Wednesday, March 22, 2006
I took a tip from Jill at Introspectre.
Sitting on the couch, arms folded, staring at the TV and watching nothing in particular, one could easily tell I was … miffed. I was grim, with my mouth set in a line. I looked pissed off.
Monsieur was working in the study; he had a pile of work from a client who dumped it on him and insisted that he get this huge project out in a month, and it was something that would normally take a team of specialists at least three months. It has to do with making sure all their data policies were in “compliance”; making sure that customers’ private information stays private, procedures are in place, and all asses are covered. Monsieur had to read policies, fix, re-do, and make sure everything was legal. He was on the phone a lot, and it didn’t help that the lawyer that he is working with is a total bigot who hates all Europeans.
For three days, Monsieur would come home, help with dinner, put the kids to bed, and disappear into that damned office. So, at 10:30 PM last night, I was tired of it. I missed him. He hadn’t spent any time with me and I was turning into a shrew. I resented it, I resented his client, and I wanted to stop the whole cycle before I started to resent Monsieur.
But I couldn’t; I just sat there, on the couch, watching some stupid re-run, and I finally thought to myself, “What would Jill do?”
Well, that was easy. She’d throw a tantrum.
I turned off the TV, got up, and knocked on the door to the office. Without waiting for an answer, I stuck my head in the door. “Do you need anything?” I asked.
He shook his head without looking up.
“Well, I do,” I said, snappish. I came into the office and took off my T-shirt.
“[Yearning Heart],” he said with a sigh, “really – you know what kind of pressure I’m under.” He looked at me, tenderly, and then he held my hand. “I promise I will spend more time with you, once I get done with this–”
“You’re damn right you will. And you’re going to take…” I looked at the clock “about five minutes right now, and you’re going to take care of another little chore that you keep neglecting.”
“It’s not a chore,” he protested.
“It better not be,” I said, pulling off my pajama bottoms and tossing them aside. “If it is, though, well, that’s your problem. It’s high time you started pulling your own sexual weight around here.”
He looked at me, shook his head and said, “That’s really not an appropriate way to go about–”
“Save it,” I snapped, interrupting him. “Use that mouth for something useful.” I turned off the computer monitor.
“You’re being rude,” he said.
“I won’t argue with you,” I said, gently, and I leaned over him and kissed him. “I’m sorry, love, but it’s come to this.”
“What do you want me to do?” he said, almost helpless.
“I want you … to redeem your coupon.” He blushed. I knelt at his feet. He winced. “Oh, c’mon; is it really that bad?”
“Well, of course not,” he said, “it’s just that–”
“Right, a lot of work to do, not enough time to do it, blah, blah, blah. Your biggest problem is that you kill yourself fulfilling promises that other people make on your behalf.” I unzipped him.
“That’s not true,” he said. “In this instance, the client has until the end of the month to comply with a court order–”
“Another problem you have,” I continued, sliding his glasses off of his face and setting them aside, “is that you talk too much about meaningless B.S. You have another client who will absolutely not take no for an answer. And, it just so happens, Monsieur, that this other client is kneeling between your legs right now. I think even a lawyer might be able to divine the implications of that.” He smiled. I didn’t. I was being bratty, testy, and firm. I tugged his pants down, and felt a rush of triumph when he lifted his hips to help me get them off.
He wasn’t fully hard yet but I knew I could fix that. I licked my lips, getting them nice and wet, and then, holding him in one hand, I lowered my head to his lap.
His hands were on the arms of the chair, so I took them and put them on my head. His fingers gently entwined in my hair and I closed my eyes, feeling him harden.
Bobbing, licking, sucking and kissing until my jaw fairly ached, I could tell he was close. He pulled me off of him and lifted me up. I made a pouty noise, and tried to get him to let me suck him more, but he was insistent. He lifted me up and held me by my hips as he lowered me down to it. I whimpered, feeling him enter me with a sticky, slurpy slish. He was going so slow that I didn’t think that we were even moving for a second; then I felt him shift and he impaled me delightfully.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered in my ear.
“No,” I lied, “but it’ll do.”
He wrapped my legs around himself, lifted me up, and carried me to the wall, where he pinned me against it and ensued to pound me, like the slutty brat that I was acting like.
In five minutes, we were disentangling ourselves, and I wobbled my way to bed. He tucked me in and kissed me, asked me if I was all right. I nodded.
“You don’t need to be so ill-mannered, next time,” he said. “I would have come around to it.”
“I don’t have that sort of patience,” I said, closing my eyes. “If you neglect me that long again, I promise you I will be just as rude.” I held his hand. “Please, Monsieur, for my sake, for your sake, and for the sake of peace in the family, don’t neglect me again.”
“You’re spoiled,” he said.
I agreed. “I need a spanking, too.”
He sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You’re going to make me happy,” I replied. “A couple of times a week, or every chance you get.”