Five Minutes

Hey All.

Taking a small departure from the LONG NIGHT dinner scenes to bring you this.  I enjoyed writing this one alot.  It lends us some insight into a newer character, which I think will be important as we move forward in the dinner storyline and beyond, so I figured: no time like the present.  and as far as timeline goes, it is pretty neutral.  All you have to know is that it is present day.  Sometime before Avalon's Wedding, definitely (Avalon's wedding is a big game changer, so I like to use it as a timeline marker).

Enjoy!

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Grace Sinclair had maybe five full minutes after her husband came to achieve her own orgasm.  It felt like a desperate race.  She knew he would roll them over and she’d have to ride him as furiously as possible while he remained tumescent—which, if she was lucky, would last just long enough for her to come.

Usually, though, it did not last quite long enough.  Most times she could feel him losing his hardness inside of her, which certainly didn’t help catapult her toward climax.  And his fervent urging of ‘c’mon baby, I’m losing it’ didn’t inspire passion either.

So nine times out of ten she’d throw her head back, pant real hard, clench up all her muscles and fake it with a final moan or gasp or high-pitched whine.

Then he’d smile, proud of himself, ask her: “Did you come?”, and believe her when she’d lie by nodding and murmuring ‘mmmhmm’ or some other evasive confirmation.  And in her head she’d calculate when she’d be alone in the house next so that she could trot out the old vibrator and give herself the orgasm she so desperately needed.

She faked it because early on in their relationship he’d taken his failure to bring her to climax as a sign that perhaps they weren’t right for eachother.  He used to get surly and defensive and it had obviously been a real blow to his sense of manhood or pride or self-worth.

And she loved him.  And wanted to be with him.  So she’d started faking.  Pretending that they’d discovered the secrets that got her off.  But of course they had not, and she had set herself up for a lifetime of sneaking masturbation and sexual frustration.  She had to be content with quickies where only he got off.  Learn to enjoy their intimacy as having him inside her for a while and be satisfied with that.

And she’d gotten really good at faking it.  Sometimes she thought perhaps she should have gone into acting—maybe she’d have earned an Oscar with her apparently natural skill.

The worst part about the faking wasn’t the lack of orgasm; it was the deception.  She’d long ago come to terms with it, accepted it as a necessary white lie designed to preserve the harmony of their union, but she never thought she’d be that kind of wife.  The kind who lied to her husband and faked her sexual gratification on a regular basis.

And she hated the inevitable train of thought that would follow as they lay in bed together, as she listened to the soft sound of his almost instantaneous snoring, and she forced her blood to slow, her arousal to recede—unfulfilled, and all her muscles tense and tingling, yearning for release.  Because the train of thought always brought her back to the only man who’d consistently been able to make her come.  And she didn’t want to think about him like that, not anymore.  It was no use thinking those things—it only made her resent her husband, and his wife, and she refused to be that person.

And then, inevitably, she’d find herself wondering about the other women her husband fooled around with.  Did they, too, have to fake it?  Or was he able to bring them the pleasure that proved so elusive in their marriage bed?  It killed her to think that maybe it was just her, maybe he was dynamite in bed with other people and maybe they really were just incompatible sexually.

“C’mon baby—“  Holden breathed, his voice ragged and urgent.

Grace bit down on her lower lip and tried to focus, tried to concentrate on that tenuous itch deep inside her, tried to make the itch catch so she could ride it to completion.  It was proving to be frustratingly evasive.  One moment the tickle would intensify, so close to initiating the build up, and then, for no apparent reason it would pull back and the build would collapse. 

She growled in frustration, though her husband interpreted it as aggressive arousal, and she leaned forward enough to shove her nipple in his mouth.  He took it obediently and nibbled and sucked and she closed her eyes to focus on the sensations it caused.

She moved her hips and wished he would stop trying to help with his own mis-timed pelvic thrusts.  And she knew if it was going to happen then she had to break one of her own private rules. 

“That’s it, c’mon baby, that’s a good girl—“  He muttered against her tit and she frowned, the tickle receding again at the sound of his voice.

She shifted her weight and shoved the other nipple in his mouth, wishing she could just tell him to shut up and lie still for a minute. 

He sucked urgently on her breast and squeezed her ass cheeks firmly, and Grace took a deep breath, ground herself down on him and pictured another man.  With her eyes squeezed shut she focused on the sound of her breathing, on the feel of his hands, on the sweet tugging on her nipple and she imagined she was getting away with a torrid affair. 

Her blood began to boil at the shame and scandal of it, and it was working.  She thought to herself guilty little things like ‘nobody needs to know’, and she could feel her release mounting.  When he moaned against her she imagined it was not Holden moaning and she heard herself moaning in response.  She thought to herself ‘we need to hurry before my husband gets home’ and her breathing became honest-to-goodness panting.  She was close.

She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and his scalp and imagined it was another man, a lover, and she was coming, finally, coming hard, shuddering with wave after wave of tingling, tickling, blissful release.  And not a moment too soon either, because she could feel him shrinking within her.

She collapsed onto his chest and enjoyed feeling their slick skin pressed together, cherished his arms around her even as he slipped out of her.  “I love you.”  She told him, feeling guilty about her private betrayal, but not so guilty that she wouldn’t do it again if it meant achieving an orgasm like that.

“Did you come?”  He asked her, his tone suspicious.

She rolled her eyes.  He was always suspicious of her veracity whenever she had a real orgasm.  He was so used to the fake ones.

“Holy God yes.”  She responded, her voice catching in her throat, her breathing irregular, her heartrate jumping all over the map.

“Really?”  he asked, sounding terribly vulnerable.  “I don’t want you to fake it just to please me—“

She laughed shortly and sighed heavily, sounding shaky and weak.  “It was amazing.”  She told him, and slid to cuddle against his side.  She gathered his hand in hers, kissed it, then brought it down, between her other lips and placed his middle finger on her clit, which was jumping erratically and pulsing so powerfully she thought she might just have an aftershock orgasm without any outside stimulus at all.

“Feel that?”  She asked in a whisper.

He was quiet for a moment.  “That pulsing?”

She nodded.

“Yeah.”  She could hear the smile in his voice.

“You did that.”  She told him.  Though really, he'd had had very little at all to do with it.

He made a pleased sound in his throat and withdrew his hand from her sex in order to squeeze her affectionately.  He kissed her slick forehead, murmured some sweet loving thing or other and then drifted off to sleep within minutes.

She retrieved the discreet towel she kept tucked away in her night stand for such occasions and pressed it to her tingling, throbbing sex.

And Grace Sinclair lay awake, despite her relaxation and rare satisfaction, and she thought about the man she’d pictured in order to get herself off.

And she wondered when, exactly, she’d given up hope that her husband would ever learn to satisfy her the way she knew was possible, and when she’d decided to resign herself to a largely unfulfilled sexual life. 

And she hoped coming tonight would help blunt some of the envy she always felt whenever she lunched with Velvet and had to endure her latest stories about how wonderful the Delaneys’ sex life still was after all these years.

And she chastised herself for wishing the best man she knew would slip up and maybe be just a little less perfect once in a while.  Because, after all, it wasn’t right to want to fuck your best friend’s husband. 

With a sigh Grace rolled over and fell into a fretful sleep.