Well, it's just how he is he handles all the housework flawlessly. As long as I do what he says, peace will remain in this household and no blood will be shed.
I go brush my teeth, and when I come back, the messy little table from dinner is gone, everything washed and put away. No dirty dishes in the sink, no clothes lying around. The floor even smells cleaner than my laundry, I swear.
Then my lovely wife strolls over, pokes my slightly chubby stomach, and starts bullying his own husband even though he's the one who cooks mountains of food and stuffs me full every day. If I can't finish, he complains, yet he still has the nerve to say I'm getting fat. What exactly does he want from my life, huh? This feral wife of mine.
"You're getting kind of fat," he says.
With those half-lidded eyes, he leans in close exactly like he does every time he goes into heat during the full moon of the twelfth month… not Loy Krathong, but his own personal rutting season.
And who on earth can stop him? Even the chairman can't rein him in so what chance do I, his servant-husband, have? He smells good too, damn it. He's a thirty-year-old rich brat who doesn't work but sprays cologne worth tens of thousands a bottle. Am I stressed about it? No because it's his money. I only earn twenty-something thousand a month. What am I supposed to spoil him with? My whole salary can barely buy him one pair of shoes.
"You're drunk and getting clingy again, babe," I complain.
Not that it changes anything. He gets horny three times a day after meals anyway. If you mute his raspy voice and censor his swearing, he's handsome enough to pass for a model. My wife-in-heat starts getting handsy, rubbing that elephant trunk against my thigh, pressing his big body close, sliding his face along my chest and neck. He probably thinks I'm his kid or something. He even checks whether I brushed my teeth when he's the one drinking beer and refusing to brush his!
"What the fuck are you teasing me for? You're the pervert here—just a touch and you're already hard."
Yeah, somehow everything is always my fault. That's just how husbands are, I guess.
"Well, you smell good… and you keep giving me those bedroom eyes."
I reach out and tuck his hair behind his ear—what can I say, I'm a romantic.
He melts like a cat getting its chin scratched. A very deceptive cat. More like a zombie cat, actually.
"I'm drunk," he mutters.
"Bullshit."
I smile as I say it his hand doesn't smile back. It slaps straight across my mouth.
SMACK!
"Talk nicely."
"But you never do…"
"Ever heard the rule? A wife is the exception to everything."
He leans in, face only inches from mine. My cheek probably has a five-finger tattoo now—was that a hand or a damn hoof?
"Wow, babe… that hurt," I mumble, rubbing my mouth.
Heavy hands, heavy feet, sharp tongue—what kind of feral wife is this?
"I'm hungry."
Definitely drunk he chugs the last of his beer and still claims he's hungry. Spending too much time home alone has made him feral.
"I thought you said you already ate, love?"
"Thirsty."
"I'll get you something to drink. What do you want, sweetheart?"
"Cum."
…
I knew it.
Before I can react, he shoves me against the bathroom wall and latches onto my neck, sucking so hard my skin crawls. Is this my wife or a dengue-infected mosquito?
He keeps mouthing my neck, sucking and biting, then grabs my tiny nipples twisting and tugging like he's trying to start a motorcycle engine.
His foul mouth always spitting curses got silenced the moment my tongue dragged across his lips. That sharp, bow-shaped mouth of his glistened with a sheen of spit right in front of me. Made me want to ruin him right there, but the second I tried to lean in, he grabbed my jaw, holding me still.
His long tongue, after licking his own lips, slid toward mine—pressing in, sealing tight, pushing and pulling with that thick, wicked stroke that sent sparks rushing down my spine.
Talented at everything.
Too talented… but only when it comes to me.
I'd just brushed my teeth, minty fresh, only to be mixed with the bitter taste of his mouth as his tongue teased and rolled, playing with mine like he was taking slow drags of a cigarette. We kept trading deep, messy kisses, wet enough to echo.
Sluuurp.
The greedy bastard shoved his wild tongue in again, sweeping left and right, switching between licks and deep pulls, tangling with mine while crushing our mouths together.
His hard chest pressed into me, rubbing, teasing, thumbs working over my sensitive spots. One of his hands went boldly for my lower half, grabbing my favorite part like it belonged to him. Damn it—felt too good. I had to hook one of his legs up with my arm while squeezing that firm ass of his, fighting his tongue with mine, while he kept gripping my jaw like he owned me.
What the hell is wrong with this man—fondling me down there while devouring my mouth.
Sluurp.
"O-oi… babe, that—ah—don't… don't squeeze there…"
Lick.
He never listens. What's mine is apparently his. Man loves to grab me when we lie down touches until I'm reacting, then he climbs me like some shameless demon.
His tongue is number one slicking from the front gate to the back of the alley. That bitter mouth wrapped around my tongue, then he trailed down to my neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks just for fun.
Sluuurp.
"Shit—darling, I'm shaking gonna lose it, f-fuck—"
The bastard finally took his leg off my arm, pushed his own pants down. I yanked off his shirt, he stripped his bottoms, then God knows why he threw one leg up over my shoulder. What is he, a yoga instructor now?
"Heh~ come on. Let's do it."
This lunatic laughs weird—one 'heh', two 'heh's—face handsome as hell but asking me to, basically, take him right there.
Then he used his damn heel to press down on my shoulder, making me spread my stance and bend. I ended up braced against the wall, arched in some ridiculous angle, and looked at him—hair messy, face hot, hungry, stupidly erotic.
Might as well turn in the "homework" my wife wants. Maybe he'll sleep better after.
"Let me turn in a chapter of 'homework' to my partner so I can sleep peacefully."
Your condo is huge like a full house, but somehow we end up doing things right in front of the bathroom. And you're not exactly small—your legs alone could pass for tree trunks. You just hoisted yourself onto my shoulders and—without blinking—guided me exactly where you wanted like I'm some kind of lifelike toy.
Grip… grind…
"Love, you're really tight. Want me to walk out and grab the gel?"
"No need… ngh—"
Slide—!
"Ah!"
See? I told you to wait a moment, but no—you didn't listen. The moment I entered that heated space, my head nearly spun from how intense it was. You bit your lip, let out a low sound, and moved your hips like you were trying to short-circuit me.
I'm forced to stand in this strange position while you practically flip yourself over and still look annoyingly gorgeous. Why is the world so unfair that someone this good-looking—and this good at taking control—is mine? And you move faster than a bird tapping the ground.
Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm—
Down below you're moving on me; up above you're tugging at me and touching yourself like you're racing the clock. How did you grow up to be this insatiable? Your lower half is toned and smooth, and I never expected your backside to be this… dangerously appealing. The sound of you taking me in is getting louder, and you're getting more worked up by the second.
I lean in and taste your chest, both hands steadying your hips as you pant in my ear like you're on the edge. Your waist moves in tight waves, squeezing around me each time I push deeper.
Both my hands spread you open gently, guiding myself all the way in, shifting slightly left and right until your legs tremble and you clamp down like you're trying to trap me there.
Don't make me really start—if I take over, that bossy attitude of yours will disappear and all you'll be able to do is cling to me and make those sounds you try so hard to hide.
"Ahhh…"
"Love, you're really feeling it, huh? You're soaked."
Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm—
"Ah— yeah, harder! Feels insane!"
I grab your hair, tilt your head back, and kiss you just to remind you who you keep trying to insult.
Soft, wet kisses overlapping—
Not sure whose kiss is louder, but everything's a mess. You release onto my stomach, a thick, warm trail, gasping as your body jerks. You're going to finish again from being pressed on that one spot repeatedly; no matter how you twist your hips, my hands stay firm on your waist, pulling you right back onto me.
Your hands press my head down to your chest, your back arching as you shake. I thrust upward and you bite at my neck to hold back your voice.
Slide, slide, slide—
"Ngh— mmph— mmph!!"
Release—!
"Ahh— love, did you finish? Give me a second, I'm so close… you're unbelievably tight."
You collapse onto me, legs weak, clinging to my neck like you're melting. With everything dripping, I lift you into my arms.
Thrust—thrust—thrust—thrust—
I walk while still moving inside you, your body bouncing lightly from each step. You cling to me, dragging your nails down my back, your whole frame tensed.
"Love, I can't stop— you feel too good…"
"A-ah— damn— I'm losing it—!"
Slide—!
Release—!!
Your whole body shivers, eyes unfocused—barely recovering from finishing, only to be lifted and taken again until you're trembling from both ends, everything messy and loud.
"Love… hey, love…"
"…yeah?"
"What now?"
"Do you even need to ask? Take me to rinse your mess out—and you're washing me."
"Of course."
That's just how we are. I bring you to the bathtub. The shameless one stretches out, putting a leg up on the edge so I can clean everything thoroughly.
Just kidding~
I'm only helping scoop out the "little ones" I left inside since we didn't use protection.