For once I manage to get away from work early and head home. It is Wednesday and the weekend seems a long way off yet the previous weekend is already a far distant memory.
She will already be home when I get there. No doubt busy, as always. No doubt tired, as always. I think about her as I drive, the way she looks, the way she moves. It has been days since we last found the time and energy to have sex. I realise how much I want her.
Our son is in day care today and she will be planning to get him and go through the late afternoon ritual of feeding him dinner. Then I will give him his bath, read to him and together we'll put him to bed.
And then finally, much later, after our own dinner and all the other nightly chores, we'll have time to ourselves. By then, however she will already be too tired, already thinking about tomorrow and all that she has to do. And another night will pass by when we sleep side by side, yet alone.
I want this afternoon to be different. I make a decision, to make this day count, to make it different from all the other Wednesdays. The plan that forms in my mind probably won't work, but I decide to try, to break the pattern of our lives.
She is a little surprised when she hears me enter. I drop my briefcase and laptop in the same place I always do and walk over to her. She has been checking the credit card statement, working out how much beyond our means we have lived this month. She rises to greet me.
"You're home early," she says, happy for the break. It has been a warm day and she is wearing a short light cotton skirt, one I love seeing her in, one that shows off those beautiful tanned thighs. She also has a little white t-shirt that leaves her stomach and belly button exposed.
I pull her close and kiss her. Not a standard I'm-home kiss but a long deep kiss that lingers. I feel myself harden and my need for her grows.
We look at each other for a moment and she is about to speak. No doubt, she will recount the events of her day, the chores still to do, the reminders and responsibilities and the rest of our lives' trivialities.
Instead, I say, "Shut up." I say it gently but I can see she is momentarily surprised. I put a finger to her lips and take her hand, leading her to the bedroom.
I can guess what is going through her mind, this disruption to her routine, not unwelcome, but unexpected and therefore unplanned and therefore unusual, unwarranted, unneeded.
In the bedroom I pull her to me again, stifling any argument with another deep kiss, my tongue fighting its way into her mouth, my hands sliding down her back to hold her arse, pulling her against my hardness.
I want her even as I know she is already assembling excuses and diversions in her mind. She pulls away from me a little, not angry, but prepared to stop the course of events here.
Instead I shake my head, pushing the boundaries, determined to overcome the resistance. I guide her back against the wall, feeling her tense in anticipation, hands on my chest, prepared to push me away again.
I grab her wrists and hold them at her sides as I kiss her neck and lips. She returns my kisses with a little more enthusiasm now, perhaps thinking a compromise can be negotiated and a truce line agreed to.
I release my grip on her wrists and slid my hands over her stomach, lifting the shirt up over her breasts. She attempts to pull it back down but I take her wrists again, this time raising them above her head and pinning them to the wall. She fights only halfheartedly as I kiss her again, hard, deep kisses that I know she responds to when she is turned on.
She makes a weak protest, smothered by my kisses. I know in this tactical battle, she has decided to retreat for the moment, waiting until she can make a winning stand, establish her control, and return to a predicatable Wednesday afternoon.
I raise her shirt again and she allows me to remove it. I throw it to the floor and return to kissing her. Her hands have remained above her head, against the wall but I know that soon the resistance will recommence.
Quickly, I fumble behind her back, for once unclasping her bra neatly and efficiently, surprising both of us and bringing a little smile to her face. I push the straps away from her shoulders and she obligingly lowers her arms and allows the bra to fall between our bodies, to the floor.
In my mind, I celebrate this victory, a small one, but a victory nevertheless. I lean and kiss her breasts, savouring the softness of the pale flesh against my lips. I lick her nipples and they harden a little as she hugs me to her.
When I rise to kiss her lips again, I cup her breasts gently in my hands, preparing myself for the next stage of the plan. I have reached the now-or-never stage, the death-or-glory stage and I know that if we fall back into our normal pattern at this point, the best I can hope for will be slow, pleasant love-making.
Making love to her is wonderful but that's not what I want now. I want to fuck her. I want her to know and to feel how much I need her body. I want her to know just how fuckable she really is. For a few minutes at least, I want her to think of herself not as a mother, or a wife, but a very beautiful, very fuckable woman.
"Lean over the bed," I tell her. She doesn't move, but nor does she protest. She appraises me for a moment, looking into my eyes, trying to read me. For once, I have her guessing. "Do it," I say, putting as much steel in my voice as I can. I pause. "Or I'll have to make you."
I maintain eye contact with her for a long moment. She knows she could normally stop this at any time, but now, she isn't sure. Then, to my relief and elation she moves to the bed and leans forward, resting her palms on the covers. She looks back expectantly, her eyes betraying a nervousness that I have seldom seen in our bedroom.
I slide my hands up the backs of her thighs, under her skirt, taking hold of her plain, simple underwear and pulling it down to her knees. She gasps softly at the suddenness of it, still unsure of what to expect from me.
I pull her skirt up over her arse, hands running over the smooth skin. I push her underwear to her ankles, using my still-shod foot. It is a move that clearly surprises her in its roughness because she looks back at me with wide eyes. I part her legs with my knee and she steps out of her bunched up underwear as she widens her stance.
Taking my hands from her, I undo my belt. She doesn't move, except to settle her hands a little more comfortably on the bed. She turns her head again as she hears my zipper and gasps in shock as she feels the hard heat of my cock against the soft skin of her arse.
"I'm going to fuck you hard from behind," I say. I know she loves sex from behind but it is my turn to be surprised when she nods and says a simple, "OK."
I realise that it is not permission she has given me, but acceptance, acquiesance, submission. I take the hard shaft of my cock in my hand and guide the swollen head to the lips of her pussy. I expect a protest that she isn't ready, or a request to be gentle, instead she is silent.
Slowly I enter her, feeling her wetness, a surprising wetness. There has been no long, slow tender build-up to make her ready, yet she is, undeniably, ready. The knowledge that she wants this now, turns me on more and I slide my cock quickly and deeply inside her.
She groans as I take her hips and push myself as far inside her as I can. She is usually very quiet during our love-making so the sound she makes is another thrill for me.
I begin to pump my cock into her, a slow rhythm, but deep, with a patience I don't feel. I hear her breathing, in time with my thrusting and now I can smell the richly-textured scent of sex.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard," I say, "So hard you can hear it." I demonstrate what I mean, slamming my cock into her so that my thighs slap against the back of hers and my balls beat a light tempo against her pussy lips.
She moans, far removed from her normal controlled, careful self. Her hair has fallen over her face but I can see her mouth open, gasping in pleasure as she half-turns to me.
Surprising even myself, I grab her hair, raising her head, so that she is looking at her own reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall.
"Look at yourself getting fucked," I tell her. "You like it, don't you?" Initially I don't really expect her to answer since she seldom talks during sex. Then I decide that she should answer.
"Well," I say. "Do you like getting taken from behind like this?" I fuck her hard, my hands pulling her hips to me as my cock slides into the wet heat of her pussy.
"No," she says, a hint of defiance in her voice. "I think we should stop," she adds in a less assured tone. She is still looking at herself in the mirror.
I'm going to keep fucking you until you cum," I say. "Whether you like it or not. Do you understand?" I have never talked to her like this before and I revel in treating her this way.
