[Francesca is in the driver's seat and doing significantly more work, but this is a particularly intense second session and even Nate is feeling it. Almost woozy in a good way, completely lovesick but not spent yet. He grumbles adoringly as her tits jiggle against his face, hands skimming up her as a form of tactile praise.
He curses like he's in pain when she clenches and grips him. It doesn't take long for him to follow. He grips her face through it, kissing her deeply and bucking his hips up under her.
He softly declares his love and they collapse into a pile of limbs.
As predicted, the scope of the honeymoon shifts but the purpose is still fulfilled. They spend many happy days overseas, planning ahead and thinking of what they need to do when they get home. Francesca feels particularly tired, dozing off more during the day and earlier at night. Nate is her go-to surface for sleeping and spends a lot of time pretending he's comfortable and staying still.
The first check-ups are promising. She seems well despite her fatigue. Nate is a little concerned when she wants to continue with school, but he understands the logic. They get into a routine of coming together and discreetly going seperate ways. It is distracting to have her in his class, knowing there's a secret both between them and growing inside her. It's hard not to fuss over her or touch her, but he manages.
She's been suffering with nausea intermittently, so he's alarmed but not terribly surprised when she asks him to come to her. It is rather a precarious request, since she wants him in the bathroom. His gut twinges, but he aims to be calm as he enters. Blessedly, it is empty aside from her stall.]
She doesn't think much of it at first; there's been on and off aches and fatigue since before the first test, later confirmed by the first wellness visit. The sonographer and doctor are in agreement everything is going as it should.
Francesca had even made the executive decision to share the news, all of it, with her mother, though that wasn't without a series of exhausting phone-calls, and promises that Violet would be coming up in a matter of weeks. ( She was quite alarmed to learn about her second to youngest daughter having eloped, and more than a little apprehensive to learn the groom was about her age. )
Everything seemed fine. Everything was. She had taken the recommended precautions, such as curbing caffeine and any drinking. Took the vitamins, the extra rest, and the nutrients that her husband was ready to force-feed into her. The nausea wasn't anywhere near a problem as the sleepiness had become. To that end, she used Nate as her preferred body pillow, her growing stomach pressed against his side. Easy to disguise with cardigans and loose blouses and dresses. Nobody any the wiser, even though her surname was quietly modified and the ring stayed on her finger.
Everything was fine. Until the ache wouldn't stop, until it relocated -- radiating from her lower abdomen, down to her uterus. She makes it to the first stall and vomits her breakfast, forcing herself to believe that is responsible and it will help.
It doesn't.
Red spots the inside of her underwear and the toilet paper. The world tilts and her hands shake as she sends the message, trying not to panic in the interim.
When he gets there, there's a weak whimper, all he'll get to bring him to her. The sight that greets him is one from a horror movie: his wife sat on the tiled floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ]
[In these moments, it is both a blessing and a curse to have lived the life he has. It enables him to face this with a levelhead and a calm demeanour, but it has also has entirely obliterated his ability to hope for a good outcome.
Of course, there's a world of difference between the trauma of strangers and the trauma of his incredibly precious wife. He can feel a tremble building in him that he actively pushes down.]
You're alright, Bambi.
[He keeps his voice steady, brushing his fingers over her cheek in reassurance. He wriggles out of his coat, wrapping it around her as he scoops her up off the ground.
He ghosts his lips over her temple, feeling melancholic echoes of the way they came back together in the rain. He runs her out of the bathroom, warning anyone about the mess is far from his mind. He manoeuvres her into the truck, whipping around to his side so he can rally them out of the parking lot and straight to hospital.
It's hard to keep his eyes on the road, flicking his eyes to her every so often.]
[ She doesn't have to say anything. She can't, save for whimpers and shallow moans and his name warbled out, the pain too much to stay silent, though she tries -- she doesn't know why. Maybe to save him from the emotional pain of hearing her in physical pain. Maybe because the louder she is, the more real it becomes.
That doesn't stop anything. The cramps build, coming one after the other. Her forehead alternates to rest against the dash and the cool surface of the window.
He's driving like a mad man. Maybe if he makes it -- maybe --
Eventually, she does speak. Her word, wrecked, tight with unshed tears and pain. ]
[In order to temper his reaction, Nate clenches his fingers around the steering wheel until his knuckles are white. It's hard to even process it, since the dominant side of his brain is telling him he just needs to get her to hospital.
But he picks up on the pronoun and casts a worried look to her. They're so close to hospital-- but he knows she's not look to be soothed or placated. He just nods, pausing before adding:]
It's you I'm worried about. [She's lost a lot of blood and he knows she's in tremendous pain.
They pull into the emergency parking and he scoops her up. Blessedly, they're attended to almost as soon as they're in the doors. That never happens, so it's not good.
She needs to be anaesthetised. He waits with her as long as he's allowed (and probably beyond that, to be honest). When she comes to, he's sitting at her bedside just staring ahead at the wall.]
[ She doesn't cry at the concerned, patient faces. The nurses are very kind and diligent. But she knows what they won't yet say.
Her eyes are round with fear when they help her out of her bloodied clothes and into the hospital gown, when the needle is inserted. The oxygen mask puts her out faster than the IV drip.
Waking is a struggle. Her body is weighted down, leaden from the medicine in her veins, still being processed out.
In the first few moments, there is a blissful lack of recollection. Confusion, mild discomfort in its place. Her eyes clench and open, filmy with grogginess.
She's been lain on her back, dark hair fanned out over the pillow and her shoulders. She's reluctant to move. ]
Nathan? [ Her voice is drowsy, her head turning to find him. ]
[He doesn't quite jolt, but he does snap back to reality when she rouses. He turns, scooting his chair closer toward her and smoothing his hand over her hair.]
Hi Bambi. [Softly. She's groggy, he doesn't want to jump right into things.]
We're at the hospital. You've been under anaesthetic.
[ It feels like a slow surfacing, her ears having been submerged underwater. Nathan comes in and out of focus with the rest of their environment.
Her face leans into his hand. His voice is pitched low, gentle. She feels sluggish, intoxicated, but her brain picks up on that, wondering it's purpose.
Beginning to parse things together. Her hand flutters at her side, weak. Like the hope in her chest. ]
[There's a long pause, which answers the question implicitly. His hand moves to hers, looping their fingers and squeezing softly.]
Yeah. We lost him. [We, not her. It's not her fault. There's a threadiness to his voice that is unusually vulnerable for him. He brings her fingers to his lips, holding them there.]
[The limpness of her fingers is noted. In any other situation, he'd give her space. Now? It feels important to make sure she knows she's not alone in this.
Surprisingly limber for his age, he steps out of his shoes and scoots onto the bed with her. He cradles the back of her head with his hand, inviting her to move in closer or stay as is.
His jaw tightens at the question, because he knows why she's asking and it hurts to think about. He can't make those feelings just go away.]
He wasn't developing properly.
[It was difficult to get information from the staff, who initially thought he was her father and were unconvinced of their marital status. In another situation, he might have found it funny.]
It's a game of odds, they were against us this time-- but it happens, bambi. Happens to all kinds of couples.
But they said everything was well, at the last appointment ...
[ A half-hearted whisper, almost as if she's searching for hope, for a way to deny the truth. Francesca is not in the business of placating herself with lies; she's practical to a fault, and it has always served her to be so, until this moment.
Broken, she meets his eyes finally, and that's when she crumples, the tears running hot down her cheeks. ]
[There's nothing Nate can say to make this better. Nothing makes it better, it's just something they'll have to endure. But he hates that for her. If he could, he'd take it on himself.
He's eager to get her home, even if there's parts of it that are difficult for both of them. Little things that remind him of their loss. He lets her sleep as much as she likes, but he makes her eat and he starts to ease her into sitting in the garden with him to get some sun.
They bury their baby in the garden, somewhere safe with a young tree planted atop the remains.
After a week, he surprises her with two highland calves. It's something they'd discussed and he feels like she could use the joy and the focus. It's the first time he's seen her smile since that day, which makes him hopeful for her.
Unsurprisingly, there are physical and mental barriers around sex that he's respectful of. He wants to be lead by her, so there's been one or two times in 3 weeks where he's engaged her with his fingers or his mouth, but she struggles to finish. It's certainly a change of pace, going from the kind of sex life they had before to this period. He understands it to be temporary, but he still needs to relieve himself when he gets a moment.
It becomes tricky not to be amorous when she comes out of her shell more. He's so in love with her and every part of him aches for her all the time. Every brush against him makes him eager, but he's still allowing her to lead.
On a pleasant afternoon after spending some time in the garden, Francesca bends to look at a flower. Her dress hitches and the curve of her ass is visible. His hand moves instinctively to grab a handful of her backside, squeezing firmly and suggestively. Although at some point he realises he's being forward, he lets his hand linger. Just to see how she reacts.]
[ This loss feels insurmountable. Her experience with grief is slim, the one exception being her father, and she'd been all of six at the time of his abrupt demise. A horrible loss, a void that haunted her family and much of her life, but softened by time and childhood.
This one is her baby, their baby. Initially, she cries for days, and self-medicates to sleep the rest of the time. She doesn't want to be awake. Her thoughts turn dark, and though she's not actively suicidal, there's a part of her that doesn't want to live -- that feels a part of her died in that hospital room.
They bury him together. It helps. As do the calves, the sweet things. They follow her around like small children, demanding her almost undivided attention. She names them Federico (Fred) and Cat, rather cleverly she thinks, after the characters in A Farewell to Arms.
Guiltily, much of her attention is devoted to the calves when it was once focused on her husband. It's mostly not on purpose, but intimacy has turned into an issue since the miscarriage. More than once kissing becomes heavy petting becomes fingering, but her cunt goes dry and loses interest both times.
Her libido had become close to nonexistent. Her doctor tells her it's normal. They had been advised, too, to not have penetrative sex for a few weeks while she healed. She just hasn't been interested in sex. Or almost anything.
His hand on her ass, though. Bending down to trim rosemary, Fran stills, now quite unused to her husband fondling her since the miscarriage -- but mostly unsure how to respond. She's frozen like a doe caught in headlights, really, and looks back at him with big eyes. Her stomach clenches, but she tries to be playful. ]
[The freeze is just long enough that Nate nearly pulls away and apologises for getting fresh with her. That thought makes him pause, because it's so contrary to the way they've been before.
He can see the uncertainty in her eyes and realises, perhaps, he's given her mixed signals by slowing things down instead of guiding her. It makes him more resolute, wanting to encourage her rather than fussing over her. He circles his arm around her waist, pulling her back against him so he can brush his lips up her neck and murmur in her ear]
Always hungry for you, Bambi. [And he nearly tries to seek obvious interest or consent from her but he bites it back, turning it into an order.]
I want you naked, on all fours on the bed when I get up stairs. [He pulls back, smacking her ass as he walks away.]
[ It's the first time a shiver has run up her spine in weeks, what feels like the time Before. Her skin goes blistering hot.
She is nervous, incredibly so, but she slips out of her clothes and onto the king sized bed, in the position he ordered her to be. She's already a little wet, her mind running between fantasies and memories of him pounding into her, and her fear of messing this up like the other times they tried.
She glances back when she hears his footsteps coming up the hallway, her hips rocking involuntarily at the promise. ]
[Nate plays his role with confidence, though inside there's a little niggling uncertainty about whether she'll like it. He can never fully shut off the part of him that worries about her.
His heart races as he gets closer to the bedroom, but he keeps his gait casual. He says nothing when he walks in the room to see her. He feels a tiny flutter of glee just knowing she's still interested.
He peels his shirt off, coming to walk around her so he can grab her chin and tilt her face up to look at him.]
Good girl. [He bends down, kissing her deeply before standing back up.]
[ She noticeably preens at the praise, butterflies taking flight in her belly, a feeling she'd started to forget in her misery. His praise, whether generous or rare, always does this to her, and never more than when they are doing this.
Post-kiss, breathless, she opens her mouth and her pink tongue thrusts out, sticking out for him. Her curious eyes remain fixed on him, as if forbidden to look elsewhere. Saliva starts to pool in her mouth. ]
[It's a little test to see how game she really is. The way she thrusts her tongue out is very promising, reminiscent of the power-play they engage in when they're really egging each other on.
He doesn't hide his pleased look (sometimes he'll stay stoic to rile her up more). It's a non-verbal good girl. He cups her face, pressing his thumb firmly on her chin and dragging her bottom lip down. He leans in, taking his time to turn her head so he can visually inspect her. With one hand on her chin, he uses the other hand to trace his fingers around the inside of her lips and mouth and the tip of her tongue.
With his fingers curled on the tip of his tongue, he looks her in the eye.]
[ Francesca stays very, very still while he looks her over, her fingers curling into the topmost blanket. She's a precious jewel being inspected, assessed and judged.
He gives a directive. Suck, he says.
She does. Her mouth automatically closes around his fingers, just the tips of them, and starts to suck. Her body is on high alert; this is just the beginning of whatever is to come, that she knows. It's an easy entry point, after her body has failed to respond to his touch, and she hasn't been wanting to fuck for the last month.
[So far, so good. She's not as openly receptive as she normally would be, but he's not sensing discomfort. He hums as she sucks at his fingers, cock firming up all the more as he watches her. His fingers withdraw and he guides her face to press against the outline of his cock, so she can feel how hard he is.
His hand slides under her, taking her breast in his hand and kneading it.]
I want to make you feel good. Fuck you good. [His cock twitches under her cheek, eager.]
I want you so wet you drip. [Which has been something of a difficulty, but he's confident if he takes charge and takes time, he'll find her pleasure again. He pulls back with a meaningful look. He needs a towel and lube-- he can work her up to being wet with encouragement.
When he returns, he reaches under her to tuck the towel on the bed. They're going to need it. He lubes his fingers and warms them, wanting everything to feel good for her when he touches her.]
Face down, ass up.
[He reaches under again, this time running his fingers over the lips of her pussy. He starts light, exploring over the shapes and folds before circling his finger over her clit.]
[ His every word is encouragement, as is the responses of his cock against her cheek. She nuzzles into the imprint. When he steps away, she feels the mildest twinges of discomfort, and desperately hopes and tries to will away her anxiety.
The moment of truth will be when it comes to that point.
She has questions when he whips out the towel, but she doesn't ask, to save herself from stressing over it.
The lube helps his fingers slip around her clit, a hum building in the base of her throat. Her knees nudge further apart, cunt flaring, pink and puffy with mounting arousal. ]
Yes sir.
[ But when he dips a finger into her needy cunt, she begins to panic. ]
[He can intuit that she's fretting inside, but she's doing incredibly well in his eyes. He pets her backside with his other hand, dragging his thumb over her ass cheek and spreading her a little more.
Still, this is his favourite place and his favourite thing. He loves her soft, pink cunt. Loves having his mouth and fingers there. He feels impossibly thirsty for it and he wants to lap at her cunt and bury his face in it.
Small steps.]
Feels nice, bambi.
[He doesn't want to tell her to relax, she knows what she needs to do and if it were that easy, she would. He needs to relax her. He presses a thick finger inside her and feels her walls clench in resistance. He doesn't panic, pumping his finger in and out of her slowly.]
[ She appreciates that he's not voicing his concerns aloud or hesitating. Since hospital, he's been incredibly patient and gentle with her, uncharacteristically so in some respects. It had been necessary, for a time, but now she realizes she doesn't want that. She doesn't need that from him.
She needs this. She needs to be ordered around, pushed to her limits. Let her mentally and physically work through it via pleasure. Let him take over her body and mind so she can leave both behind for a while.
That said, initially it isn't comfortable. The lubricant aids some, but not fully. She bears it, forces her body to grow accustomed again to the pumping motion, the withdrawal and re-entry.
Eventually, she relaxes into it, and her body starts to self-lubricate, her juices joining silicone, letting him add a second. Her ass arches, swaying back, joining the rhythm. ]
[Nate can feel her getting wetter, warmer against his fingers. It's enough to make him drool, especially when she arches and sways. Her ass looks very tempting, as much as it did when he grabbed it the first time.
He curls his finger in her, working her up to a second. His other hand skims under her to squeeze her breast, pinching a nipple.]
Your body makes me fucking crazy. [Which she knows by now, but he wants her to know the depth of it as he pumps two fingers in and out of her.]
When you came out in your little dress this morning, I wanted to bend you over the table and bury my cock in you. [He squeezes her breast firmly, like he's scolding her for being beautiful.]
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sundown2025-04-27 08:43 pm
no subject
He curses like he's in pain when she clenches and grips him. It doesn't take long for him to follow. He grips her face through it, kissing her deeply and bucking his hips up under her.
He softly declares his love and they collapse into a pile of limbs.
As predicted, the scope of the honeymoon shifts but the purpose is still fulfilled. They spend many happy days overseas, planning ahead and thinking of what they need to do when they get home. Francesca feels particularly tired, dozing off more during the day and earlier at night. Nate is her go-to surface for sleeping and spends a lot of time pretending he's comfortable and staying still.
The first check-ups are promising. She seems well despite her fatigue. Nate is a little concerned when she wants to continue with school, but he understands the logic. They get into a routine of coming together and discreetly going seperate ways. It is distracting to have her in his class, knowing there's a secret both between them and growing inside her. It's hard not to fuss over her or touch her, but he manages.
She's been suffering with nausea intermittently, so he's alarmed but not terribly surprised when she asks him to come to her. It is rather a precarious request, since she wants him in the bathroom. His gut twinges, but he aims to be calm as he enters. Blessedly, it is empty aside from her stall.]
Is that you in there?
[If it's not, this will be hard to explain.]
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She doesn't think much of it at first; there's been on and off aches and fatigue since before the first test, later confirmed by the first wellness visit. The sonographer and doctor are in agreement everything is going as it should.
Francesca had even made the executive decision to share the news, all of it, with her mother, though that wasn't without a series of exhausting phone-calls, and promises that Violet would be coming up in a matter of weeks. ( She was quite alarmed to learn about her second to youngest daughter having eloped, and more than a little apprehensive to learn the groom was about her age. )
Everything seemed fine. Everything was. She had taken the recommended precautions, such as curbing caffeine and any drinking. Took the vitamins, the extra rest, and the nutrients that her husband was ready to force-feed into her. The nausea wasn't anywhere near a problem as the sleepiness had become. To that end, she used Nate as her preferred body pillow, her growing stomach pressed against his side. Easy to disguise with cardigans and loose blouses and dresses. Nobody any the wiser, even though her surname was quietly modified and the ring stayed on her finger.
Everything was fine. Until the ache wouldn't stop, until it relocated -- radiating from her lower abdomen, down to her uterus. She makes it to the first stall and vomits her breakfast, forcing herself to believe that is responsible and it will help.
It doesn't.
Red spots the inside of her underwear and the toilet paper. The world tilts and her hands shake as she sends the message, trying not to panic in the interim.
When he gets there, there's a weak whimper, all he'll get to bring him to her. The sight that greets him is one from a horror movie: his wife sat on the tiled floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ]
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Of course, there's a world of difference between the trauma of strangers and the trauma of his incredibly precious wife. He can feel a tremble building in him that he actively pushes down.]
You're alright, Bambi.
[He keeps his voice steady, brushing his fingers over her cheek in reassurance. He wriggles out of his coat, wrapping it around her as he scoops her up off the ground.
He ghosts his lips over her temple, feeling melancholic echoes of the way they came back together in the rain. He runs her out of the bathroom, warning anyone about the mess is far from his mind. He manoeuvres her into the truck, whipping around to his side so he can rally them out of the parking lot and straight to hospital.
It's hard to keep his eyes on the road, flicking his eyes to her every so often.]
Deep breaths, bambi.
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That doesn't stop anything. The cramps build, coming one after the other. Her forehead alternates to rest against the dash and the cool surface of the window.
He's driving like a mad man. Maybe if he makes it -- maybe --
Eventually, she does speak. Her word, wrecked, tight with unshed tears and pain. ]
He's already gone. The baby is gone.
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But he picks up on the pronoun and casts a worried look to her. They're so close to hospital-- but he knows she's not look to be soothed or placated. He just nods, pausing before adding:]
It's you I'm worried about. [She's lost a lot of blood and he knows she's in tremendous pain.
They pull into the emergency parking and he scoops her up. Blessedly, they're attended to almost as soon as they're in the doors. That never happens, so it's not good.
She needs to be anaesthetised. He waits with her as long as he's allowed (and probably beyond that, to be honest). When she comes to, he's sitting at her bedside just staring ahead at the wall.]
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Her eyes are round with fear when they help her out of her bloodied clothes and into the hospital gown, when the needle is inserted. The oxygen mask puts her out faster than the IV drip.
Waking is a struggle. Her body is weighted down, leaden from the medicine in her veins, still being processed out.
In the first few moments, there is a blissful lack of recollection. Confusion, mild discomfort in its place. Her eyes clench and open, filmy with grogginess.
She's been lain on her back, dark hair fanned out over the pillow and her shoulders. She's reluctant to move. ]
Nathan? [ Her voice is drowsy, her head turning to find him. ]
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Hi Bambi. [Softly. She's groggy, he doesn't want to jump right into things.]
We're at the hospital. You've been under anaesthetic.
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[ It feels like a slow surfacing, her ears having been submerged underwater. Nathan comes in and out of focus with the rest of their environment.
Her face leans into his hand. His voice is pitched low, gentle. She feels sluggish, intoxicated, but her brain picks up on that, wondering it's purpose.
Beginning to parse things together. Her hand flutters at her side, weak. Like the hope in her chest. ]
Did I miscarry the baby?
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Yeah. We lost him. [We, not her. It's not her fault. There's a threadiness to his voice that is unusually vulnerable for him. He brings her fingers to his lips, holding them there.]
I'm so sorry, Bambi.
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She knew, but now she feels it inside her. Her womb, emptied and hollowed out, a conspicuous absence of life. Her hand moves to drape over her belly.
Her mouth twitches, eyes strangely dry despite the cinch of her throat. After a moments, she nods, her eyes unfocused, her fingers limp in his hand. ]
Do they know why?
[ Was it me? It was me. ]
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Surprisingly limber for his age, he steps out of his shoes and scoots onto the bed with her. He cradles the back of her head with his hand, inviting her to move in closer or stay as is.
His jaw tightens at the question, because he knows why she's asking and it hurts to think about. He can't make those feelings just go away.]
He wasn't developing properly.
[It was difficult to get information from the staff, who initially thought he was her father and were unconvinced of their marital status. In another situation, he might have found it funny.]
It's a game of odds, they were against us this time-- but it happens, bambi. Happens to all kinds of couples.
[It's not dismissive, he's mourning too.]
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[ A half-hearted whisper, almost as if she's searching for hope, for a way to deny the truth. Francesca is not in the business of placating herself with lies; she's practical to a fault, and it has always served her to be so, until this moment.
Broken, she meets his eyes finally, and that's when she crumples, the tears running hot down her cheeks. ]
I don't understand.
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He's eager to get her home, even if there's parts of it that are difficult for both of them. Little things that remind him of their loss. He lets her sleep as much as she likes, but he makes her eat and he starts to ease her into sitting in the garden with him to get some sun.
They bury their baby in the garden, somewhere safe with a young tree planted atop the remains.
After a week, he surprises her with two highland calves. It's something they'd discussed and he feels like she could use the joy and the focus. It's the first time he's seen her smile since that day, which makes him hopeful for her.
Unsurprisingly, there are physical and mental barriers around sex that he's respectful of. He wants to be lead by her, so there's been one or two times in 3 weeks where he's engaged her with his fingers or his mouth, but she struggles to finish. It's certainly a change of pace, going from the kind of sex life they had before to this period. He understands it to be temporary, but he still needs to relieve himself when he gets a moment.
It becomes tricky not to be amorous when she comes out of her shell more. He's so in love with her and every part of him aches for her all the time. Every brush against him makes him eager, but he's still allowing her to lead.
On a pleasant afternoon after spending some time in the garden, Francesca bends to look at a flower. Her dress hitches and the curve of her ass is visible. His hand moves instinctively to grab a handful of her backside, squeezing firmly and suggestively. Although at some point he realises he's being forward, he lets his hand linger. Just to see how she reacts.]
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This one is her baby, their baby. Initially, she cries for days, and self-medicates to sleep the rest of the time. She doesn't want to be awake. Her thoughts turn dark, and though she's not actively suicidal, there's a part of her that doesn't want to live -- that feels a part of her died in that hospital room.
They bury him together. It helps. As do the calves, the sweet things. They follow her around like small children, demanding her almost undivided attention. She names them Federico (Fred) and Cat, rather cleverly she thinks, after the characters in A Farewell to Arms.
Guiltily, much of her attention is devoted to the calves when it was once focused on her husband. It's mostly not on purpose, but intimacy has turned into an issue since the miscarriage. More than once kissing becomes heavy petting becomes fingering, but her cunt goes dry and loses interest both times.
Her libido had become close to nonexistent. Her doctor tells her it's normal. They had been advised, too, to not have penetrative sex for a few weeks while she healed. She just hasn't been interested in sex. Or almost anything.
His hand on her ass, though. Bending down to trim rosemary, Fran stills, now quite unused to her husband fondling her since the miscarriage -- but mostly unsure how to respond. She's frozen like a doe caught in headlights, really, and looks back at him with big eyes. Her stomach clenches, but she tries to be playful. ]
I thought you took dinner before dessert.
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He can see the uncertainty in her eyes and realises, perhaps, he's given her mixed signals by slowing things down instead of guiding her. It makes him more resolute, wanting to encourage her rather than fussing over her. He circles his arm around her waist, pulling her back against him so he can brush his lips up her neck and murmur in her ear]
Always hungry for you, Bambi. [And he nearly tries to seek obvious interest or consent from her but he bites it back, turning it into an order.]
I want you naked, on all fours on the bed when I get up stairs. [He pulls back, smacking her ass as he walks away.]
I'm going to lock up.
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She is nervous, incredibly so, but she slips out of her clothes and onto the king sized bed, in the position he ordered her to be. She's already a little wet, her mind running between fantasies and memories of him pounding into her, and her fear of messing this up like the other times they tried.
She glances back when she hears his footsteps coming up the hallway, her hips rocking involuntarily at the promise. ]
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His heart races as he gets closer to the bedroom, but he keeps his gait casual. He says nothing when he walks in the room to see her. He feels a tiny flutter of glee just knowing she's still interested.
He peels his shirt off, coming to walk around her so he can grab her chin and tilt her face up to look at him.]
Good girl. [He bends down, kissing her deeply before standing back up.]
Open your mouth, stick out your tongue for me.
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Post-kiss, breathless, she opens her mouth and her pink tongue thrusts out, sticking out for him. Her curious eyes remain fixed on him, as if forbidden to look elsewhere. Saliva starts to pool in her mouth. ]
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He doesn't hide his pleased look (sometimes he'll stay stoic to rile her up more). It's a non-verbal good girl. He cups her face, pressing his thumb firmly on her chin and dragging her bottom lip down. He leans in, taking his time to turn her head so he can visually inspect her. With one hand on her chin, he uses the other hand to trace his fingers around the inside of her lips and mouth and the tip of her tongue.
With his fingers curled on the tip of his tongue, he looks her in the eye.]
Suck.
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He gives a directive. Suck, he says.
She does. Her mouth automatically closes around his fingers, just the tips of them, and starts to suck. Her body is on high alert; this is just the beginning of whatever is to come, that she knows. It's an easy entry point, after her body has failed to respond to his touch, and she hasn't been wanting to fuck for the last month.
Eventually, her eyes flutter shut. ]
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His hand slides under her, taking her breast in his hand and kneading it.]
I want to make you feel good. Fuck you good. [His cock twitches under her cheek, eager.]
I want you so wet you drip. [Which has been something of a difficulty, but he's confident if he takes charge and takes time, he'll find her pleasure again. He pulls back with a meaningful look. He needs a towel and lube-- he can work her up to being wet with encouragement.
When he returns, he reaches under her to tuck the towel on the bed. They're going to need it. He lubes his fingers and warms them, wanting everything to feel good for her when he touches her.]
Face down, ass up.
[He reaches under again, this time running his fingers over the lips of her pussy. He starts light, exploring over the shapes and folds before circling his finger over her clit.]
Every part of you is perfect. And it's mine.
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The moment of truth will be when it comes to that point.
She has questions when he whips out the towel, but she doesn't ask, to save herself from stressing over it.
The lube helps his fingers slip around her clit, a hum building in the base of her throat. Her knees nudge further apart, cunt flaring, pink and puffy with mounting arousal. ]
Yes sir.
[ But when he dips a finger into her needy cunt, she begins to panic. ]
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Still, this is his favourite place and his favourite thing. He loves her soft, pink cunt. Loves having his mouth and fingers there. He feels impossibly thirsty for it and he wants to lap at her cunt and bury his face in it.
Small steps.]
Feels nice, bambi.
[He doesn't want to tell her to relax, she knows what she needs to do and if it were that easy, she would. He needs to relax her. He presses a thick finger inside her and feels her walls clench in resistance. He doesn't panic, pumping his finger in and out of her slowly.]
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She needs this. She needs to be ordered around, pushed to her limits. Let her mentally and physically work through it via pleasure. Let him take over her body and mind so she can leave both behind for a while.
That said, initially it isn't comfortable. The lubricant aids some, but not fully. She bears it, forces her body to grow accustomed again to the pumping motion, the withdrawal and re-entry.
Eventually, she relaxes into it, and her body starts to self-lubricate, her juices joining silicone, letting him add a second. Her ass arches, swaying back, joining the rhythm. ]
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He curls his finger in her, working her up to a second. His other hand skims under her to squeeze her breast, pinching a nipple.]
Your body makes me fucking crazy. [Which she knows by now, but he wants her to know the depth of it as he pumps two fingers in and out of her.]
When you came out in your little dress this morning, I wanted to bend you over the table and bury my cock in you. [He squeezes her breast firmly, like he's scolding her for being beautiful.]
Been thinking about your pussy all day.
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