whole world was gone. I was floating, naked, through a wide blue sky. My husband floated beside me, just as naked and just as lost. And past him, in every direction, dozens of other naked men drifted lazily among the clouds like the most relaxed migration in history. I stared. He stared. For several long seconds neither of us said a word. Finally I pointed at the sky, as if that explained anything. "Did we die?" He blinked. "I was *literally* about to ask you the same thing." I looked around once more — the clouds, the men, the impossible warm light of the whole ridiculous paradise — then back at him. "Okay," I said slowly. "Either we're dreaming…" "…or we just fucked our way into the gay oasis." To be continued…

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