Fifteen years of marriage. One final night.
The Last Tango
The fucking that commemorated it all
If there’s one thing the ex and I did well, it was fucking. We didn’t do it often, but when we did, we put it all out there. Normally guarded, when I was with him, in bed, the walls came down. I could be the dirty girl I liked to be, say the things I wanted to say, use the toys, beg for a good spanking, trust him to whip my clit exactly how I liked. Normally pretty vanilla, I could go where my heart and my pussy truly wanted. And not only did I not feel ashamed, but I was loved and admired even more for it.
It was a dirty, beautiful thing. And one that deserved to be commemorated, if with a dildo.
“Hey. Does your mom have Jack, or do I have to go get him?”
It’s him. The ex. The one I’ve been crying over for months now. Fuck I miss the asshole. Fifteen fucking years together. Seventeen really. Plus one kid. And a whole lot of crazy memories. I still feel like I’m missing a limb. What do they call that? Phantom limb syndrome? It’s like my soul hasn’t caught up with the fact that he’s no longer there. I still catch myself having full on conversations with him in my head, reminding myself to ask him to pick something up.
“Hey, just in a meeting,” I reply, snapping a quick picture of my skirt and heels. Cause, well, I look good and fuck him. “but my mom’s got him.”
Image sent
“Looking good I see.”
“Single life has done me well…
But can’t lie, I miss u. Well, I miss Will really.”
Will being his penis. I can’t remember how it came about really, but one night long ago, laughing in bed, we named his penis Will and my pussy Grace.
“Yeah, Will misses Grace too. They were always good together those two.”
“They sure were… Remember that night at John’s cottage?”
“Lol. How could I not. The hot tub, the toys. The frozen bra.
What a fuckn night!”
“Grace is tingling just thinking about it. Fuck it’s been way too long. I’m dying. The poor girl needs a night out.”
“God I miss how I used to make her squirt.”
I squeeze my legs tightly together, squirming in my seat as I feign interest in the presentation I’m supposed to be watching. I can feel her juices flowing, my nipples hardening.
It’s been months of stress, selling the house, moving my mother, adjusting to a life lived solo. Saying bye to everything that was. Months of little to no sleep, of crying every moment I have to myself. There’s been not one tingle, not a solitary moment of yearning for sex, my hormones vacating my body when he vacated our home.
But suddenly, Grace is on fire, needing more than she’s ever needed. Screaming to be touched, felt, seen, loved… released. Listened to.
“Haha. Ya, same. Think I’m gonna to have to excuse myself from this boring ass meeting and go take care of her. Poor girl’s been ignored for much too long”
Image sent
“Jesus. You really fuckn fingering yourself in the women’s bathroom?”
For once, at least I’m not crying in it, I think, leaning against the stall door, my fingers furiously rubbing my clit like it’s a million dollar scratch ‘n win.
“Ya, I don’t know what’s up with me but she’s on fire”
“Can you leave work?”
“Now????”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Wanna meet at that motel on Hwy 8 by our old place?”
“I can be there by 3”
“Fuck. We’re crazy. But ya, k, that works.”
Grace is still rumbling, the attention she received in the bathroom seems to have woken her up more then it managed to sedate her. And the man is still technically my husband. We can fuck if we want to fuck. And god damn it, I want to, with every inch of my being. In fact, I can’t remember wanting, no, needing, anything this much.
“I’ll pickup some whiskey and smokes.”
“Peeerrfect! : )”
Management is all still in the meeting and I am giving zero fucks. I’m calling it a me day. I’m supposedly “management” after all, and considering all the bullshit they’ve been putting me through. Well, they can go fuck themselves.
I send some quick emails, freshen up my hair and makeup in the bathroom, say goodbye to my work bestie and tell him I’ll fill him in later and dash out the door. It’s 2:30, I’ll have just enought time to make a quick pit stop. I blast the music, roll down the window and sing my heart out the whole drive there, feeling more myself than I have in months.
I park, laughing at the seediness of the motel. I love it. It makes me feel like I’m a character in a movie. This isn’t my real life, it’s a moment to be played out, remembered, cherished for what it was — our final dance. An ode to all that was. An ode to us.
My arm hangs out the window, the sun pelting through, a giant smile darting across my lips as I gain sight of the man whose face holds a kazillion memories, his blue eyes and soft smile immediately transporting me back to the fifteen-year-old girl with a big crush on a tall, beefy, funny boy that always knew the wrong thing to say, leaving laughs and hurt feelings in his wake.
His smile tells me he feels the same way. Perhaps it’s been months, but our souls know no different. We are still us.
“Perfect spot, our room is right here,” he says, nodding to room 103 barely a stones throw from where I parked, a brown bag is and bottle of pop in his hands. Whiskey and diet coke, it’s our drink. The one that has led to both good and bad nights, stories now legendary within our tight group of friends. Others we dare not share or care to replay.
Dropping his things he pins me against the door the moment we enter.
Instead of I miss you, the French say “tu me manques,” “you are missing from me.” And that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling all these months. But as his mouth envelopes mine I’m transported back to a time when everything was right with the world, and we were still us. Dysfunctional as fuck, mind you, but us.
I soak it in, weakness in my knees, clenching the black bag from my pitstop between my fingers as if asking it for strength as I force back the memories. This is a night for laughter and fucking. Tears are not allowed.
“What’s that?” he asks, his eyebrows furling as he walks to the desk and starts pouring us one, two, maybe three fingers of whiskey with a splash of diet coke into plastic cups. “Cheers,” he says, handing me mine. We chug them down, desperate for the liquid courage.
“I stopped for a new toy. Figured you could help me break it in,” I smile.
“Something wrong with the one I got you?”
“Nope, just felt like it was time for something new.” I pull the dildo out of its box, give it a quick wash and plug it in. I’m going to need this baby fully charged.
We chat like old friends catching up on what life has brought our way. And I suppose we are. But the normalcy of it strikes me odd. I’ve stepped out of work clothes and sit on the bed, back against the headboard, cross legged in bra and panties, smoking cigarettes like they’re going out of style. Craig is laying on his stomach, cuddling a pillow beneath his head as we chat. Soon our arms and legs are entangled, It’s touch that’s not electric but so known it envelopes you with a feeling of safety. This is home. The man that would kill for you. The man whose eyes seem to be telling you he’s dying without you.
It takes a long time for our hearts to accept what our minds know to be true. We are no longer one. But tonight. None of it matters. My body is screaming for his. And just when my pussy starts to beg for it, his fingers slide right in. Oh how this man knows how to touch her. How to milk her for all she’s worth. His patience God sent for a woman who likes to cum.
For some reason, sitting here, letting myself be vulnerable and the center of attention without the need of reciprocating is turning me on. Having flung off my bra in discomfort, my nipples now stand at attention. my legs still crossed, his hand under my panties as he massages my clit, we continue to talk, about my work, and his, our friends, and our family. His fingers covered in my juices, his pressure intensifies ever so slightly. My words start to stutter as I lose focus on our conversation, the first of my orgasms bubbling to the surface.
The man knows how much and exactly how I like to be finger fucked. So that’s exactly what he gives me — the finger fucking of a lifetime. One worthy of all of our years together. I’m rolling into my third, but still small orgasm. Desperate for more, I slide down onto the bed and let him pull up beside me, wrapping a leg around his so I can grind my hip into his hand.
The sound of her juices as he thrusts his hand in and out is driving me wild, “Let me taste her, please,” I beg. He complies, holding his fingers just above my lips so I can smell her sweetness before I taste it. Sliding out of my panties I mutter a kind “thank you, Sir,” taking hold of his hand and moving it back to where it had been. Together we rub my clit as I grind to the music, the booze starting to kick in. My leg back around his, my hand moving to his cock as he continues to play with her, the orgasms building, getting wetter and wetter, louder and louder, as I respond to every new wave and sensation.
Fuck, I need more. I need to taste him. “Get up.” Of course, he knows what I’m after, it’s my favorite position. Make me cum as I give you head.
But he also knows that if he goes a little slower than what I ask for, the payoff will be even bigger in the end. So he pours us some drinks and hands me a cigarette. I laugh and cry in frustration.
Fuck that, I can multi-task. I take a sip of my drink, place a small ice cube on my tongue then slide his cock in my mouth. He laughs and shutters as the cold travels up his shaft. His knees tremble and toes tap as the shocks curse through his body. I laugh, swallow my drink and shift the ice around my mouth as I trace the length of his cock with my tongue. His dick now as hard as it’s ever been, his motivation to make me cum intensified, he plunges his hand back into my pussy as deep as it will go, slamming into her so his palm bangs on my clit as he goes. This is how he builds her up. My nipples tingle and pebble, begging for attention. I squeeze my breasts and give them a good pinch, pulling until I let out a yelp. By the time he slides his hand out he just grazes my clit and she explodes, a waterfall of cum soaking the bed.
And this is how the hours are played out, orgasm after orgasm, short interludes of drinks and smokes, the bed completely drenched in my cum as as we chatter, reminiscing of days and orgasms gone by. The threesome that never made it to fruition. The whip I accidentally left behind, hidden in my closet when we sold the house. The nights of drinking, drugs and sex that will never not elicit a smile.
My pussy expelled of all she had to give, my mind and senses fuzzy, my heart needing to make this a night I won’t forget, I unplug the toy, lube it up, and brandish it like a weapon, propping my ass up into the air. Give it to me boy, and make me never forget it.
XO,
VLF
