PHILIP
I opened my eyes. It took a minute before my bleary vision corrected itself to not wearing my spectacles. I had always been nearsighted, my mother would often joke that I came out of her womb with my specs on the top of my head. Now nearing thirty my nearsightedness was so bad that I could not even see clearly my husband at the mirror facing our bed, preening himself.
My husband Timothy was a handsome son-of-a-gun, I'd give him that. Just don't mention it to him I said so. He could be a little too full of himself, a bit narcissistic even, much in the way someone like him, who was at the top of his surgical profession for quite a few years now, could be. I was just happy he took me along for the ride of a lifetime six years ago when he proposed to me on that pleasure cruise to the Bahamas, years before everything turned, well, to shit with the pandemic and death counts and anti-vaccine and everything else.
Timothy also wore specs, but his were more for vanity than for sheer need. His visual acuity wasn't that bad, but he still insisted on buying couple specs with me, the designer kinds which looked like straps, that could turn gray or black according to the light intensity. I humored this need for sameness, for identity, much like I humored his everything else.
How could you not? Just look at him. A surgeon should not have his kind of cut musculature, huge deltoids and rugby player's thighs like him. Before I met him I romanticized surgeons as those creatures with the long, tapered artful fingers that tied surgical knots and brought countless orgasms at the flick of a finger. With clean nails! Turned out (blush) he had those too, and clean nails.
"Wakey wakey sleeping beauty." I loved him most when he used his endearments to me, and to me alone. "Long shift?"
"Yeah, the usual." I worked as an intensive care nurse, which meant I had long shifts and was on call on the weekends. It was hard work, but it paid really well, and those student's debts were not paying itself. Tim, kind selfless Tim, had always offered me a choice, the option for independence, but I believed it spoke to my worth as my own person that I had a career and was not just a plain old house-husband. "Mrs. Goldberg passed away you know."
"Ooh well. I liked her. Well, at least her shenanigans in the OT." Mrs. Goldberg was a chronic patient of ours, a stage four cancer patient who had a penchant for Yiddish swear words while she was under anesthesia. Tim, whose mother was half-Jewish, used to humor the old lady, speaking in spattering of New York Yiddish, only to be corrected by the woman when he used the wrong terms.
"Are you ever going to finish dressing? You have that meeting today, and lunch with the residents after." I reminded my husband as he turned back to the mirror, now smoothing off his underwear, which did little to camouflage his large bulge. See, that was another reason I was happy to be tied down to Tim. They called him Anaconda at the gym, and that was not because he was an ophidiophile. He finished dressing, wore his favorite navy suit and trotted back to the bed to give me a kiss, before going off to his meeting.
As for me, it would be a lazy Monday. I was on call back-to-back last weekend, so I was entitled to two days off. I planned to meet my buddy Simon, poor Simon, a nurse friend who just had a divorce after catching his husband in bed with a doctor. And after that, maybe I would go to a mart, to do a little shopping for tonight's dinner.
My meeting with Simon was harrowing to say the least. The poor guy was heart-broken to find his husband fucking Dr Camden, a physician in our hospital, in their marital bed after a particularly difficult shift on Valentine's Day no less! Revelations after revelations compounded upon one another after Simon found out they had been sexting behind his back since he invited Cam to his house-warming a year ago, an event me and Tim also went to. He ended the meeting giving me a warning that no happy home was safe, especially happy gay homes. I hesitated to add, "Like mine?" but I knew what he meant.
TIMOTHY
"FUUUCK!!" I bellowed out. Following my orgasm with a vocal release had always heightened the throbbing pleasure of my cumming. Whenever I came I came lots, as if making up for the perfunctory sex I had at home with my lovely, kind, correct husband. Not that there was anything wrong with lovely and kind and correct, but one wanted, for lack of word, a slight variety from time to time.
There's nothing lovely or correct now about the man kneeling between my thighs, slurping up the dregs of semen still bubbling out of the slit of my cock. As usual the point came when the sensitivity sensors go into overdrive especially the area around the slit at the cock-head, which could reduce me to a simpering blabbering idiot if sucked, laved just right post-orgasm. And the man between my thighs was doing an excellent job of just that.
After a few minutes he released the pressure he was exerting on my balls, which almost made another small orgasm pass along the stem of my thick cock. "I felt that, you naughty boy, or should I say you naughty husband?" the man murmured, gently caressing the hairs on my balls before engulfing them yet again.
