If Walls Could Talk

They were a couple in their late 30s living abroad. She was from that place everyone is always going on and on about. Stucco houses and tv shows that would take a wrecking ball to you given the chance. They were making this house a home.

He was from somewhere else— where people had dreamy accents and lived off tea and scones. “These walls are paper thin, I’m freezing my bollocks in here!” True, the house was old but it was European and had charm. Nothing mattered because when she walked in the room, he lit up, seemingly warming everything around him.

These two—they loved each other. They were young and vibrant, bringing so much energy into the building. The kitchen got to enjoy her cooking, endless podcasts streaming. The living room liked his company during rugby games and terrible films. When the couple returned from a romantic trip to Italy, the living room wore their new painting proudly like it was a medal of honor.

In the morning and the evening, they existed within the walls of this house. They were themselves at home. Then they dressed as the people they were outside these walls. But inside, undressed, there was love and there was lovemaking.

Then one day, she lie in bed crying. Pillows were smudged with mascara and her signature, bright red lipstick. Just days before, those red lips slid over his cock, sucking the tip then moving down the shaft—careful not to forget he loved his balls sucked, too. She was practiced with his cock, meticulous and unwavering. He knew this single act made her pussy wet—so wet he couldn’t wait to lick it—but he wasn’t going to give her his tongue that easily. This was a game and the winner got to cum first, maybe even twice.

Now, anger radiated off her. She was rummaging through closets and drawers, gathering things, flinging others. She was throwing his belongings across the room.

He enters the bedroom and sits beside her on the bed. He strokes her face, and it’s so loving, but somehow feels disingenuous, sad.

The woman has bought a plane ticket. Does he know she’s planning to leave? He was just crying in the living room.

They’re laying side by side now. When she’s not looking, he is smelling her pillow and closing his eyes like he’s making an etching of her in his mind. His hands move to her shoulders, caressing them as if touch is the next sense to capture. He leans down, raises her shirt and starts kissing the small of her back. She lets out a soft moan, forgetting the tears in her eyes.

He continues to kiss her back as she arches her pelvis up—he can reach under it now. His tongue teases that daring crease behind her as he slides his fingers into her panties. She’s riding his fingers now, moaning and getting his hand so wet—he’s dying to get that wet hand on his cock. And he knows she likes that—watching him stroke himself, watching pre cum drip over the tip, watching him cup his balls—it soaks her.

He slips off her panties from behind and props her up on all fours. She has no idea what’s going to happen—positioning for doggy style has always been vulnerable for her—and he knows it. He takes a minute to decide what to do with her beautiful ass up in the air. He’ll lick her.

He tongues her from behind—you can tell she’s pleased with his choice—as she pushes herself against his face. He slaps her cheeks, now harder, and then pushes his tongue into her ass. She is dripping now.

He flips her over so he can fuck her face. She holds his cock with two hands. The look on her face says she wants to remember his cock—it’s thick, throbbing and full of taste. She moves her tongue around it as she pushes it to the back of her throat. She pulls it out just so she can look at it—tease him for a minute by jacking him off. “I love the way you suck my cock. I want to cum in your mouth so hard.” He loves talking dirty to her. A bead of pre cum falls down the tip and she catches it with her tongue. It’s slippery and sweet—she wants to feel more of it pour out of him.

Something has changed in her. The tears are gone, her emotions are raw—she is going to be selfish.

She pulls him down so she can mount him. He knows she wants to fuck him—not get fucked. She shoves his rock-hard cock inside her and rides him. He tugs on her nipples, but she grips his hands, slamming them against the bed. “Tell me how much you love fucking me.” He loves her, god he loves her. In that moment, he decides he made a mistake. His eyes well up with tears and he grabs her face for a moment to says, “Let’s fix this.”  

Her nails are gripping his chest and she leans down and bites his earlobe. He’s seconds away from cumming—all this wild in her. “You will not cum unless I tell you to.” Her arms out stretch, leaning against the wall. Her palms are hot and slippery, but powerful and steady. She owns this house, she built this house, she will forever stain the walls with her rage.

She knows he’s so close—she may have missed her chance. She thinks about him tonguing her clit, pushing his fingers in and out of her. She thinks about him cumming all over her tits, then sliding his cock up to her mouth. It’s working, but she’s not sharing this—this is hers.

She cums as she slides onto him harder, deeper—wetting the length of his cock with her juices. She exhales, wipes her brow and says “I’ll remember that,” as she dismounts him, making her way to the bathroom.   

Now, he lays there alone, bewildered—was it his turn, are they done? Minutes go by and reality sets in. This—all of it—is over. He makes his way to the bedroom door, calling out to her, “We can fix this.”

“No,” she says, “The writing was on the wall.”

Photo by Helmut Newton

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