Thirty Days Hath September

This is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of eighteen.

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My god, where to start? With me, I guess, and how I ended up here, a thirty-four year old office-working suburb-dwelling cat-owning married gay man, part of the fabric of society, respectable but hardly remarkable...

I might be stereotyping the hell out of myself but I promise I'm not griping. At all. I've been lucky, and I know it. But what do you want to hear a happy story for? What's the point, if there aren't any twists and turns, if there's nothing shocking, gruelling, dramatic coming up - how will my character develop?

If it's any consolation, my first relationship was an absolute bin fire. But that was five months of my life, nine years ago, B. G. - before Greg - and though it might've left a scar or two, it hasn't wrecked me.

I was twenty-six when I met Greg and a bit of a baby gay despite having been sexually active for eight years. Of course the first two of those years were exclusively heterosexual. I mean... in practice the first two of those years were exclusively heterosexual. There were some intrusive thoughts. And over time a few more. And... you probably get the picture.

I was twenty when I allowed myself to admit - to nobody but myself - that I clearly had some interest in guys. It took another year for me to work up the courage to do anything about that interest, and I guess another year and half for me to acknowledge - to nobody but myself - that my orientation was on a one-way street to gayness. Not that there was anything about women, or the notion of sex with them, that disgusted me in any way... but the phenomenon definitely felt like it was in a rear-view mirror, shrinking rapidly, losing definition, approaching some vanishing point...

I came out to my parents and sister on my twenty-fourth birthday. It was a deliberate choice - we were in a fairly nice restaurant and I banked on it being a context nobody would want to create a scene in.

I needn't have worried. Mum just hugged me and told me she hoped I'd find somebody wonderful, and to make sure to be safe out there in the meantime, which was crushingly embarrassing... but I guess that's a parent's right. Joelle smirked at me and told me she'd probably have to move to another city now we were fishing from the same pool - hilarious, since the dinner was doubling as a farewell for her because she'd accepted a job in Christchurch earlier that week...

Dad... put up his arm and waved to attract the floorstaff's attention, and as one of them made their way toward us, he murmured, "We'll have a round of shots, I think." His eyes flicked to me for confirmation as he continued, "Tequila, maybe?"

I shrugged. "Sure." If I have to be throwing back hard liquor without anything to cut it, tequila's no worse than any of the other options...

When the waitress returned with our shots, Dad nodded acknowledgement and said, "Same again thanks, luv."

Shit, I thought, looking over at him just before tipping back my shot, did I break my dad? But with another shot in him, he reached over the table and patted my hand.

"I am a bit flummoxed, okay?" He told me. "But I'm not- I'll come around to it, don't worry. Bit of time, and..."

"... and a bit more tequila?" I prompted.

He nodded, I slid my second shot over to him, and when I saw them next it'd sunk in for him, and everything was good. Like I said, I've been lucky.

Fast-forwarding two years and change and glossing over the catastrophe that was my first foray into properly dating a guy, I arrived at the team meeting one Monday morning to be informed that I was gonna have to spend Wednesday to Friday the following week on a course learning how to use the new software package work had signed a five-year deal for.

To say I was pissed was an understatement - I interacted with that database in the most tangential of ways, usually to create lists for mail-outs, and I could have that explained to me by a colleague who'd done the course inside of half an hour.

Besides which, I have never been able to understand why corporations and institutions do this - why they shell out tens or possibly even hundreds of thousands of dollars fixing a thing which demonstrably isn't broken - and that's before we factor in inefficiencies while staff are upskilling and the inevitable giant clusterfuck when data inevitably doesn't migrate properly and the rolling small-scale clusterfucks that follow for months afterwards due to people on cruise control interacting with the new software in the old way, all of which are damaging to the brand, which it was kind of my whole job to prevent...

So far as I can tell, I don't understand these things because I'm not, and never will be, a person who occupies a seat at a boardroom table. I am a person who reports to people, who in turn report to other people, none of whom make gigantic purchasing decisions. But they do get to tell me what I'll be spending my time on, and on this occasion both my boss and my boss's boss were adamant I attend the training despite how irrelevant most of it was going to be for me.

On the day of, I even tried telling Bronwen that my work wasn't going to do itself while I was farting around going on courses, but she just looked at me pityingly and said, "You're not that important, Hamish."

As a result, I didn't go into the thing with the best mindset, and still it managed to... what's the opposite of 'exceed expectations'? I was monstrously grumpy at the commencement of the second day - the aircon in the room was already failing to deal with the day's heat, I was wearing a sticker that said 'Hello my name is:', I wouldn't be able to get a mid-morning coffee, and the fucker supposedly running the course couldn't even be bothered to show up on time...

Which is another way of saying that I was deeply sunk in sourness when Greg walked into that room and said, "Sorry guys, Tyrrell's sick today so you're stuck with me, I'm afraid. Now I... don't usually do training, but I was involved with writing this software so I'm aware of its possibilities, and hopefully I can communicate them to you adequately. I guess also I have the slides to guide me so we should-"

He broke off for a moment, then said, "Ummm... and my name's Greg. Shall we just... crack on with it then?"

In case you're wondering, I didn't take one look at him and instantly decide he was the hottest thing I'd ever laid eyes on - my mind really wasn't in that kind of headspace. What I did notice in that first session was that he had a nicer voice than the guy from the previous day - he was easy to listen to. Good flow, pleasant intonation, threaded a joke in here and there to ease the boredom, of which there was plenty...

I started idly checking him out after lunch. I was still bored, but no longer irritated - we were over halfway through, I had got my caffeine fix, and his delicious voice was lapping around me like water as he explained something I had no intention of remembering...

He was fairly tall and quite built, but without that artificial inverted-triangle torso the truly dedicated gym-bros all develop. His nose was big but balanced in his face, his upper lip was thin but the lower was full, and his eyes had crinkles at the corners. He was wearing a teal blue shirt, sleeves rolled part-way up in concession to the heat, and overall he looked... masculine, but in an understated way. Not like somebody who'd shave and oil his chest and take selfies in front of a mirror, or refer to himself as an 'alpha'...

I'd fortunately moved on to daydreaming about something else by the time he came over to me a few minutes into a practice exercise we were all supposed to be doing to ask if I needed any help.

"Uhh, no I'm good," I muttered. "I'm just... I will literally never use this feature in my role, so I'm... sitting this one out, I guess?"

Greg nodded. "That's fine. Everything else making sense, though?"

I nodded back, pitching my voice low to avoid disturbing my colleagues. "Yeah, no problems. And look... I know you said this isn't what you normally do, but you're actually better at explaining things than the first guy. Also... less douchey."

Greg clapped a hand over his mouth as I said that, but I could see his eyes were laughing. "Poor Tyrrell," he whispered, after a moment. "He's not- he tries a little too hard, maybe. Bit of a rules and policies guy. But he does know his stuff. You should've seen-"

Someone called for assistance from the back of the room and that was the end of our interaction. Which was fine. It's not like I was expecting it to lead to anything, even on the remote chance he was gay, because, well... while I loved the reality of sex with men (when I could get it) I was way less in love with the fact that outward appearances came first and second and third in the gay milieu...

Obviously it was resentment behind it because I wasn't anything to look at. Not anything to anything, particularly. Small, but not small enough to be 'fun-sized', slim, but not in that concave-stomached longline twink mould... okay, my eyes were nice, genuine blue-blue. But nobody fucks eyes. And the eyes were part of a genetic heritage that included my goddamn skin. Any part of me that'd ever seen the sun was covered in freckles, but not the cute uniform little dots - no, the big irregular bran-flakes-looking sort. And I wasn't even ginger! - my hair was so dark brown it was practically black...

Honestly I would probably have preferred to have acne, because at least that's a walking advertisement you're oversupplied with testosterone... and there are treatments for it. Whereas if you have freckles... sorry buddy, you have freckles. Plus skin cancers to look forward to in your old age. And if all that wasn't enough, I was packing... nothing much. Too small to be desirable, or even useful really, but not small enough for the fetishists... not that I wanted anything to do with the fetishists.

All of which is to say, a fair amount of my sex life took place within the boundaries of my imagination, but even there I didn't let things run so wild that I created scenarios where random men who were several steps ahead of me on the hotness scale singled me out and dedicatedly pursued me until I finally managed to accept they actually wanted me for me - but that's what happened.

Friday morning it was Greg again. He told us Tyrrell had spent the night in hospital and was now awaiting tests results, 'so you're stuck with me again', and then offered it as his opinion that if we made good pace and everybody was agreeable to only taking a half-hour lunch break, we could be done by four. You'd better believe we were agreeable...

But by two in the afternoon, faced with the third test/exercise of the day, it was clear some people were flagging. Myself not so much, since I hadn't done any of them. Greg took a sweeping look around the room at all the bent heads and said, "How 'bout I go out and grab everybody a coffee? Hamish, you wanna come lend a hand?" He took out his phone and apparently opened some list app. "Okay folks, hit me..."

One or two people objected to the idea that he'd fund coffees for us all - there were nineteen bodies in the room.

Greg just smiled serenely. "Oh, I have a budget. Of course it's meant to be for wining and dining the rubes who haven't bought the software yet, but ehhh..."

He got a smattering of laughs - and fourteen coffee orders. Tucking his phone back in his pocket, he opened the door of the conference room and indicated with a tilt of his head that I should precede him out of it.

We rode down three floors in the lift and walked half a block to his chosen café without me feeling self-conscious or uncomfortable at all, because he was a good talker, Greg - he knew how to keep a conversation going, how to draw someone out...

We'd finally got all fourteen coffees arranged in their little cardboard trays and stacked in such a way that they weren't gonna tumble down either of our shirts, when Greg blurted out, "So, um, Hamish? Would you be interested in going for a drink after all this is wrapped up today?"

I stared. Just stared. With my mouth open.

"Yes, that is what you think it is," Greg clarified. "And if I'm way off base then I apologise. But... I had to try."

I had to try, too. To talk, that is...

"I uh. I have a thing. A dinner. At 6.30. I mean, I really do - I'm not making it up. But, um, before...?"

I wasn't making it up, either. Dammit. If it were any other Friday - but these were folk I'd known since high school and we'd all stuck together through a lot, and we only did these dinners four times a year...

Greg was unfazed. "Okay. I'll have a bit of admin and packing down to do once everyone's finished up in that room, but I'll be done by five. Meet you downstairs and we can go sit somewhere 'til six? Will that give you time to get to your thing?"

"Yeah," I croaked. "Yeah, that'll be fine..."

"Sorry you're gonna have to hang around for me," he said, backing through the heavy glass door and onto the pavement.

I nipped through the gap behind him. "There's three days worth of unread emails in my inbox - I'll make a start on that..."

I didn't make excellent progress on my emails. My head was too floaty. That guy - that guy - just asked me out... that honey-voiced impossibly next-door-hot... asked me. Me. I mean, I probably was the gayest person in that room - but he didn't need to be selecting from a captive audience. With his pleasing looks, his confidence, his conversational abilities... he'd be able to pick up literally anywhere. Well, I didn't mind being today's catch. At all.

I really thought that's all it was for him. Today's catch, reel him in, that's the next fuck lined up... I was mildly surprised, at the end of our little impromptu date, that he seemed to be nervous about asking for a repeat - 'any chance you'd want to do this again?' was how he phrased it. I assured him I was plenty happy to do this again and we planned to meet up on Sunday afternoon.

Greg was dog-sitting for one of his aunts, so it ended up just being a walk on the beach and a shared scoop of chips afterward, fending off said dog's attempt to join in on the fun...

"She is literally the most high-maintenance thing ever," Greg said, sweeping her up to sit in the crook of his arm. "Aren't you, Lola?" He turned to me. "It's always me who has to look after her when Helen goes out of town because I don't already have a school-run, etc. Because this anxious co-dependent little madam can't have sleepovers, so I have to stay at Helen's." He grinned ruefully. "It's not the hugest sacrifice, though. Her apartment's right near the beach in Herne Bay..."

We didn't fuck on that occasion either - I could understand why he'd be reluctant to bring someone back to a place that wasn't his. Instead, we parted at my car, Greg with a bundle of white fluff tucked under one arm.

He touched my cheek briefly, then ran his fingers along my palm, skimming the skin. "I'll call you, eh?"

I dipped down into my car, almost shivering. It was the smallest of touches, but god was there electricity behind it. I really hoped he would call...

The following Friday Greg was re-installed in his own place, and we went back there after grabbing some very nice Japanese, which I ate sparingly. This is the point at which I tell you we discovered we had off-the-charts chemistry and both of us instantly gave up the idea of having sex with anybody else, right? Except that isn't quite what happened. What did happen was Greg tried to be nice to me, and I dealt with it... kinda badly.

The problems only started after we moved to the bedroom - I'd been kneeling astride his lap as we made out on the sofa for probably twenty minutes beforehand, and that part was blissful. Electric? Yeah, possibly even nuclear. He was a superb kisser - able to be fully in charge without ever making me feel like I was in danger of being swallowed by the kraken - a balance that's... rarer than it should be.

We went through to his room and he grazed his hands all the way down my arms and said, "How 'bout you undress for me, beautiful?"

I found it vaguely jarring to be called 'beautiful'. It was clear he was going for a compliment rather than sarcasm, but still... no-one had ever told me I was beautiful. The mirror didn't tell me I was beautiful. For sure, some guys had said, in the thick of things, that I had a fine little arse, or that it was hot the way I twerked on them but-

Whatever. I blinked it away, steeled myself, and started stripping off my clothes. In some ways I was happy to have it over with - undressing was always the scary part for me, the part where it might go wrong. Is it better to announce upfront that you have a really mediocre cock, or is it better to wait so you can disappoint them at a stage in the evening where they're (probably) too invested to quit out on you?

Obviously there are a lot of things that can be said at this point. I know that because I've heard them all already. There's 'the internet gives everybody a skewed idea of what normal dick size is', there's 'size doesn't matter on a bottom anyway', and my personal favourite, 'c'mon, we're gay - all dicks are lovely'...

Sure, sure they are, but just like in 'Animal Farm' some of them are lovelier than others - hey, I even thought it myself. And some - like mine - are actually smaller than the actual average even without regards to the internet. And some of the people, some of them called Blair who've spent five months telling you they love your cute lil' dick just the way it is, then say some really shitty things about it when they're breaking up with you...

I finished undressing and threw myself on the bed, trying to come across like it didn't matter. Greg's eyes travelled all over me. He looked... well, he didn't look disgusted, anyway...

"Christ," he whispered, "just so beautiful..."

I felt a lump in my throat, a weird clog of emotion. "Could you not?" I hissed.

He came and lay down alongside me fully clothed, propped up on an elbow, all gentle concern. Also not what I wanted.

"I'm sorry," he began. "What did I-"

"You know you don't need to seduce me, right?" I muttered. "I'm here. I'm happy to fuck. I also know what I'm working with. I don't need you to be feeding me bullshit about how I'm beautiful so I'll feel comfortable enough to let you..."

He was still watching me intently, but my eyes, face, now.

"You think I'm flattering you?" He said. "Dishonestly? To increase my chances of getting something I want from you?"

Put like that, it made him sound like a complete shitball. I backpedalled. "No. I think you're trying to be nice. But... like... there's no need."

"Well, I'll be the judge of that," he said. "Is it so unbelevieable that I could genuinely be into you?" When I didn't say anything, he took hold of my hand and brought it down to his groin, pressing me into the fabric there. "What do you think this is?"

"A dick that's a lot bigger than mine?" I guessed. And hard... oh god, it was all the way hard and a really nice handful and-

Greg sighed and reached down for the sheet, pulling it up to cover me. Which... he could've just, he could've just unzipped his fly and let me get my face in there and actually I would've forgotten all my troubles inside of ten seconds, but...

He grazed my cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I really do think you're beautiful," he whispered. "Truly. Like... crazy beautiful."

I didn't know what to say. Or do. I didn't understand why this had to be a thing.

"Listen, baby," he breathed. Remember how I told you he had a nice voice? Well it sounded really really good when he called me 'baby'...

"I wasn't gonna tell you this yet," he continued, "because it's kinda heavy and I didn't want to freak you out, but... we've spent time together, right? And I discovered you're sweet and funny and literate, you have these unique and entertaining perspectives on stuff, but... honestly? We're here today because... I walked into that room the other week and started up my spiel, and part-way through I saw you and my brain's wi-fi just totally dropped out for a moment - did you not notice? I forgot how to talk, because I'd just seen... you're, like, the living embodiment of-"

He broke off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uhhm. I'm sorry. It's really not cool to be dropping all this on you. But the fact is, I am in quite deep here..."

I still didn't say anything, because I was still speechless.

He watched me, concerned. "Are you okay, Hamish? You feel safe? Or have I ballsed things up? To be clear, I'm not asking for anything from you other than that we take this one day at a time..."

I nodded. "I'm okay."

He lifted a corner of the sheet. "Is it alright if I get under there with you?"

I made myself look indifferent. "Better if you got naked first..."

"Oh, yeah..." He laughed, then suddenly he was serious again. "I'm fucking it up 'cos I'm nervous, Hamish," he whispered as he started unbuttoning his shirt. "I want you real bad..."

I didn't understand it, but I didn't mind. And once he was undressed and all alongside me, ugh...

His body was gorgeous, every inch of him, and I had to admit I liked the way he was touching me - not grabby, but gentle and curious... as though he was learning the shape of me, committing it to memory, all interspersed with those deep delving kisses...

Greg reached down and took hold of my dick, and I stiffened all over involuntarily. I knew it'd completely disappear in his hand - it almost disappeared in my hand... but he lulled me back to a floating languor with more kisses, and he wasn't looking at it anyway... and then he let go and pushed me onto my back and swung himself between my legs and it was only at the last-last moment I realised he wasn't there to fold my knees up and find a place for his cock...

I had gotten blowjobs before, to be clear. A few from girls, way back when - quite a few more from tops who'd had theirs and were largely doing it to maintain their own perception of themselves as a guy who isn't a selfish asshole, but this... he wasn't fucking kidding when he said he really wanted this...

I did my best to keep still and not make overtly girlish noises (with limited success), and all the time his hand wandered my torso in gentle exploratory sweeps. At some point, I grabbed it with one of my own and held on hard...

"You have to stop," I eventually panted. "Greg... you need to stop now."

He knelt up and met my stare and god his eyes were so lust-fogged... he said nothing, just looked at me queryingly.

"If you wanna be able to fuck me, then..." I trailed off with a shrug, and Greg kissed the hand he was still holding.

"It can wait, baby," he whispered, eyes softening even further. "If you'd like me to keep going here I'm super-willing. Just wanna make you feel so good..."

I already felt good - though it was the taut-as-a-bowstring kind of good, the need to be fucked kind...

I gestured to his groin. "No, don't, don't deny me that. C'mon, man..."

He smiled and shuffled up the bed, still holding my hand, until he was astride my chest.

"You like that, baby?" He breathed, pressing my palm to it, curling my fingers around.

All I said was, "Uggghhhh...." from all the way in my gut in the most wanton manner imaginable because god the weighty feel of it in my hand and the way he was watching me as I fondled him, sort of soft and... not shy exactly, but something close...

It was a perfect cock, perfect. Nice to look at, nice to hold, big enough that it felt big going in, not so big that I spent the entire fuck focussed on nothing but coping with the big-ness. He fucked me in missionary, and I let him even though I preferred positions where my dick and my face weren't on display, because he was just so nice - to complain would've been like kicking a kitten...

Something I'd never appreciated before - probably because on every previous occasion I'd been talked into this position my whole bandwidth was occupied with worrying about the inadequacy of my dick and the potentially stupid faces I was making - was that if a guy can see you, you can see him. You can see his delts standing out tensed as he's holding himself off you, you can see his abs in a Mexican wave in time to the gyrations of his hips, you can see how intently he's watching you, how much he's enjoying this, how the perspiration builds on his forehead as he fucks on and on... Believe me, it didn't take long before I'd totally stopped worrying about how I might currently present - I had better things to occupy my mind. And my eyes. And my ears.

My ears especially, 'cos though Greg - fortunately - wasn't one of those aggro-chat types running seventeen minor variations of 'yeah bitch, take that dick' on loop play, everything he did say sounded utterly amazing, and it got even better when they dropped to husky whispers as he began to be slightly breathless with the effort of fucking me...

"Okay, baby?" He panted. "Feeling good?"

"Feels - really - nice," I stuttered, hearing my voice trembling and tenuous. I liked that, too.

Greg nodded down at me, hips still rolling, rolling. "Thassright..." He breathed.

Ohhh... now he even sounded vaguely drunk and it was me, me doing it to him...

Soon I could feel he was gearing up to nut - the signs were all there, the indicators of strain... the long high note, the last chance to slow this down before the fuse is lit for real. But he didn't slow down. It sent me into a fever, wild for him to finish and stroking myself at warp speed - not because I needed to get there first, not because I needed to get there at all, but because this was so transcendently hot, how could I not?

How could I not be part of it, the waiting on tenterhooks, the wind-up before the inevitable release? I felt him swell impossibly hard against my walls and then somehow even harder... and his face, his fucking face as he came, it was... it was pure wonderment, like he couldn't believe this was truly happening...

He held himself in place, buried deep and hips locked against my undercarriage as I got myself the rest of the way, still with that awed expression, and when I started to cum he gasped, "Hamish - babe..." His beautiful voice fracturing as I lost myself under his gaze...

We repeated the experiment the following Friday (and Saturday) and the next weekend after that, and by then the evidence was pretty conclusive - it wasn't any kind of fluke, this thing we had going on...

"It's like you were made for me," Greg murmured as he snuggled in, spooning, "you fit so well to me..."

I did... even though he wasn't any specific size or shape that I hadn't encountered before, but... I couldn't think of a better way to describe it than that - that I fit really well to him. And he to me.

You're still waiting for the 'but', aren't you? Waiting for bit where it all falls out? Well, there is no 'but'. I don't blame you though. I was waiting for it too, for the longest time. It took me an age to accept that none of this was a cosmic-level practical joke, that the universe really had supplied me with a kind thoughtful interesting gorgeous man who adored me...

And for all that time I couldn't quite let myself believe it I held out on Greg, keeping some part of myself closed off, held in reserve for when this all went belly-up... until one day it occurred to me if I kept on like this I'd never fully experience a life that was there on a plate, being offered to me. And that that was a poor bargain compared against the possibility of maybe being slightly less hurt if this did all go to shit someday.

So when the time came, I said 'yes' to moving in with him, I said 'yes' to ditching the condoms - in fact I might've suggested that one - a couple of years later I said 'yes' to us buying a place together, and then on my thirtieth birthday, when Greg asked me to marry him... I said 'yes' to that too...

* * * * *

So here we are, all caught up - pretty much. And I've just realised there is a 'but' - though only because that's actually how sentences work! It's not a blue note signalling the beginning of a third movement where we descend into hell or anything like that...

We both of us had jobs we liked well enough and families who accepted us as we were. We had a two-bedroom one parking space townhouse in a new-ish development, we had a supremely princessy feline fur-baby - and we had each other.

We were very lucky, both of us, BUT... we were in a routine. Not a bad routine, not a rut! No resentment or toxicity or unpleasant habits settling in - just... things had been the same for quite a while...

And then one evening in late July Greg called me into the bathroom to check a mole he'd found on his left shoulder.

"Do you think it looks dodgy?" He prompted.

Damn. It definitely looked dodgy, even to my untrained eye. I agreed with him, trying to keep my voice and thoughts steady...

It wasn't even happening to me, but I was the one who did the freaking about it. Greg was the one who went to the dermatologist a week later, who confirmed the mole's 'dodgy' diagnosis and excised it on the spot. Greg was the one who came home with three neat little tape sutures on his shoulder as chipper as if it was all nothing and Greg was the one who was contacted by the lab two days afterward because the routine histology showed melanoma cells and they wanted to schedule a lymph node biopsy...

Inside, I was in pieces, but I tried to keep a brave face because I was ashamed to need comfort from Greg at such a time - he was the one going through it, I should've been comforting him! Should've - but my head was too full of worst-case scenarios for that...

Greg knew me well enough that he saw through my façade. When we were in bed that night, he held me for the longest time, stroking my hair and urging me not to worry - reminding me they'd said there was a ninety percent chance the biopsy would come back clear. Then he flopped on his back and fell straight to sleep, because for Greg, a ninety percent chance the results would be clear truly meant there was no point worrying, whereas to me it meant there was a ten percent chance that cancer cells were rampaging unchecked through my husband's beautiful body.

He scheduled the biopsy for a Thursday afternoon and arranged to work from home on the Friday, seeing as apparently he wouldn't want to be doing much with his left arm for a few days. I offered to go with him, but he told me no, he didn't want me to see him being a big baby. The truth was probably more like he didn't need to deal with me being all faint-y on him, but I accepted his reasoning and went to catch my bus on the fateful morning, feeling like all this amazing luck we'd had was about to run dry...

He was back when I arrived home, sitting on the sofa with Smudge stretched out across his lap, eating salt and vinegar chips directly from the packet.

My big beautiful man... I wanted to bawl, but I didn't. "You okay?" I prompted.

Greg smiled softly at me. "Yeah, baby. I'm good."

"How does it actually feel?"

He weaved his head. "Weird, definitely. Sorta cold and achey? Think probably the anaesthetic hasn't totally worn off yet. I have a couple of stitches in there so there's bound to be some fun itchy times in the week ahead."

"You wanna eat?" I asked.

He grinned. "Shit, yes..."

Friday afternoon was a repeat when I got home - on the sofa fondling Smudge, smiled at me in that special way, I wanted to die 'cos what if I lost him? - right down to being inexplicably ravenous... I tidied up and put the dishwasher on after our meal, which was something Greg would usually have done, but I was content to run around after him. It's a privilege, I thought, a big painful lump forming in my throat as I wiped the benches, every minute with him is a privilege...

I got things under control and returned to the living room with a glass of wine each for us, nestling under the crook of Greg's right arm which was still moving okay, while we watched a couple of hours of crap TV. Eventually the call of my bladder was stronger than the desire to never move again, and I levered myself to my feet, taking our glasses to the kitchen on my way to the bathroom.

When I re-entered the living room Greg had switched off the TV and was clearly anticipating my return.

"I wanna run something by you, okay?" He said. "I had a... kind of an idea. Well, it's not totally my own idea... see, they had no decent reading material in that waiting room yesterday and I was there for three-quarters of an hour before they called me - I sifted through a few of those 'lifestyle' magazines, and there was this one... there was this article in one of them..."

He broke off and started again, his eyes fixed on some spot on the wall behind me. "So... there was apparently this couple... like, married for yonks, and for some unspecified reason they came up with this idea to pledge to have intercourse every day for a year and see what happened, and amongst other things it really rejuvenated how they related to each other and... it made me think..."

I could not keep my face straight. I didn't think that daily sex for an entire year was realistic - at all - but at the same time I loved that he was apparently about to propose it...

"Appealed to you, did it?" I teased. "You wanna make like the hets? That's a new come-out for you, Greg..."

He sat up a bit taller. "I don't wanna make exactly like the hets, no. But it got me thinking - how about we do our own pledge? Not for a year. How about a shorter, more intense version of the same broad kind of thing?"

I felt my eyebrows climb. "More?... Intense?" Than every day for a year?

Greg sat forward, eyes arresting me, pinning me to the wall I was leaning against. "Hear me out, Hamish. What I'd propose is a month. One month. And in that month, every single time I get an erection... I fuck you with it. No swallowing. No waste. No jerking off at work. No-"

"You wank at work?" I gasped. I couldn't imagine risking it. And Greg, with his senior position, was risking more.

He gave an awkward shrug. "Not... often. But if it's persistent, and interfering with my focus? Yeah. Sometimes I do. But if we agree to this thing then I wouldn't, I'd save it for when I got home - for you. Whaddaya think?"

It was crazy - it was completely fucking crazy, with an emphasis on both the 'crazy' and the 'fucking' - it was the wildest thing anyone had ever proposed to me by a mile...

... and it was Greg. It was my amazing gorgeous husband, it was his mind that'd come up with this inane and frankly filthy adaptation of another couple's supposed journey. I wasn't sure about the practicalities, but on some level I was thrilled that that was where his thoughts had taken him...

Greg continued before I'd managed to properly formulate a reply. "I wondered about next month, maybe? Still a fortnight to go before then, gives you some time to think it over properly - and we'll have my results by then which is hopefully a load off both our minds - c'mere, baby..."

I padded over to the sofa and he patted his lap. "Lie down, darling."

He cradled my skull in his big hands. "I know how this head of yours works, Hamish," he breathed. "I know you wanna agree because you love pleasing me. I also know you're already imagining at least a hundred scenarios where you've said yes and then it doesn't work out for this reason or that..."

He smoothed the lines from my forehead with a finger. "Don't worry about that - please don't worry about any of that. I know an arse isn't on its best behaviour all the time, but that's what shower sex is for. I know... that it might just end up too much, and if it does then we'll call time on the whole thing and I'm not gonna be disappointed in you - I'm not, okay?"

One hand was stroking my hair now - the other raising my chin so I was compelled to meet his eye. "And I know, I know that more of the work and more of the potential downsides of sex fall to you the way we're arranged and I absolutely appreciate that - I always have. And the last thing I ever want is to traumatise you in any way because you've suffered through a fucking you weren't up for because you thought you had to, due to this bargain we made. I don't want that, baby, at all..."

He drew in a breath. "But... at the same time... there's a real risk I'll catch you in an off-moment at least once during that month, right? And what I'm gonna suggest to you is; there's a distinction between 'don't really' and 'really don't'. Okay? So if at any point you really don't want me up in your business, then or... ever, actually, just say so and I'll desist. But... for this month at least... if it's more of a 'don't really'? Like... I'd probably rather read my book, but whatever?" He stared intently at me. "Well, you can read your book afterwards."

Uggh... my hole twitched and my dick started to rise... I often headed to bed a half-hour or so before Greg, 'cos I found it a comfy place to read. Sometimes sitting up like a regular person, but sometimes... sometimes on my front, chin pillowed in hands, nothing but a thin layer of cotton between my arse and whoever might walk in and see it and want it... and he'd thought of that. He'd definitely thought of that. The idea that he was already envisaging it-

I pulled down my waistband at the front, exposing myself. "Well, some part of me likes the idea just fine..."

His breath caught on an inhale. "Ohhh... baby. Why don't we go to bed and I'll be the patient who just had an operation and can't move much and you be the naughty nurse who offers to ride me while I just lie there and watch...?"

I dragged his head down toward me. "See... you went for a husband - you don't get to play with naughty nurses anymore, I'm sorry..."

"Okay..." he breathed, "then can you be my husband who's snuck in outside of visiting hours and is trying to relieve my swelling between ward rounds...?"

Hah..."Now that I can do," I told him, swinging my feet to the floor, reaching down a hand to help him up.

Me riding was something we'd never done much of, probably because Greg was - in a very sweet way - actually quite dominant in bed, quite a take-charge sort of guy. He regarded it as his job to make me feel good, rather than my job to find some pleasure in whatever he was offering. So it was fun to switch things around, even if my quads weren't entirely up to the task. I knew I was gonna have some unfamiliar aches tomorrow, but what the hell - it'd give me something interesting to think about on my commute...

Greg was using his good arm stroking me while the other lay inert on the mattress, his eyes tracking the path of his hand - up my thigh, over my chest plucking at the nipples... and eventually down to my dick, crooking the index and middle fingers behind, tipping it forward to the pad of his thumb which was running in figures of eight across my slippery glans. It was an intense stimulation, maybe a bit too much - I felt my tempo falter, my tired thighs threatening to short out.

"I can't concentrate if you keep doing that," I hissed.

"What do you need to concentrate on?" Asked Mr Top-Guy, for whom this kind of thing was fully instinctive...

"Maintaining a rhythm," I told him.

He smiled. "But what if I want to see you totally fall to pieces for me?"

"You will..." I panted, straining to hold it together.

I felt it then, the final swell, the almost crystalline hardness inside me just as he whispered, "Don't make me wait, baby..."

Seeing as Greg was technically disabled, I assigned myself to clean-up duty again. Then I lay down on his right side so he could cuddle me without having to use the bad arm. It wasn't my usual side of the bed and it felt... different. Hm. Is that a really married thing? To have sides of the bed? But you wanna be near your phone charger and your book and your chapstick and... okay yeah, it's definitely weird to be talking about your chapstick when you share your entire body inside and out with someone, but...

"Love you darling," Greg murmured, fondling my hair. "Love you heaps."

I snuggled in closer, and he continued, "How're you feeling about this proposal of mine now we've taken the edge off? 'Cos I want to be frank with the expectations around it, if we go ahead. Baby, you're not just a hole to me and you'll never ever be just a hole to me, but... pragmatically? At least some of time I'd probably be simply dumping a load, and I need to know that you'd be okay with that. I just think... in a month where I give you all of it? Some of 'em are inevitably gonna be quickies..."

I nodded. "It's fine. But... do you think it was real? This supposed experiment? Or just some printed clickbait?"

"Oh, it was real," he breathed. "They wrote a book about it - the article I read was kind of a promo for it, and there was an excerpt in the magazine, which I didn't read because I definitely don't need to know any of the specifics..."

I grinned to myself. Greg was a from-birth gay who found the idea of women as sexual creatures profoundly disturbing, whereas for me it wasn't like that. They were more... a pale imitation of the real thing, I guess?

"A whole year," I mused. "Wonder how they managed the periods? Showers, I suppose..."

Greg made a major 'ewwww' face at me.

"What?" I retorted. "You literally just said earlier that you're happy to fuck me in the shower if poop is in the forecast, but you can't deal with the idea of some blood maybe being involved?"

He shuddered exaggeratedly in all-over disgust, and I laughed from my belly, the first full free laugh I'd let rip since the day we'd found that mole.

Nine days later the results came through - all clear, nothing to see here charges dropped you're free to go Mr Brickell...

We toasted it with chardonnay and... toast, both of us having had to work late at no notice and arriving home fresh out of fucks to give as far as dinner was concerned. I can recommend it, actually. That whole thing about buttery notes in chardonnay isn't just wank. It goes really nicely with gently charred bread laden with semi-melted ooze - probably especially so if you're feeling like you just cheated death...

In my own semi-melted state of semi-drunk extreme relief three glasses deep, Greg ran his hand down my arm, lifting my wrist, and gently kissed each finger in turn. Ugh... his touch made me so shivery. Still.

"So-oo..." He murmured. "Now we got the green light - we gonna do this thing?"

This thing. A month of free-use fucking. I weighed it up, and... look, there's really nothing to recommend September in Auckland. I mean, there's the usual concerts and conventions blah-blah, and supposedly it's spring so everybody's meant to be excited about being able to get outdoors after winter... but mostly, it rains. Honestly? It just rains. Might as well stay in bed.

"Yeah," I breathed. "Let's do this thing..."

* * * * *

You want me to tell you what happened? - of course you want me to tell you what happened. Well we had a lot of sex, is what happened. More than I'd bargained for. Oh, what's that? The gory details?

You don't want all of them, for sure. We had sex sixty-nine times that month. But... I've got the basics covered because one week in, I decided to create a spreadsheet. Initially the intent was simply to track how many times we did it, but predictably I got carried away and made a notation system for time of day, type of position, bed/shower/elsewhere...

The first of September was a Sunday. Greg fucked me twice that day. A long lazy late morning session, cozied up under the covers to the insistent backbeat of rain on the roof. And once we were in bed again in the evening he came shimmying across to my side, snuggling and nuzzling and working his particular brand of magic on me until I was literally begging him for it...

I'm not sure what woke me in the morning - the alarm, or Greg rolling me over to my front and spreading my legs, fingers already lubed - they happened simultaneously. Then he lowered himself onto me, his skin sleep-sticky and his erection wedged in my crack, whispering into my neck. "This is gonna have to be one of those quickies, sorry. I can take care of you after work - though obviously that might make me hard again..."

I took care of myself in the shower once he was done shaving - I thought it might be best to ease in to the month rather than jump off the deep end...

Tuesday morning was pretty much a repeat of Monday, another of those 'dumping of loads' Greg'd referenced when introducing the whole experiment. He wasn't in such a hurry that he just shoved it in unceremoniously, but... once he'd got himself fully sheathed he didn't waste any time switching up angles or tempo, it was just a determined march to the finish line... so for the second day in a row I got to head to work with a spare pair of briefs in a little sealable sandwich baggie shoved down one of the spare slots in my laptop bag.

Scratch that... it was the first day I took the extra clothing - the second day I needed it. It's gonna be a whole month of this, isn't it? I thought to myself, standing on the bus trying to hold my core steady as it swayed around the bends. Unless he really wears himself out - on me - he's gonna have morning wood every. single. day. Guh-reat. 'Cos while being fucked and all in heat I adored the idea of being inseminated, thirsted after it like life itself, but later on... not so much. The whole thing guys talk about where they can feel cum leaking out of them for hours afterwards and it's, ohmigahd, insanely hot? Nah. Once you're showered and upright and wearing clothes again - clean ones? It's plain annoying to have sludge seeping out. At least it was for me.

I figured I could adapt to it, though. I'd adapted reasonably well to spontaneous sex once we moved in together, gaining a much better understanding of my internal rhythms. And obviously I could buy more underwear... Did you get fucked this morning? I thought, eyeing a selection of my fellow passengers. Or you? Or you? Bet you didn't... Of course they didn't, Hamish! They're men. They're straight. They don't have husbands, they don't roll over for dick. They haven't signed up for a month of taking every ounce of cum on offer... okay, maybe it was a little bit hot...

So Monday and Tuesday were once, in the morning. The evenings were normal workday evenings - we went grocery shopping together on Monday, Greg played squash on Tuesday. Wednesday, I walked in the door with my mind wrapped up in wondering whether we had any hoisin sauce for the marinade I was gonna make, to be brought up short by the sight of Greg, still in his business clothes and slouched on the sofa with his cock out, working it slowly.

"You can come over here and sit on this," he said.

"I need to pee," I told him, letting my bag and parka slide to the floor.

He nodded. "So go pee. And then come back here and sit on this. Leave your shirt on."

I walked back into the lounge wearing only my shirt, as instructed, and stepped astride his legs."Not: 'Hello, darling'?" I prompted. "Not: 'How was your day'? Just: 'Sit on this'?"

His eyes narrowed. "Sit."

I sat, slowly, and once I was all the way there he unbuttoned my shirt from the bottom up then wandered his palms over my torso while subtly shifting his hips, changing up the pressure inside. He worried my nipples until they contracted and stood up hard and sharp and small - peppercorns, was what he called them when they went like that...

I felt myself tensing pleasurably around him as my arousal grew and grew, beginning to move with him in search of more - at which he cupped my face in his hands and said, "So, darling... how was your day?"

I burst out laughing. "You stupid man!"

"What...?" He said, all faux-innocence, stabbing steadily now, up and into my prostate. "Has Richard broken up with that girlfriend of his again, or did they get back together - or are they engaged this time? Did whatsher... Lynley?... sell her house yet? Any more word on what they're gonna do when the lease runs out on the office? I was listening to a podcast the other day where they were saying commercial real estate's gonna get a real shake-up and it could be quite beneficial for-"

How the hell could he yap on like that while fucking so accurate and deadly? "Agh... stop..." I groaned.

Greg stilled his hips immediately... though he held me down, hands pressing hard on my shoulders.

"I meant stop trying to talk to me," I hissed, "not stop... that..."

He started up again, rapid and insistent, melting me inside. "Ohhh, is that what you meant?"

It felt like he wouldn't last much longer. I reached down to stroke myself.

"This is gonna be a wild month," I whispered.

"Hopefully..." Greg panted, somehow upticking the pace even more, "hopefully it is..."

I really am not going to do this blow-by-blow, but... Thursday it was once, Friday it was twice. Saturday, three times. In bed, in the morning. In the shower in the afternoon after I'd got back from volunteering at the SPCA, which is a lot less cuddling kittens and a lot more cleaning out cages than people imagine - hence leaving the showering until afterwards.

I created the spreadsheet between the second and third fucks, adding both number three for Saturday and number one for Sunday the next morning while Greg was in the bathroom. Twelve times in the first seven days - extrapolating out, it looked as if I could expect to be fucked... around fifty times total for the month...

Little did I know... But I started finding out in that second week. Maybe Greg's balls were responding to the constant release of semen by exponentially increasing production, or maybe the impetus was coming from his brain - whatever it was, once a day on waking seemed to be a thing of the past...

I loved it, mostly. Even the mornings. There was something about the contrast - at 6.15 in the a. m. I was barely human, yet Greg was filled with this powerful energy and hunger and drive... he did all the work in those sessions while I was a total layback queen - a half-awake one. Fortunately it doesn't require a lot of brain-power to simply be a receptacle.

The Friday of that week was a Friday the thirteenth - which has nothing to do with anything. I don't pay attention to any of that crap. But I definitely felt like I'd done a week's work and I wasn't ultra-thrilled at the idea of repeating the process come Monday. I was home first, changed into comfy clothes and making a risotto for our dinner. Since I needed to open a bottle of wine to deglaze the pan, I poured myself a glass to sip on while I worked.

I heard Greg's keys in the door, and next moment he was beside me, squeezing me in a one-armed hug.

"Smells good," he said, as he helped himself to a very large gulp from my glass - though he topped it up again before he walked away...

As a side note, I'm not some kind of sissified houseboy - he does his share around the place. Laundry, vacuuming, etc. He makes a mean stew or tagine, meals where everything gets prepared in one go, then slung in to cook. But... love the guy... he's not a fantastic multi-tasker. For meals where timing matters, where prepping and sautéing are going on at once while keeping an eye on something that might boil over? - it's really just best if I do it.

A few minutes later Greg returned, changed out of his work clothes, and snuck another mouthful of my wine.

"Grab yourself one," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the high cupboard with the glasses in it.

"Later," he grunted, sliding his hand in underneath my waistband. Then down my crack, a finger crooking at my hole...

"Really?" I sighed.

"Really," he confirmed, dragging my pyjama pants down below my arse-cheeks, pulling me back a couple of steps so I was compelled to bend over. For him. Again.

Of all the days that month, it was the closest I came to saying 'no' to him. I was busy, I was hungry - and also he used a lube shooter on me, which was just... I appreciated the practicality, but it was so clinical and I'd never felt a need to explore any sort of medical play - so I thought about it. I thought about pressing that 'stop' button - then I remembered what he'd said about the distinction between 'don't really' and 'really don't'.

I mulled it over while Greg was tugging apart his fly and lubing himself up and decided that although I'd probably prefer to cook dinner unmolested... I didn't truly object. I'd just bloomed the rice with the butter and aromatics, so a break in proceedings at this point wouldn't affect the finished product much. I turned off the burners and held the edge of the bench to spare my core...

Greg took hold of my hips. "Ready, babe?" He murmured.

Well. Depends what you mean by 'ready'. Sex, for me, had never primarily been about the physical sensation of having something in my arse. Not that I disliked the feeling (spoiler: I loved it), but I didn't own a dildo and never had because for me it was mostly about the mindset, the headspace, the prospect of giving myself to a man - the act of it and the fact of it followed on from the thought.

... and in that moment the mindset was missing in action. I wasn't remotely horny. Instead, I was some combination of exasperated/amused, squicked out by the whole lube shooter thing, and kind of struggling to assimilate the notion that my husband was seemingly a monumental horndog and I'd somehow failed to notice this for eight whole years...

He pushed in all the way to the root with one stroke and no warm-up. My sphincter twinged briefly at the invasion, but really it was a token protest. I guess it was growing accustomed to being some kind of hotel lobby door...

As soon as he'd established a rhythm he reached into his pocket, because yes he was doing me with his cock spilling out the fly of his pants because apparently he also had a hidden fetish for fucking with clothes on, and brought out a small... thing. I didn't recognise it, but at least it wasn't another lube shooter. Then he reached around with it, cupping my junk, and turned it on...

I wasn't erect - I often lose a bit of volume when first taking Greg, but in this instance there wasn't any volume in the first place. The vibrator took care of that, almost against my will. I don't actually mean against my will, obviously, but the effect was so... almost mechanical? I just... got hard. And then after that'd happened it felt ahh-mazing, although it was also a lot. So continuous, unlike the ebb and flow of a stroking hand... so this is what the fuss is all about, I thought, mind spinning briefly back to my straight days...

It seemed like it wasn't very long - not long enough for the backs of my legs to be protesting the position, anyway - before I felt like I was going to cum. Despite my initial reluctance, that vibrator, and, I think, the sheer nastiness of being bent over in a kitchen by a man who'd clearly been devising plans for me, all contributed to a sharp explosive release that painted the door of the cupboard below the hob.

To the extent that I could think in the moment, which wasn't much, I was quite impressed with myself for achieving that kind of distance... and then it was over, and the buzzing hadn't stopped. Hadn't- agggh! fuck!!

"Oh god, why is the vibrator still on?" I squeaked, trying to arch my back and create distance from the thing.

Greg's hand simply followed. "To distract you, babe," he murmured.

"Well, it's definitely very distracting!" I warbled. My voice sounded panicky, even to myself. It'd been a lot from the beginning but now it was the 'too much' kind of a lot...

Fortunately it, and my breathing, settled down after a couple of minutes. Another few minutes and I was hard again, once more... not organically. But at least I could tolerate the thing better this way...

I wondered how much longer Greg was gonna be at it. Not in the 'please hurry up' sense - I was fully sunk into dick-taking mode by that point, although if I'd been running the show I'd probably have ditched the vibrator, but...

He isn't nearly done, I thought, assessing the energy as his hips slapped repeatedly against me, their rhythm solid and steady and entirely lacking any kind of falter, any hint of the primal deeper-deeper urge that foreshadows a delivery of dna...

Smudge wandered into the kitchen and parked herself on her haunches, looking up at me with eyes that said 'FOOD'. I felt oddly embarrassed to be discovered so dishevelled and cheap-whore-like by such a calm, clean, tidy creature, but what could I do? The only thing I could do was wait for Greg.

I felt the slippery sweat between us where his forearm snaked across my pelvis holding me fast, the heat blooming from my cheeks, and after a while I felt something beginning to build in me, but...

You know how - normally - there's the point where you feel like you're gonna cum, and the point where it's inevitable that you will cum, and the point where you actually start cumming, and those three points are usually quite scrunched up together? Well, this time they weren't. Or they seemed like they weren't anyway - who knows what reality was doing? There was a long gruelling slog between each waypoint, and I was wound up so tight through it all that it felt like I couldn't even breathe. There's that disconnect again... I'm confident I was breathing.

I know I was breathing when I did finally cum because I made a lot of noise for the tiny load that dribbled out of me, and you can't do that if your lungs aren't functioning. And when I wound down my bastard husband was still metronomically fucking me, having still not cum, and that goddamn vibrator-

"Turn it off!" I gasped. "Please, please, PLEASE turn it off, please I can't-"

Maybe he wasn't a bastard, because he blessedly killed the buzzing. "Okay, we'll give you a wee rest," he murmured.

If I hadn't been so in pieces I'd have processed his words correctly and understood it was only a temporary reprieve, but in that moment I was being confronted by what he'd he meant last time when referring to 'distraction', because now the distraction was removed I became aware that my hole - my entire rectum - was very nearly as sensitised as my poor overstimulated dick, and once again it wasn't exactly pain... but maybe whatever it was travelled through those same channels to the brain, because-

I was squirming weakly in Greg's grip, and he leaned forward over me, sealing himself to my back.

"It'll get better, baby," he soothed, rocking back and forth - I knew, objectively, that he was going easy, but still it felt like he was raking my walls - "it'll get better. Breathe through it, darling, breathe..."

It did get better, okay? - it did, but until it did, my god... I was so fried and scrambled in body and mind. It was like all of the neurons for everything were firing at once in this vast fluorescing cacophony far too big to be contained inside little ol' me...

Greg kept his thrusts at a level I could handle until he could tell things had eased up, and then he re-cranked the pace - and restarted that sodding vibrator...

I can't cum again, I thought, as my dick struggled wearily to its feet a third time, I literally can't! However what really bothered me was... what if I could? Because that second orgasm? I was actually genuinely scared of having an experience any more... well, just any more than that...

But when number three eventually arrived it was a comparatively muted affair, which nonetheless wrung the last ounce of strength out of me - Greg was holding me up when he finally came half a minute later - my legs had lost functional capacity.

He reached to the side for some kitchen towels before stepping away and allowing himself to slip out of me, clapping them in place and hauling my pyjama pants back up, then he scooped me up and carried me out to the living room.

Depositing me gently on the sofa, he stood upright and stretched out the waistband of his sweatpants, causing his slimy cock to sort of schloop back inside the fabric. I snorted at the ridiculousness of it, while also feeling that familiar jealous admiration for his total lack of body-shame...

"Well, who said romance was dead?" I sighed, shifting on my scratchy pad of kitchen towels. "Although... can we maybe not do that again?"

Greg's face fell. "Actually... never again?"

I thought about it. "Okay, so maybe... can we not do that again for quite a while, perhaps?"

He smiled and crouched down to boop my nose. "I've been having way more cums than you - thought it was time to start balancing the scale..."

I loved him dearly, but there was only so much bullshit I'd swallow... "I don't think you did that to balance any scale," I said, eyeballing him.

He shrugged, unabashed. "Know what they say... two birds, one stone. You want me to finish dinner? Look like you could do with a bit of a breather."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Yeah, that'd be good. All you need to do is slowly add the stock and keep stirring it - the complicated bit's already done."

"Ooh, put your claws away, kitten," he breathed.

That reminded me. "And could you feed Smudge, too?"

"Yep," he grinned. "In fact I'm such a hero I'll also clean up all the cum you decorated the kitchen with..."

* * * * *

The weekend was normal, if we take normal to mean that I got fucked three times each day. In the morning, of course. Then when I got back from the SPCA, I wasn't suuuper-surprised to hear the bathroom door open after a few minutes. It seemed like the sound of water was operating on Greg in some almost pavlovian fashion lately - that, or it was just the knowledge I was naked in there, so one fewer steps before he could bury himself in me...

"Gonna be a hell of a water bill this month," I muttered as he snaked an arm around me, the other reaching for the bottle of silicone lube that apparently lived there now...

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, probably..." A few seconds later, he added; "Thanks for being so patient with me, babe."

I laughed internally. Yeah, it's such a sacrifice... "I genuinely didn't realise you got so many hard-ons when I signed up for this," I told him.

"Honestly, I didn't either," he said as he eased himself inside me. "And now I'm wondering... I don't think I ever fully let myself acknowledge just how irresistible I find you, but from that first moment-" His arm tightened to a vice. "You truly never need to worry about me straying, babe. I don't think I could. My mind's brimful of you - all my fantasies are just... you..."

Seeing as he'd showered for cleanliness purposes earlier, I got a moment to myself in the bathroom afterwards to shave and moisturise, etc. I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror, trying in vain to see what Greg saw. Yeah, he wasn't looking at that view just before - I turned around and twisted my head over my shoulder... okay, I guess. Not a bad arse by any means, but...

I wound up shaking my head at my own same old face in the mirror and concluding I'd never be able to conceive of myself as 'irresistible', but these two weeks of Greg's wild and building appetite... I knew he wasn't doing any of this out of habit. Or duty. Or even because I filled the default slot of hole-that-was-there. It was something else. And I was an integral part of that something else, it seemed.

Told you I wasn't gonna do this blow-by-blow, didn't I? So let's skip ahead. Like I already said, Saturday and Sunday were three-fucks normal. Monday and Tuesday - two fucks normal. Wednesday... Wednesday was two fucks also. Normal? Not... exactly, though I guess it started out innocent enough...

In the evening, Greg gave me a really nice full-body massage. Obviously I knew what it was gonna lead to, seeing as I was a.) totally naked, and b.) face-down in the centre of our bed with a strategic towel under my mid-section, but I was very happy to let him have his way with all my knots and cricks top to toe, and possibly even happier once the focus of those delving thumbs shifted squarely back to my butt and eventually zeroed in on my hole...

He mounted me from behind, just like I was, and god it felt good - maybe because I was so physically blissed from his other attentions. Whatever the reason, I ground my forehead into the mattress and moaned unashamedly, fully willing to luxuriate in this feeling for as long he could give it to me, but-

Because he was draining himself so regularly, Greg'd morphed from being a ten-to-twelve minutes sort of guy (who could draw it out to half an hour if he took breaks) to more of a... twenty to twenty-five minutes unless he worked hard to shorten it - type of guy. He was literally setting his alarm ten minutes earlier now in order to lessen the chance of me missing my morning bus...

So he was going for a good long while. And I'd already been lying there for probably nearly an hour before he got fucking. Eventually I started to get this feeling, and after a couple of minutes I couldn't shelve it.

I raised my head from the mattress. "Greg," I said. "I need to pee."

No answer. No indication he even heard. I wondered if he was actually really close. If so I should wait rather than yuck his yum just right now. But he just kept on keeping on...

"Greg!" I hissed. "Seriously! I'm sorry! But I have to go!"

Still he didn't say anything, but he pushed himself up on his arms and withdrew from me, stepping off the bed and giving me a hand up once I rolled over. And then he kept hold of that hand as he towed me to the bathroom.

I was a tiny bit amused. Like dude, really? You think I might be trying to escape? You didn't hear how much I was into that? Then he pulled open the glass shower door, tilted the rosette toward the far wall, turned the water on, and pushed me in ahead of him.

Oh... right. Yay.

Obviously I could've just said, no fucking way, Greg - let me use the toilet like a regular person. But I thought I could wait him out. I'm not sure why I thought that, given my insistence on leaving the bed, only the all-consuming pressure in my bladder was much less intense since I was upright instead of prone...

Scratch that - it was much less while I was upright and not full of dick. But as soon as I once again was... back to level eleven.

An agonised whine escaped my lips as Greg started up again, and he pulled me in closer to him, whispering into my neck. "It's okay, baby. Just let go. Let it happen. It's okay."

You'd better believe I did not just 'let it happen'. Nope-nope-nope. I curled my toes and grit my teeth and did everything I could to hold it in - and it happened anyway.

I felt it build for a while, until I just couldn't anymore, and then... It was bizarre. It was intense. And it was kind of... weirdly cathartic. Honestly. In terms of physical sensation, it felt like a mish-mash of pissing and cumming but I'm pretty sure it wasn't - I think there's some kind of valve down there that won't let those two things happen at once.

Mentally, it was a bit of head-fuck. So much desperation followed by so much relief - yeah, a fair bit of that was physical - but not all. It was like... okay... the bad thing happened and it wasn't actually bad at all and now I don't need to try anymore and I don't need to worry anymore either, I can just... y'know. Let go. Like he said.

My head was drooping like a wilted flower by the time I felt Greg shudder and throb inside me a minute or so later - but when, in the moments after, he reached for my dick I pushed his hand away with what little strength I still possessed.

"I - um - I'm good..." I panted.

He turned me to face him, holding me away a little, frowning down into my eyes. "You sure?"

I nodded, and he seemed to accept it, pulling me in for a hug. I melded myself to him, his big warm body and his chest hair all matted down by the water continuing to course down around us. We stood there for several minutes - damn, what a water bill it was gonna be - Greg humming into my hair as his arms encircled me.

When we got out he wanted to dry me off and I let him, despite usually being very much of a 'thanks I'll do it myself' person. But I felt incredibly drained - and that is not a urine-based pun, because truly I wouldn't go there. I dropped to sleep pretty much instantly I hit the mattress and then of course next thing I knew it was morning, which meant - yeah, by now you know what it meant...

Anyway. What followed was a normal September Thursday, with rain, and late buses, and a certain amount of Greg's dna travelling with me as I went about my day. And a normal evening with a normal dinner (I didn't note that kind of thing on my excel chart but I think we had lo mein), then before sleep the by-now-normal second unloading of the day...

I went off to bed early to read my book - only not really. I went off to bed early so Greg could come in and find me reading and tell me I was done with that for today - because I knew it was something he'd thought about and we hadn't been there yet and I wanted to make that fantasy happen for him at least once during this mad month.

So I lay on my stomach in our bed, casually naked but partially sheet covered - 'cos y'know, I wasn't leading him on or anything, wink, wink - propped up on my elbows, knowing it'd make my buns look all defined while minimising my waist, and instead of reading my actual book I found slutty stories on my phone about boys with stern-but-kind daddies who knew what was best for them even if they didn't...

I managed to get sufficiently involved in the slutty stories that I didn't notice Greg had come in until he said, "Whaddaya reading?"

I jumped. "Oh, y'know," I murmured. "The usual. Tentacle porn..."

He was behind me, so I didn't see the blow coming before it landed on my poor unsuspecting butt-cheek. It was not in any way a 'let's ease into this' type of slap and I howled at the shock of it.

"Filthy boy," Greg hissed, as his hand made contact with the other cheek.

This one I was prepared for, and... it didn't help much. It was kind of like lightning, followed by thunder. On the surface sudden and sharp and searing hot... and deeper inside a slower vibrating tension, burrowing down, echoing around some unexpected places...

Not that I actually wanted a flaying - I scrambled up the bed hunched over my phone and managed to get the screen locked before Greg wrenched it out of my grip, after which we ended up wrestling in the most bed-ruining way for several minutes. When that finally wound down I was exhausted and sore, but also sort of hyper - and very turned on.

Greg noticed. "Can't offer you any tentacles," he said, kneeling up and shifting his hips so his half-hard dick swayed side-to-side, "but... were you hoping for some more of this?"

I was, absolutely, hoping for some more of that. I'd been working on working up an appetite for some more of that for almost an hour. But I blinked innocently up at him and said, "Umm, can I suck it, maybe?"

Greg looked down at me, lips folded in. "That depends, doesn't it? On what you're asking. If it's; can I suck it please before you fuck me with it? Then have at it, baby. If it's; can I suck it instead of you fucking me with it... the answer is 'no' and you know it." He took my chin in his hand and tilted it up. "Now, what is it you're asking?"

I felt my skin contract into goosebumps all over. Ooh, I could get into this steely side of him...

"It's just... please, anything," I stammered. "Whatever you'll give me..."

He straddled me and dragged a couple of pillows over to raise my head and shoulders. "Make it all nice and wet for me," he breathed. "Nice and wet for you..."

Ugggh... I let myself sink into it, the multi-dimensional sensuality of mouth on cock. Soft and hard and salty and sweet and so familiar and yet always like the first time over again... I would've gone on, I would've drained him dry and still gone on, but... that wasn't where we were at. Not this month.

He put me on my front again and lay down all along me and just plain squashed me for a while - letting me feel the sheer weight of him while I worked against gravity to inflate my lungs, to do the absolute basics. And then - thankfully - he got some lube to supplement the spit and slo-ow-ly started impaling me. It was the weirdest thing... as a whole, my body felt almost like it was floating, expanding, now his weight was removed... and then there was this very focal very insistent downward pressure. The dick, demanding to be noticed - to be accommodated. Take it, boy...

I loved it. I mean, I loved it every time, but... on this occasion it felt like there were a lot of threads woven in just right. My mental edging of myself before Greg arrived, the exhilaration of that wrestle, his vague high-handedness over the sucking, his little demonstration of physical superiority before he entered me - and oh god did he have the rhythm right tonight...

Everything was perfect, totally perfect, and then Greg seated himself slightly higher on me and pushed up onto his knuckles, changing the angle and driving down hard, and it was even more perfect and then... fuck.

I felt like I needed to piss again. But I'd very specifically tried to head off that possibility tonight, so unless he'd somehow weakened my bladder...

I gritted my teeth. No. That's dumb. I'm fine. And so is my bladder.

It was when I tried tensing up, holding things in, that I became aware it wasn't actually the same feeling as yesterday. Similar, sure. But not the same. It was...

Ughh - something flickered for a moment, like a match struck and not catching, the briefest flare and then gone, but... yeah. That urgency wasn't from my bladder. And it wasn't... going... awaaay...

Shit, I thought. If he keeps this up, I might actually cum. Just... like this.

I was vaguely aware that there were bottoms out there for whom cumming handsfree was some pinnacle of existence, an entry-card into an exclusive brotherhood of 'true' bottoms, but honestly, it'd never been a holy grail for me. I mean, why? Cumming's always great, and cumming with somebody else that you're really into is utterly unreal. So why would you devalue all that by chasing after some apparently 'purer' high?

Besides which, who says you can only have one sexual organ? What's with that? Why can't I have a - look, I actually hate calling it this, but why can't I have an ass-pussy and a cock? Did I sleep through the bit where you have to choose, did I miss the part where I'm not a 'real' enough bottom 'cos I don't want my dick ignored during sex?

Of course during the time I was having this weird philosophical debate with myself over all that, I was still getting steadily pounded... I came back to the present and I was breathing in weird stuttery bursts. My inner thighs were shaking, or maybe seizing, and I felt... almost panicky. Stretched taut and increasingly thin over something very big. Like it wouldn't hold. Like I was going to break. Any. moment. now.

How? I wondered. How? I've been doing this for a decade, and...

Look, I don't know if it was 'better' or 'purer' or more genuine or any of that guff, but it was definitely longer. It went on and on and on, almost like I couldn't stop, and any time it might've been ebbing the tiniest bit, the ridged head of Greg's penis passed over that magic spot and set everything off again...

I was gasping and sobbing and hanging on to a pillow for dear life as it felt almost like the cum was being torn from me when he plunged in one final time deep as he could go, and wrung himself out inside me.

"Shhhhittt," I heard him whisper as his head drooped down in the aftermath, breath tickling the back of my neck.

He dismounted and went to move me onto my side for a front-to-front cuddle and that's when he saw the enormous wet spot. The expression on his face as his eyes flicked from it, to me, it, to me... it threw me right back to the very first time we had sex - the way he looked as I handled his cock and pleaded with him to fuck me, it was the same sort bashful awe I was seeing now. No words, just eyes full of delight and disbelief.

"I... can't promise you a repeat..." I told him.

Greg nodded and stroked my cheek. "Are you okay, though? You look a bit, um, dazed. Was that... kind of a lot?"

I nodded. Slowly, so as not to disorient myself any further. "That... was definitely a lot..."

He blinked at me for a couple of moments, before kneeling up, reaching his arms under my torso and thighs, and scooping me up and over the mess onto his own clean side of the bed. He wrapped himself around me and tucked my face into his shoulder. I breathed him in, his warmness, closeness, real-ness, as I came back to earth.

After a while I said, "What're we gonna do about the sheet?"

Greg stroked my hair. "Fair bit of it'll wipe up, I think. I'll sleep on the wet spot. My fault, after all..."

I tipped my head back to catch his eye. "Your fault. And you're pretty damn pleased about it, aren't you...?"

He winked. "God, yes! Totally."

"Greg?" I began. "Where's all this coming from? You're like, thirty-eight. Shouldn't you be-"

His arm had curled around my head, palm over my mouth, sealing in the rest of the thought.

"Don't remind me!" He hissed. "And don't be telling me I should be slowing down." A sigh. "Though... who knows, maybe all this is just me reacting against it, that big four-oh I can see coming for me, ugh..."

He nestled me in closer. "It's not, though. It's you. It's all you."

I guess... I guess that means it was also all me on the Sunday that followed - the twenty-second. The twenty-second. I don't need to consult my chart to tell you what went down on that day. That was the day I got fucked five times.

How's that even possible? I hear you say. Ehhh... all I know is, before September I'd have said it wasn't. Not without a gang-bang, and... eww. But Greg had effectively been hard-core training for over three weeks by that point.

Oh, what's that? Wouldn't it need all day? No, not all day. And it was raining - a definite stay-inside day. Though... it did take him over an hour to cum the last time.

I had some inkling this day might be one out of the box when I was bent over for round three at only eleven-thirty a. m. I was just sitting on the sofa trying to get some washing folded when Greg finished a batch of emails and slapped his laptop shut. He walked over to me and set the piles carefully aside.

"Got another load for you," he murmured. "Turn around."

I looked up at him. "Bed, maybe?"

A single shake of his head, and accompanying it, his finger making a circle. Turn. Around. Okay. Well, we'd already done 'bed' once today, gotta change things up... I complied, sinking down onto my chest and presenting my arse in his direction.

Greg pulled my sweatpants down below my butt and reached between my legs, idly fondling me until I was mostly hard. Then he switched his attention back to the main event. I heard a cap flip and felt cool liquid drizzling on me - he had lube in his pocket, apparently. Just in case or something...

He ran his dick up and down my crack, spreading the lube around a lot further than necessary while he squeezed and fondled my cheeks and slid his palms up and down my spine, concertina-ing my t-shirt at my armpits.

He gave my hole a couple of casual slaps with his weighty shaft. "You can tell this has seen some action recently," he said musingly.

That felt... not like a compliment. "Well, colour me really fucking surprised!" I snapped.

He simply chuckled and stood there caressing my cheeks, feather-gentle now, as he pressed the slippery soft head of his cock against my pucker, flexing his hips just enough to cause a rhythmic alteration in pressure, not enough to break through, get going, do what needed to be done...

"You're gonna know the shape of me really well..." He breathed after a minute or two.

I snorted. "Greg, I already do!"

"You're gonna forget about all other dicks..." He told me.

"Um, Greg?" I gasped. "I already did..."

"You're not gonna want anything except this..." He continued.

"I don't! You know I don't!" I howled.

There's something about hearing yourself confess a major truth at full volume... I was stone-hard by that point, and I wanted to say it over and over again, to make it truer and truer and truer...

Greg leaned down over me. "And do you want it?" He demanded next to my ear. "Do you want it right now?"

"Yes! Yesszz! Please!"

Goddamn, I thought as he slid in, filling me up, how did he make me feel so fucking needy with nothing but talk and a little bit of implied withholding of something there was never any chance he'd not give me in the end? The man who carries lube around in his pocket...

I didn't come up with much of an answer because I stopped thinking complex thoughts after a minute or so. The dick was that good. You'd think you'd grow kinda blasé about something you're getting literally all the time, but if anything the opposite seemed to be true. Yes, I was sometimes kinda sensitive in certain places, but it seemed to heighten rather than blight the overall experience - to feel more innervated is to feel more alive...

There was of course the question of where it had us headed... reading my slutty stories the other night, I'd perused one where the central conceit was a character who needed cum to survive. The framing story was fairly stupid - some species of magical vampire-bite causing a situation where the protagonist was dependent in a physical way on human semen as an antidote to his ongoing poisoning - but it was an ideal set-up for a lot of sucking and fucking, with the character suffering agonising withdrawal symptoms if he went more than about eight hours without a dose...

I could get addicted, I thought. To this. I felt Greg drawing closer and closer to orgasm, reading all the signs, the many cues subtle and unsubtle all of which I knew so well by now, feeling the familiar anticipatory joy - and acknowledged I likely already was. For years now. The fact that he could basically snap his fingers and- yeah, this was just me having to face it head on. Oh well. At least it seemed like it ran two ways...

Eleven hours and a further fuck later we were in bed settling in for the night. When I put my book down, Greg reached for me once more, pulling me in to spoon with him, making long coaxing strokes down the front of my body with the flat of his hands and... my god, yep. He really was going for round five. Damn.

I reflected - y'know, briefly, and without rancour - that this was kind of insane. But there was no thought of refusal, no moment of hesitation. All the same I thought I should probably...

I shuffled onto my back and looked up at him. "I can't cum again..."

Greg regarded me, jaw set, thoughtful, intent. He nodded slowly. "Not sure if I can either, actually, but I'm gonna give it a go..."

"I believe in you," I whispered, stroking his cheek.

The stern cast to his face disappeared as he winked at me. "I won't let you down, babe..."

I knew he couldn't actually promise something like that, and though I wanted to believe in him, I did... I've gotta admit, I started to doubt after a while. I could tell he was pushing himself hard, but it didn't feel like he was climbing the mountain, if we're going with the retro terminology. More like he'd reached a plateau and was grimly marching himself across it, hoping it had an end...

I was into it, to be clear. In fact - mentally at least - each time he'd come at me that day I'd craved him with a new and building desperation. Physically... physically I was reasonably worn out, but that didn't matter. That wasn't what any of this was about.

That thought, that little juxtaposition, it brought about a revelation. It wasn't what it was about for Greg, either - any of this. The body was the means, not the end, and it might refuse to co-operate with him on this particular occasion, but god the spirit was ever-willing, the spirit was so preposterously and unapologetically horny that it had its own postcode and possibly its own gravity...

And while I was thinking that, he was thinking... something similar, apparently.

"God you're amazing," he panted, sweat dripping from his brow and onto me. "The way you can just take it and take it and keep taking it..."

I gripped his arms hard. "Thing is," I admitted, "I keep needing it..."

I surfaced gradually, haltingly to consciousness the following morning, not to the dingle-dingle of Greg's phone alarm, but to some other disturbance. A quiet... rhythmic... sursurring... quite close by. I drifted off, came to. Still going on. Whatever it was. Sleep grabbed me briefly again, after which I woke more properly.

I turned to look behind me, seeking the source of that noise. It was Greg. He was awake. He was watching me. And he was wanking - which he'd said he wasn't gonna do this month...

I frowned, more in incomprehension than annoyance, and he reached out, stroked my cheek.

"Just getting myself most of the way there, babe," he whispered. "Don't wanna put you through too much, after yesterday..."

I nodded sleepily, appreciating both the practicality and the opportunity to watch him pleasure himself, until he tipped me over onto my side and snuggled in warm and tickly against my spine, folding my upper leg out of the way before his hand sought my crack as he said, "Are you still...?"

Damp and slippery and incredibly used? Yep. Any other day I'd have dragged myself out of bed after and done at least a basic clean-up - and put some pyjama pants on - but last night I'd been too, too spent...

The guttural groan I heard suggested he liked whatever he'd discovered, and moments later a lubed and apparently almost ready to shoot dick was prodding the vicinity, wanting in, in, in...

Ohhh god I could feel it, I could feel it in all of the ways and then some... it stung and it burned behind and between and amongst the eternal heady pleasure of being filled... nevertheless I could tell Greg was being super considerate and cautious, and it was so weird because it was just fucking and at the same time it wasn't just fucking, no matter how quick and dirty and utilitarian it was on the surface, this weekday pre-work unloading... inside, inside where I was actually experiencing it, it was such a beautiful thing - so intense, so delicate and precise and beautiful...

I started to cry - softly and gently, as softly and gently as he was fucking me, and he heard and paused on a half-stroke, neither hilted nor shallow, and said, "Is it too much, baby?"

"No!" I sobbed, as certain of that as I was of anything in the moment. "No, it's just... you're being so good to me..."

"Oh, darling," he whispered. "You're so good to me. You're so good to me." He pushed me onto my front, sank all the way in, and reached for my hands, meshing his fingers with mine, and I caught the emotion in his voice as he said, "I love you more than life, baby. I'd give you anything, anything. I just want to pour myself into you all of the time..."

Then he was pressing in harder, deeper, hips locked, and I felt the spasm and shaking as he came, transmitting through my body...

My arse was sore that day. My arse, that I thought might've been developing the arse equivalent of calluses, was aching and twinging and stinging-burning like quads after leg day the entire day. I stood on the bus with a sore arse, I sat at my desk with a sore arse, I walked to get coffee with a sore arse, and yes I used the bathroom with a sore arse, and all of it felt like an honour, because in my head I kept replaying the throb of Greg's voice as he said, 'I want to pour myself into you'. I understood he was talking about feelings, about love, rather than the mechanics of sex, but the two were intertwined, and every time I sat or stood, I guess... I just felt very loved. Sore, yes. But very loved.

He bred me again in the evening because of course he did - as tenderly and carefully as he had in the morning. And then we slept.

Next morning, there was a strange energy coming off him. Far less matter-of-fact than the usual weekday approach. Even his stare felt as if it penetrated. When he looked at me, it burned, and once again I wondered where it was all coming from. Like... how could I have this kind of effect on a person?

He kissed me possessively while absently jerking me, almost as an afterthought - his focus on the hungry wandering of his lips and the thigh he had wedged firmly between my legs, for long enough that I started to worry about being late. I decided I'd just deal with it - everybody misses a bus now and then.

Even though this morning felt different, I didn't expect what came next. I was hoicked up onto my hands and knees then almost immediately pressed back to the mattress at the front, so my haunches were spread and my hole, my hole that Greg had informed me two days ago was looking like it had 'seen some action', before subjecting it to a whole bunch more action, was all on display...

He ran a finger oh-so-gently down my crack. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.

The tone of his voice, it didn't sound like disgust, but I was worried nonetheless, because - things were starting to feel different back there. I'd had many a light touch like that as an opening move before, and... the sphincter, it flinches, it goes all shy and shrinks back into itself like a turtle pulling its head in. But today, although the reflex happened just the same, it didn't feel just the same...

"Have you wrecked me, Greg?" I whispered. I was hoping for a flat denial. didn't get one.

"I wouldn't call this wrecked," He said reverently, stroking me feather-light once more. "I'd say it's... ughh..." He trailed off into bliss-noise before tossing himself down on the bed beside me, noses almost touching. "Can you be sick today?" He demanded. "Or work from home, or even just have an appointment this morning?"

I tried to call up my calendar in my head. "Yeee-ahhh...." I said. "Should be do-able."

He was gone again, back between my knees, thumbs digging in, spreading me still further... another slow gentle swipe, this one with his tongue...

I gasped. No way. No way...

Okay, it's not like Greg never ate me out, but I'm not lying when I say he'd only previously done it when I was very freshly out of the shower, so the whole 'we're having sex now' vibe of this mad month meant it hadn't happened recently. Meant I'd assumed it was off the table...

And then here we were with me closing in on twenty-four hours since my last shower and I... y'know. I... had a load of his inside from last night... aaaand apparently none of that mattered in this inane new reality...

"Gre-e-egg..." I moaned, without a clue what I was asking - if anything.

He didn't pull away to answer, pause to see if I followed up with anything. No, he dived in further, harder, with renewed commitment, applying an absolute arsenal of variations in texture and pressure and direction to my overexercised flesh, and at no point did I have the slightest idea what might be coming next.

I pulled my hair, hard enough to hurt, just for something to ground me, some counterbalance to this extreme excess of pleasure while I wailed incoherently into the cool morning air, wondering how much of this I could take, and he just went on. and on.

I was so-so out of my depth, but safe but still a tiny bit scared, but happy but confused, and all the while he was plumbing depths of willingness in me that I hadn't imagined existed. He was changing me, slowly but surely he was changing me - not because I was absorbing his DNA and being altered by it on any sort of molecular level... I mean, the whole point of an immune system is to stomp on that kind of thing - but the shape of my desire, it was following his, fitting around him, and I felt so much more... not passive? That wasn't quite right. More... adaptable, maybe? More fluid, more flexible in more ways than I knew existed. Supple. That's it, I thought. That's the word.

I got to put my apparent new suppleness to the test not long after, when Greg abruptly shifted positions. My first - obvious - assumption was that he was done making me ready for him and about to move to the main event. But no, keeping me guessing was the name of the game today... Instead, he swivelled us both around and sat himself down at the head of the bed, legs splayed and straight, then hauled me back up to his questing mouth in some kind of modified wheelbarrow position, dragged one of my hands to his rigid dick, closing it around, and dived right back in...

I keened and wailed and flailed, pretty much singing a power-ballad as my skull filled with too much blood and tingled oddly, while in my hand I held the proof of... everything, somehow. All of it. How, I wondered, could something so animal be so... spiritual? I had no dignity like this, none. I wasn't holding myself up - or together - yet I'd never felt more joyously, precariously alive, more aware of what a rare gift existence is...

He kept going. And going. For I don't know how long - time wasn't exactly making sense. But eventually he raised his head long enough to say, "Let me know when you want that thing you're holding..."

"Now!" I gasped. "Now, please!"

"Oh..." He drawled. "Oh, you want me stop this, eh...?"

I couldn't even process the whatever that might've been - humour, irony, sarcasm?

"Please Greg!" I pleaded." Please, just - now!"

He put me down, then picked me right up again once he'd got out from under me, all up against the front of him as he knelt up high and slid inside me buttery-smooth, no resistance, no resistance anywhere from my toes to my soul, and the sweet heat of him so smooth and sure and true...

Ugh, but it felt... ughhh... exquisite, so absolutely beyond... I was nothing more than a collection of nerve endings at fever-pitch, an instrument for the playing... now I wasn't upside-down anymore my head felt weird in a different way and I let it flop to Greg's shoulder, let my whole self go with the rhythm rather than try brace against it.

Then, with his free hand, he started to play with a nipple. It was like... like somebody turning the volume up all the way - suddenly. Too high, too loud, too fast-

I plucked at his wrist, "No, too much, too much..."

He captured my hand and brought it to his mouth, nipping at a knuckle, stilled inside me now, grinding in the smallest of subtle circles. "Just the dick, eh...?" He breathed.

I couldn't quite arrange to nod but I managed a mangled 'yeah' and he began stroking me inside again, gently, slowly, but deep, so deep.

"Can I touch this, though?" He whispered, ghosting his fingers over my dick. "I want you to cum for me darling, I really want you to cum for me, I-"

Ugh, those deep slow strokes were totally doing me in, so tough to even process what he was...

"I love to see it, babe," he was hissing, right beside my ear. "I love to hear it - and when I'm inside you like this I feel it too - and it's... it just makes me so happy. So happy. There's nothing to compare. I can't - can't even-"

I knew he was close. I could feel it - the stutter with the hips as well as with the words. I knew I was close too, that it wouldn't take much. I pulled his hand down, felt those big fingers engulf me, let myself go...

Back in the real world, It was five to nine by the time we fell in a heap to the mattress and Greg held me close as I re-coalesced into something vaguely resembling myself.

"Well, you were right," I sighed eventually, detangling our limbs. "I can't go to work today. I mean, I'm barely gonna be able to crawl to the bathroom." And in this emotional state I'd probably cry if somebody looked at me sideways...

Greg kissed the top of my head. "I know what you mean. That one took a bit outta me, too. But you'll come round, babe. Go easy on yourself. You're pretty conscientious generally - you can assign yourself a slow day without needing to feel bad about it."

He had a meeting at ten-thirty that he needed to do in person, so he zipped through the shower before me while I emailed Bronwen to say my stomach was feeling kinda dodgy and I'd work from home today in case it progressed to something gross.

After my own shower I got a couple of good solid hours stuff done, then it was time for coffee number two of the day. I made myself one, sat back down in front of my laptop and... I couldn't get my focus back. I kept drifting, watching the sun pouring in through the window, the brightness and washed-cleanness of everything outside on this rare non-rainy day.

Eventually I realised I needed a breather - that the walk to and from the coffee place was a mid-morning reset for me as much as the caffeine. Okay, quick march around the block. I swapped my pyjama pants out for sweatpants, pulled on some sneakers and grabbed my jacket in case it wasn't as nice out there as it looked. It wasn't, of course. The wind felt like it was delivered straight from Antarctica, but damn! Other than that, what a gorgeous day...

Our left-hand neighbour, Janni, was out working in her garden. She waved her secateurs at me from behind the half-height fence.

"Hi, Hamish!" She called, her Dutch accent adding a lilt as usual.

I waved back "Hey, Janni."

"You feeling okay?" She enquired.

"Oh, yah. Just working from home today. Gonna take a quick walk."

She was still out there filling a wheelbarrow with prunings when I arrived back - and Smudge was over there with her, winding in and around her legs, cheek-rubbing her shin...

"Smudge, you whore!" I exclaimed. "Come back over here!" Then of course I immediately wanted to punch myself in the face. Janni was... I dunno, probably about sixty-five, and definitely a feminist, so likely had... opinions on males throwing around words like 'whore'. And acting possessive about living creatures with their own wills. And she fed Smudge for us if we went away for a weekend, so obviously Smudge was gonna be a fan, ughh...

I busied myself flipping through the mail I'd just extracted from our box, weighing up whether this was one of those situations where you made things worse by apologising, or not, when Janni said, "How's Greg?"

I looked up briefly. "He's great."

"He seems like a nice guy," she continued.

I nodded distractedly. A new valuation notice. Goddamnit, that meant the rates were gonna go up again...

"Is he actually a nice guy?" Janni asked.

What?! I jerked my head back to her, frowning. "Yes...?"

She trod over to the fence, Smudge following her. She was tall enough that we were eye to eye.

"Is he nice to you all of the time, Hamish?" She said quietly. "Or... only some of the time?"

Whaa...? I grimaced confusedly.

Janni tucked her chin in so she was looking through her brows at me. "You never usually work from home, Hamish. And this morning-"

Suddenly I got it. "Oh my god," I groaned, burying my face in the mail. "I am literally going to die..."

"No, you're not," I heard her say. "But I want you to tell me- Hamish, I worked for Women's Refuge for twenty years. If I know anything, it's that these things do not discriminate. And if somebody is hurting you it is never your fault."

I made myself look her in the eye. I had to, for Greg's sake. "I'm really sorry you heard that," I whispered, swallowing down the shame as best I could. "But... he wasn't hurting me. Not even a little bit. And in future I will try very very hard to-"

She laid a hand on my arm. "Don't, though. There's no need. You've got to live while you're alive, Hamish. Don't... make yourself smaller in consideration of the old bat next door! It's been, what?... three years now since I moved in and I only heard you guys one tiny little time before today, and on that occasion it was obviously fun-having noise."

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Despite the chill of the wind I was sweating buckets, and I wished I could just evaporate. "So sorry," I whispered again.

Janni grinned - then she shrugged. "You hear my ghastly music, I imagine..."

That made me laugh. We did. And it was pretty bad. Very... reggae-adjacent. Whenever it went on we'd joke that Janni was lighting up the spliff again and kind of mime it to each other...

"C'mon, Smudge," I called, snapping my fingers, and to my surprise she actually followed me inside...

When Greg got home I told him about the morning's super-embarrassing encounter. Mostly because I felt like I had to. If your neighbour thinks you might possibly be a domestic abuser... that's the kind of thing a person probably needs to know. Even if they don't want to know. He seemed to sense it'd taken a lot out of me, because he just stood and held out his arms for me to walk into. God, he smelled fantastic. How did he always smell so delicious?

He leaned his cheek on my hair. "I never want to hurt you, babe," he whispered. "And ideally I wouldn't make you into an object of pity either. But I - I still want to do things to you. Many things. Not willing to give that up. So... maybe in future if you think you're gonna be loud we could shut ourselves in the shower - that'll muffle all manner of things." He leaned back and looked at me speculatively. "Or I could gag you..."

Backing out of the embrace, I shook my head. "Hard no to gags, Greg. And also, how am I supposed to predict whether I'm 'gonna be loud' on any given occasion? I don't fucking plan it! It's not like I'm doing it on purpose!"

Greg nodded. "I'm aware," he purred. "You can't help it all, can you?" There was no missing the gleam in his eye.

"Is this conversation making you horny?" I demanded.

He tried to look shame-faced but all he managed was this dumb little 'I've been a bad boy' smirk.

I went for a big theatrical gay sigh and some hands on hips to accompany. "Seriously? Seriously, though?"

He did that weird wiggle where you shrug one shoulder then the other. "Mmmyeahhh?"

That got him the big gay eye-roll. "Can we at least have dinner first?"

His face softened. "Yes, baby. We can have dinner first. And do anything else you want first. And then afterwards we'll do what I want..."

"I don't not want it," I clarified. "You know that, right?"

He nodded. "I know that. But you like me to be the initiator, don't you?"

"I... kind of? Is that, like, okay? Do you want me to-"

He stepped forward and gathered me in to him again. "That is very okay with me," he murmured.

Once we went to bed and were thus clearly in the part of the evening where we were gonna do what Greg wanted, I was a bit... I was a bit hesitant. Awkward. Self-conscious. Like, ugh, my neighbour heard me. Okay, us, but... me. I tried to paper over it, to seem like I was present and in the moment and enjoying myself - I mean, I was enjoying myself, I just needed to make sure it didn't get out of hand... ever again...

At some point, Greg took a pause and cradled my face in his hands.

"Are you alright?" He prompted.

"Yeah!" I said, trying to sound perky. "Yeah, I'm good."

Trapped in his palms as I was, I was forced to meet his eye, and I could see he didn't believe me.

"Darling..." he began, "do you remember the talk we had? About how you could just say no, if it was all too much? About how I wouldn't be annoyed and I wouldn't be disappointed and-"

"It's not that," I specified, "it's... y'know, the whole, uh..." Gesturing toward the window.

He nodded. "So you don't want Janni to hear, and-"

"Correction," I interjected. "I don't want anybody to hear."

Greg tapped his chest in mock-horror. But... moi?

C'mon. "You know what I mean!"

He smiled indulgently. "Course I do. You don't want the neighbours to hear, but also you don't wanna be gagged. And you don't want to just default to the shower all the time either - which, to be honest, neither do I..." He let the pause spin out. "But... look, we have a problem houston, because my mission in life is never gonna be to make sure you're having such a moderately decent experience that you definitely won't howl the place down..."

Dick. But I did feel better, having had some humour injected into the situation. I also felt like giving some of my own back to him.

"You and your moderately decent experiences! I mean, why don't you fuckin' meet me halfway here, Greg? All you have to do is not bone me seven whole times in less than two days then follow up by eating me out for ninety minutes - like, it doesn't seem too much to ask..."

He looked at me. Assessingly. As in... boy, you have no idea...

"Yeah-nah," he murmured, "not willing to promise that. But I guess I'll take precautions next time. How about I bury your head and neck in every pillow we own and give you a snorkel mask so you can still breathe? That work?"

I laughed. Probably not loud enough for the neighbours to hear. "You're such a fucking idiot!"

He nuzzled into my neck, and I went shivery in spite of myself. "Too much of an idiot to have sex with?"

Idiot. "Obviously not, idiot!"

His eyes danced. "But no snorkels?"

I started beating him with a pillow, which predictably led, not so very many minutes later, to me pinned underneath him with my wrists very firmly trapped by my sides. He waited while I struggled - honestly I don't know why I bother, we've established enough times that I can't free myself - and when I subsided he licked up my neck and whispered, "All done, then? All done hitting me with things?"

"Uhh - for today, I guess?"

"And a pass on the snorkel - for today?"

That made me giggle, which hit quite different with Greg's weight still bearing down on me - almost like I kept expelling more air than I was taking in, and it felt like I slipped into that vaguely hypoxic overemotional loop where you just can't stop a lot faster than I usually would have.

Greg knelt up eventually, letting go my wrists to stroke down my spine. "What's it all about, eh?"

I could barely breathe, but I managed to gasp out, "You're so stupid and I love you so much..."

"Because I'm stupid?" He prompted.

"No, because you're you."

I almost heard him melt. "Aww... and also you, because you're you. And not even slightly stupid, despite current appearances..."

He hopped off me and tugged my legs wider, then he grabbed my wrists again and placed each palm on a butt-cheek.

"Hold on and don't let go," he instructed.

I complied as my giggles subsided, wondering why. Because for sure I don't have such a lush arse that I need to be tugging the mounds apart so a cock can find its way. Better view, maybe...?

Maybe. But actually I concluded it was about giving me something to do while he fucked, something unchallenging but out of the ordinary to be occupying my mind so I didn't stress unnecessarily about preserving a monk-like silence while he abused all the parts of me I most liked to have abused. It was also ideal to be face-down. I made pretty good use of the mattress's sound-absorbing qualities, and was able to fall asleep relatively free of worry about strangers having been forced to mentally confront what I might've been undergoing.

But come the next evening Greg wanted to fuck in missionary, which usually I was super-keen for - so primal and intimate and vulnerable and ugh the deep penetration and the way I could wrap myself around him and just hold on tight for the ride - except my anxiety-hangover wasn't completely erased, and as such...

Once again, he sensed my hesitancy, and this time he didn't need to enquire into the cause.

"It's okay, baby," he told me, stroking the insides of my thighs as he spread them, and spread them some more, "It'll be okay, because I'm gonna make it okay - okay?"

"Okay..." I replied. What else was I gonna say?

"Okay..." he batted back, shuffling into position, lifting my hips and tugging me toward him. "Good to know we're on the same page. Now... I don't wanna hear a peep out of you while I'm opening you up. Understand? Not a sound. Not. one. single. sound."

Hmm. Simple but effective. Stressing about making too much noise? Well, you're not gonna make any noise...

Then he bunted in, and I would've liked to hiss but I didn't. I didn't make a sound. I just hoped whatever I was feeling was pouring out through my eyes as Greg kept his own trained on them while he sank teeth-grittingly slowly into me.

Because I could not even believe how much that little speech of his had turned me on. Or get why. I mean, yeah, I did kinda like it when he was bossy, and I more than kind of liked it when he made eye contact while he was working into me, and - I didn't actually like it when he went so agonisingly slowly, only the frustration added to the whole cocktail somehow, and the net effect was that I just wanted to scream but I wasn't even allowed to whimper, which turned me on even more, which...

All I could do was breathe, heave in air so very momentarily before my spasming twisting abs forced it out again in a silent sob, and I began to understand that I would definitely fail this assignment, it was only a matter of time...

Greg got himself sheathed, then he folded in his lips and ground hard against my undercarriage for a good long while, making me distinctly aware of the displacement, all the ground I'd given, every millimetre I'd stretched to make room for him...

"You did good there, babe," he murmured, as he started to stir tiny circles with his cock. "Think you can keep it up 'til I fuck myself out?"

I shook my head, mouthing a silent 'no'. Not a chance, not now you've done this to me...

"Want these, then?" He said, offering me his balled-up boxers. "I'm not gonna be needing them for a while..."

It somewhat broke the spell. I rolled my eyes. "Weirdly, no..."

He winked, unabashed. I got the feeling he'd been trying it on just in case - don't think he really expected me to eagerly acquiesce to a mouthful of cotton jersey and elastane... "Alright then," he whispered, worming two fingers past my lips. "You can have these instead, how's that? Can't really get the opera-singing going while you're busy with those."

I had a few opinions about being dragged for 'opera-singing' by the guy whose fault it all was, but I couldn't really voice them due to the obstruction in my mouth - he's got big fingers, Greg. Yeah, I thought. This'll work.

It more than worked. It worked, if you know what I mean. I suspect it would've worked anyway, as a distraction, a task for my - let's face it, kind of neglected - mouth, as a way to focus my desperation... but then of course Greg had to go and say more shit...

"No teeth, babe," he panted. "l know you can do it, you're good at this." His fingers were rocking ever so slightly back and forth in my mouth in a muted echo of the more forceful rhythm taking place down below. "You're very very good at this, babe, so don't disappoint me. You're gonna make these fingers of mine feel really good - aren't you? And while you're busy with that, I'm gonna make your everything feel good..."

I almost laughed - except I couldn't. It's a special kind of hubris to claim you'll make someone's everything feel good when you're employing one hand to hold yourself up and using the other as a silencer... like, what are you gonna use, Greg - your dick?

Okay, okay, you know the answer to that one already, don't you? And I figured it out, about twenty seconds before I came... I guess relatively quietly...

I lay awake for a while afterward, feeling strangely peaceful and porous, listening to sounds near and far as they seeped into me. Greg's sleeping breaths, straddling the borderland of snoring, the irregular swish of car tyres on the wet asphalt outside, the occasional thrumming roar of a plane gearing up for takeoff, and I wondered what came next.

There were four days of September left. Four more days of... whatever this was. I didn't know what would happen once the month was up - didn't know if Greg maybe had another, wilder, plan he was waiting to spring on me, if he had any kind of grand finale tucked up a metaphorical sleeve...

And I didn't mind not knowing, not having a say. I was easy either way. Truly. Not indifferent, not apathetic, no... I was so supple now... I hoped - really hoped - that my hole might revert to not looking like it had 'seen some action' but I knew that in other, more inherent ways, the damage was done. I was permanently changed by this big little sexperiment of ours. Still me, absolutely me. But version 2.0. me.

Anyway, in case you're wondering, the answer is, he didn't. Have a grand finale in mind - or if he did, he didn't enact it. He did not attempt to seed me six, or seven, times in a day. He did not try and get me to eat his boxers again, thank fuck. He did ask me if I'd like a snorkel - enough times that it felt like it was becoming a bit of a running gag between us, on track to have a long legacy in our bedroom...

And out of it. I'd forgotten how strangely cosy it was to have in-jokes, shit that was exclusively funny to us, but as the clock ran down on September I was reminded again and again... because Greg kept finding ways to insert some reference to snorkels into the most seemingly innocuous conversations - including, one evening, on a call to my mum.

'Trying to convince Hamish to give snorkelling a go' was how he phrased it, while I sat off to the side with my 'how fucking dare you' face on. C'mon, man! That's my mum!

But Mum, who adored Greg, and who obviously wasn't privy to the whole double meaning thing, merely told him he should wait a few months until the weather warmed up before trying anything like that, and then subjected him to a twenty-minute digression on the bribes that'd had to be offered to me before I consented to put my face underwater when learning to swim as a child...

"She only likes you because you listen to her endless fucking stories about me growing up," I told him afterwards.

That got me a shit-eating grin. "And why do you think I listen to her endless fucking stories about you growing up?"

"So that she'll like you, I guess..."

"No, because you're my favourite topic of conversation."

I gagged. "You giant suck-up! Suck up to Mum, and then suck up to me... you could get a second job as a Dyson with that much sucking up..."

Greg turned my way making loud slurping noises, aiming for my neck.

I fended him off. "No hickeys! Absolutely not!"

He stopped schlurping. "Just checking - you're not actually annoyed with me, are you?"

Dingbat. "Of course not."

His arm snaked around my waist. "Good. Come to bed."

* * * * *

The thirtieth of September was a Monday. Greg fucked me in the morning before work, as was the weekday routine. Once we were in bed that evening he tugged me over to spoon with him and whispered in my ear, "One for the road, baby. One more round in the chamber..."

I gave myself to him, marvelling at what we'd created. I would never have dreamed I was capable of something like this, and I'd never have found out if it hadn't been for him...

Afterwards, I padded out to the living room to fetch my laptop. Bringing it back to bed, I settled between Greg's thighs, leaning back against his chest, and showed him my spreadsheet, the record of what he'd done to me and when, adding in one last cell, dividing the fill colour between spooning/prone.

"That makes sixty-nine times you fucked me this month," I told him.

Greg chuckled. "Sixty nine! Hey, it wasn't intentional... but it sure seems appropriate." He closed the laptop and set it aside, crossing his arms over my chest, enfolding me. "Are you looking forward to a bit of a rest, baby?"

"Yes," I told him. No point sugar-coating it...

"But... are you glad we did it?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Absolutely utterly yes."

He tipped my head back so he could kiss me, eyes twinkling down at mine. "So-o-oo... same time again next year?"

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© Sarah-Jane Riordan, 2025