Sunday, December 27, 2015

My Way

Just to let you know Petey is still around.  Hope you've had a great Christmas and that the coming year is filled with happiness and blessings.  ~ ♥ blush


“Okay, so if hit the bed right away, we can get in one more attempt today,” Petey informed him as they pushed through the front door of the Mercer Street penthouse.  “Drop your bags, get upstairs and drop your pants.  I’ll be there as soon as I take my folic acid.”

Jon dropped his bag on the foyer floor with a sigh of annoyance.  After a ridiculously long flight from Sydney to New York, it felt exceptionally good to be home.  This tour was starting to wear long, and he was looking forward to a nice quiet holiday with his family – away from crazy fans and press junkets.

“Jon?  Did you hear me?” 

His imp was looking a little peevish as he strolled toward the bar instead of sprinting up the steps, but that was too bad.  His first priority at the moment was to make a significant dent in the bottle of wine that he’d kept stashed for just this moment.  As much as he loved his wife, it was a bottle he deserved and Jon would appreciate it if she used a couple of her super-sized brain cells to appreciate that.

“I heard ya.”

She narrowed pink-lensed eyes at him and propped a piqued pixie fist on her hip, displaying a distinct lack of appreciation. 

“The bedroom isn’t that way,” she reminded him with a heavy dose of sarcasm.  “And we’re on a schedule here.”

Jon bit his tongue and refused to waver from his self-appointed course.  After having held himself in check this long, he could surely maintain his stoic silence for the short amount of time that it would take to uncork and devour his coveted vintage. 

From the time they’d exchanged rings, Jon had no doubt that he would enjoy having Petey on the tour with him.  She would have her job with Tony and the video crew, giving her a purpose while he tended to his own work – and it had worked out famously.  At the end of the day, she’d been ready, willing and waiting in his bed with nothing on her mind but letting him execute whatever perversion he was feeling at the time. 

Unfortunately, that had only lasted about three months.  After that, she’d become… 

Fuckin’ bat shit crazy, that’s what.

Obsessed with getting pregnant was probably a better phrase, but he was too mentally exhausted to make the correction. 

He had been nothing short of overjoyed when the love of his life had told him she wanted to carry his baby.  Honest to God.  He’d looked forward to the getting pregnant process almost as much as he’d looked forward to seeing that maternal glow lighting up her pale skin, and for those first three months it was round after round of unadulterated hot, kinkeroo imp sex. 

Every.  Night. 

In a word, perfection.

Then…  Well, then month four rolled around.

Month four was significant because all of Petey’s research – and her doctor – indicated that conception was likely to happen between four and ten months after discontinuing the birth control injections.  That meant all of the fertility and conception literature she’d consumed during the first quarter of the year was put into play. 

Jon was here to testify that there could be a serious downside to having a wife with a photographic memory and an IQ to rival Einstein, because she was determined to cram all that knowledge into their daily existence.  With the travel schedule, performances and daily work duties it was a fierce task, but she found a solution. 

The woman fuckin’ scheduled everything!

No sex on the tenth, eleventh and twelfth day of her cycle so that he could save up his sperm for the double-hitter sessions on the more fertile days thirteen through fifteen.  Oral sex was strictly forbidden so as not to “waste his semen”, and God forbid that he want to take her from behind, against the wall, in the bathroom, or anywhere that didn’t provide the “optimum angle and opportunity” for fertilization and implantation.  Her hips had to be propped up on a damn pillow while he did her in strict missionary position and she remained there – eerily still, he thought – for a prescribed fifteen minutes “post-coitus”.

Post.  Fucking.  Coitus.

What ever happened to just good old fashioned fucking?

Or making love.  He was up for that, too.  If it involved something besides a schedule and a basal temperature chart, he was in.  Anything that didn’t paint her as a petri dish awaiting his “specimen”.

And that was just month four. 

Each subsequent month that brought her period instead of a positive pregnancy test had only made her much more focused and determined in her scientific approach.  Apparently, she thought, she – he – wasn’t doing something quite right, so she made their “coupling” increasingly more disciplined in order for her to figure out where the breakdown was. 

In the interest of being cooperative and making his wife happy -  not to mention the want of a child with her – Jon had willingly subjected himself to the lab rat routine.  With every disappointing Midol moment, he had hugged and held her with assurances that it was going to be okay.  Told her they just had to be patient. 

Now at month twelve, he was completely out of patience.  Disappointment ate at him just like it did her, but enough was e-fucking-nough.  He wanted his wife and their sex life returned to its former glory, and he would do whatever he felt necessary to achieve it.

“Well if you heard me, then why aren’t you going upstairs?” Petey quizzed with barely contained annoyance.

You’re not the only one.

The first splash of wine hit his tongue, and he leisurely swished it back and forth, allowing it to slather his taste buds with its sweetness.  Savoring the distinct flavor was only part of the reason.  The other part was his hellacious jet lag begging him to be a passive-aggressive prick.

“Hmm?”  He still hadn’t swallowed.  Still didn’t trust his fatigued mind and body to keep unpleasant and regrettable words from slipping out.  Words that he would want to bite back as soon as they were uttered.

She lifted her eyebrows in sheer astonishment that he was ignoring her orders.  “Upstairs.”

Inhaling through his nose, he finally permitted the succulence of fermented grapes to wash down his throat with a fleeting sigh of satisfaction.

“No,” he responded blandly, deciding it best to keep things simple and Petey-esque.  One word answers were something she could identify with.

“Excuse me?”


The narrow width of the bar stood separated the two of them.  He with his feet planted wide apart, daring her to argue as he swirled his Pinot Grigio in the wineglass and she in much the same position with her eyes shooting pink daggers of death.

She was going to argue.  He knew it as well as he knew that this was day fifteen of her menstrual cycle.  It didn’t matter that he had never wanted to know what day of her cycle it was.  She’d shunned his wants on that particular matter almost a year ago. 

“Don’t start with me, Petey.  I’m done with this shit.”

He smothered a sigh at the pain streaking through his imp’s eyes before she turned her eyes cold. 

“Specifically what shit are you done with?  Sex? Marriage?  Me?”

The next gulp of wine went down a dozen times faster than his first sip, and he plunked the glass down.  Stalking around the end of the bar, he whirled her toward him with a hard hand around her wrist. 

“Don’t be stupid.  It doesn’t look good on you.”

Her chin tipped up impudently.  “I’m making a logical assumption based on the facts you have – or haven’t – given me.”

He growled in the back of his throat.

“Okay, fine.  Let me give you the only fact you need.  The day we got married I told you I was in charge our sex life, unless I specifically chose not to be.  For almost a goddamn year I stepped aside and let you do your thing with this...”  He flapped an exasperated hand in the air.  “…fertilization festival, but no more.  I’m resuming complete control, effective right fuckin’ now.”

“But – “

“No buts,” he resolutely asserted, ignoring the million logical arguments she had.  He’d heard them until he knew them as well as she knew the Declaration of Independence and simply didn’t care anymore.  “Hustle your ass upstairs, get naked and on the bed.  I’m going to eat your pussy, get a blow job and we’re going to have sex just for the goddamn FUN of it!”

Again with the obstinate tip of her chin.

“And what if I refuse?”

He cocked an eyebrow and chuckled before murmuring dangerously, “It may have been awhile, Sugar, but I still know how to spank your ass until it motherfuckin’ glows.”

With that, her face flushed a vibrant shade of pink that filled Jon with a weird sort of serenity.  It was the first time in months that he’d seen her features glow with that telltale hunger and, in his mind, it completely justified his actions. 

Petey wasn’t some damned incubator, she was a passionate and sensual woman – whom Jon missed with a fierceness he’d only just realized.

“Go,” he ordered gruffly, satisfaction multiplying when she turned on her heel and went without another word.

Of course, knowing his wife, she could be puttering off to plot his demise.

He smirked, turning back to the bar for another glass of wine.  As amusing as he found that, he knew it wasn’t true. 

The second full glass went down smoother and more pleasantly than the first.  Either that, or he was just more relaxed than he was with the first glass.  In either event, his mind was free-flowing sexual positions and deeds like it was Christmas.

It will be in three days.  Why not celebrate early?

Mind made up, he set aside his wineglass and went in search of his imp, stopping briefly in the closet before crossing the bedroom threshold. 

“Here,” he said, pretending that her nude form propped against the headboard had no effect on him.  He tossed a pink Santa hat toward her.  “’Tis the season and all that.”

She smiled and agreeably settled it atop her inky waves, her full breasts swaying in the most enticing way.  “I’d almost forgotten about that .”

Jon hadn’t. 

The night she’d shown up at the Jovi Christmas party wearing that with the tiny matching skirt and accessories of spider and cobweb was indelibly etched in his memory.  Mostly because he’d spent the evening pissed at the fact she was friendlier to his buddies than she had been to him – despite the fact that they’d had sex multiple times.  But there was part of him that also remembered it being the night she gave herself to him more fully than she ever had before.

“So, we’ll have a little fun tonight and get back on schedule tomorrow.  Right?”  Petey had taken out her pink contact lenses, so glacial blue eyes accompanied the question. 

“Nice to know you’ve missed the fun, too.”  Jon smirked at the same he locked both of her petite ankles in his hands and pulled, sprawling her flat against the mattress.  He crawled onto the bed, using his shoulders to separate her thighs.  “Now stop thinking.”

“Butttttt…. Oh God!”

Whatever protest she had be ready to voice was lost when he pushed his face between her legs, gobbling as though it was warm apple pie and he was the next contestant in a pie eating contest.  He didn’t mind if it covered his face and dripped from his chin as long as he got most of it in his mouth.  In fact, he so missed that sweet, sticky river of honey that he wouldn’t mind drowning himself in the mouthwatering flavor.

His nose bumped her clit as he dove deep into the source of that delectable river, coaxing it to flow all the more freely while his imp began flowing the same way.

“Jesus, Jon!” 

Her hips gyrated as greedily as his tongue and she moaned loud enough to rattle the rafters.  If he hadn’t been completely in tune with her movements, she would have snapped his head off by clamping her thighs sharply together, but he was able to anticipate the motion and clamped his forearms around the tops of her legs, forcing them to stay parted.   

There is only thing that could possibly make this better.

Jon slithered backward, swiping a hand across his mouth and licking his lips while his feet hit the floor.  A sharp snap of his wrist had his belt buckle undone and both it and his pants hit the floor with a thud.  It was only a heartbeat later that his shirt followed, leaving him as naked as she.

He gave himself a quick, hard stroke.

“I want you to suck my cock.” 

His imp could still dial in the obedience, he noted.  In an instant, she had pulled her knees together and tucked them beneath her, crawling toward him to do just as he commanded.  It solidified any softness left in his hand.

“But I’m not done with your pussy yet,” he warned, crawling past her to splay himself on the big mattress.  From the flat of his back, he beckoned with a folded palm.  “Sit on my face while you blow me.”

Those ice blue eyes went wide and beautiful rosebud lips rounded into the perfect circle to accommodate his desires.  “You mean…  Like a…  We’ve never done that.”

“The term you’re looking for is sixty-nine, Sugar and I’m kink deprived, so we’re multitasking tonight.”  He beckoned again.  “Climb on.” 

Honestly, he’d never seen her flush such a deep shade of rose, but to her credit, she didn’t hesitate.  Petey scrambled to the head of the bed, where she turned around and planted one knee on each side of his head.  She was hovering, uncertain about how to seat herself, when he put both palms on her hips and pressed down until he was buried cheek-deep in her slick velvet. 

Her hum of appreciation resonated from the tip to the shaft of his dick as it was slathered with the same attention he was lavishing on her.  Every nook.  Every cranny.  Every single nerve ending between the two of them was licked, loved and fondled until the moment that Petey faltered with her hips rolling forward so that she could press more deliberately against his face. 

“Right there,” she moaned.  “That thing with your tongue.  Do it right… there!”

The sounds of pleasure echoed in his ears and rumbled through his head as he held her close, not letting her escape the pleasure.  Reminding her of what they’d been missing.  Reminding her of the pleasure. 

“Ohhhhhh….”  She deflated like a balloon, going limp on top of him.  “Oh that was so, so good.”

He gave a firm tap to her hip, encouraging her to slide off and to the side. 

“But you’re not done.  I’m not done.  With you,” she protested. 

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, looping an arm around her waist and propping her up on hands and knees.  “But you can swallow the next load.  It’s been too long since I got to ride you the way I want, and…”  A hard thrust had her gasping when he seated himself deep.  “…it’s time for a long, hard ride.”

The first buck of his hips had her falling to her elbows with a moan.  “Yes.  Please.”

He man-handled the globes of her bottom, enjoying the flesh rolling over his palms and then driving deep again.  “Please, what?”

“Please…Unnnh!  Please, sir?”

Jon leaned forward until her shoulder blades seated against his chest and he could fold her hands under his.  “Good girl,” he breathed in her ear. 

Each breath he took from that point forward was connected to each of hers.  He breathed in, she breathed out.  His breath stuttered from a particularly forceful drive and hers held, waiting for him to take what he needed – to take what she needed. 

Because tonight, like all those nights in the early days of their relationship, they both needed the same thing.  He knew how hard to push her, she knew how hard to let him.  She filled a place in him that had been vacant for too long, and he filled a place she hadn’t realized had gone vacant.  There was push, there was pull.  There was give, there was take. 

In the end, though, they were complete together.


Pe – tey…”

Long moments later, as he swept the sweat-damp hair from her forehead, Jon cuddled his wife close.  “I missed ya, Sugar.”

“Yeah,” she whispered.  “I didn’t realize it, but I was missing you, too.  I’m sorry.”

“Mm.”  He hooked a foot over, planting his heel in the back of her knee and pulling her leg to nestle between his.  “Don’t apologize.  It’s over.”

“If you say so.”

“No.”  Jon withdrew just far enough to look down into her face.  “I mean it.  No more schedules and no more fertility juices or whatever weird ass concoctions you’ve been drinking.  We’re going back to our real sex life.”

“But –“

“No buts, Petey.  This shit is stressing both of us out, which is probably making it even harder to get pregnant.  I want you to relax.”  He smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.  “Suck my dick once in a while.  At the very least, we’ll both be in a better mood.”

His girl genius wasn’t particularly amused, but she did take the time to contemplate and evaluate what he’d said before admitting, “There are studies that say women are more likely to conceive when they’re happy and relaxed.”

“Ha!  See?” he crowed.  “Who’s the genius in the family now?”

She rolled her eyes and, after a sharp jab to the ribs, curled contentedly into his side. “You’re more prick than genius, but I still love you.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Jon pressed a kiss into the top of her head, chuckling as he did so.  “But this prick loves you, just the same.  Welcome home, Sugar.”