Homecoming

The flight took forever. There were delays taking off, delays landing and even taxiing to the gate was torture. It was worse knowing that my man was waiting at home, ready to use me like the fucktoy he’s turned me into. He told me I couldn’t get off all day so I would be ready to come as soon as he entered me (as if that wasn’t guaranteed anyway).

When we finally reached the gate, I was first to stand and get my bag from overhead. If I had to chew my way off the plane and run down my grandmother to get a cab, I was ready to do it. But I didn’t need to do any of that. Because after I joined the crowds beyond the security gates, I heard someone call my name. I looked and there he was, with all the limo drivers, holding a sign with my last name. “Miss? Miss? Need a ride?” I ran over and kissed him. “I’m glad you spotted me,” he said. “Not hard to do,” I said. “There aren’t many blond limo drivers in New York!”

I didn’t check a bag so we went right to his car. He opened my door (sigh, southern chivalry) and kissed my check as I sat. I grinned like an idiot watching him walk to the driver’s seat. I was buckling my seat belt when he gave me an order. “Lift the skirt.” I don’t question him (I’ve learned not to) but simply wiggled my hips to raise my skirt. I wasn’t wearing panties of course. I’m smarter than that. “Did you miss your pussy?” I teased. “It’s missed you.” “Yeah?” he said. “Do you remember how to come for me?” “I sure do, Daddy.” “Good.” He put his finger against my clit. “Do it.” It didn’t take long. He let me lick his finger clean, because I’m a good girl.

After we left the parking lot, he let me suck his cock all the way home. He drove with one hand, keeping the other on his pussy. My man is so good to me. He knew I was so hungry for him. He had me sit up and fix my skirt when we passed through toll booths and again when we got to the garage. Once we were in his building and on the stairs, he stopped me. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. I did and he put two fingers at the back of my throat. I didn’t gag (I don’t anymore). He took back his fingers and rubbed the slick spit between them. He smiled and reached behind me. I lifted my skirt to help (I try to be helpful) and sighed as his finger entered my ass. “Why don’t you walk ahead?” he grinned. “I think that’s a good idea, Daddy,” I agreed. I walked carefully ahead of him, arching my back as he twisted his finger inside me.

I had to feel in his pocket to find his keys. He pulled out his finger once we were inside and feed it to me to clean. I sucked it hungrily as I hurried to undress. I knew to expect wild, rough sex when we’ve been apart. Of course I was dripping down my thighs.

But I was wrong. My man made love to me that night, so intimate and good and slow and romantic. He whispered to me. He held the back of my neck as he rocked into me so I would remember I was his. Still, he was gentle as my lover, not assertive as my possessor. He didn’t issue orders or direct my orgasms. “Hey, you really did miss me, didn’t you?” I asked. “Yes, my baby,” he said quietly. “You’re my girl, but you know, you’re also my love. Thank you.” I laughed a little. I’m supposed to thank him when he gives me what I need. Now he was thanking me.

That’s what I was thinking the next morning as I pretended to sleep, watching him on his computer. He was drinking coffee, listening to BBC news very low and writing; he was probably answering emails from his other girlfriends, which he does before starting his day. I would get up in a few minutes, I knew, to make more coffee for him, to get my own, and to open my own work before class. But for a bit longer, I wanted to look at him and just revel in being happy in his bed, in his scent, in his life.