Soundtrack: My Love by Justin Timberlake feat. T.I.
There was something about the way he looked, or smelled, or something, when he got home from the gym. It made me feral. I didn’t even need to see or smell him when he walked through the door; I could just… sense it. I just knew that he was sweaty, with dark patches on his shirt and shorts, hair a little mussed up, and a red glow across his face. It’s like his pheromones said hi to mine when they got home after a busy day, and biology did the rest of the work for us. Well, that’s how it was for me, anyway.
I spoke about it with the other wives on a night out once, and they just thought I was weird.
“What do you mean, you like it when your husband is a stinky, dirty mess?”
I don’t know why, okay? I just fuckin’ do. A lot. I like the sweaty smell of him more than I like Kouros or Fahrenheit, and that’s saying something. It wasn’t an ex-husband-specific thing, either; it’s happened with boys after him. Not all of them, obviously. Definitely a few, though. I see/sniff a post-gym sweaty armpit and turn into a feral animal, because I am a fuckin’ weirdo like that. I’m not even sorry about it. (I didn’t bring it up to them again, though.)
Home From the Gym
I can still remember the first time it happened. I hadn’t been in Deutschland long, maybe a few weeks? Something like that. Whisky had started going to the gym again after a long-ish injury break, so I hadn’t experienced it before that day. The key rattled in the door, I popped the kettle on to make him a coffee, and then it just… hit me.
*feral*
His head popped around the doorway and smiled at me, but I wanted him before he’d even done that. The pheromones had done what pheromones do, and I needed to fuck him. Needed. Essential. I would die if I didn’t. I told him just that with a kiss. Not just any kiss, though; The Kiss. The one that said, “Fuck me,” without having to say it all. He smelled delicious. A bit diesel engine, a bit BO, a bit hard-day-at-work…
Fuuuuuck.
We half-kissed, half-stumbled into the living room together, then fell back on the couch: him first, then I straddled him. He smelled so fucking good. It was the best smell in the world. Intoxicating. Mouthwatering. So fucking good. The light layer of sweat that decorated his body was just as alluring. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t. I did and do embrace it, though. How can it be weird when it feels so natural? So biological? So necessary?
We slid me out of my jeans, and him out of his t-shirt, but his shorts and boxers stayed where they slumped, down by his ankles, just above the trainers that he was still wearing. I was too impatient to bother with anything else. All I needed was his dick, and I had that right where I needed it.
I slid myself down on him, already more than wet enough for it, burying my face in his neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell so good,” I muttered. He deserved to hear it.
I started off slowly, rocking my hips backwards and forwards, holding his arms by his side. He probably could’ve moved them, and me, if he’d tried hard enough, but he played along. Whisky was a great lover like that. He always knew when to shut the fuck up and let me get on with things, and when to take control. One of the best on my list, for sure. But we don’t talk about that.
As was usually the case, it wasn’t long before I grew impatient. I’d always loved riding him on that couch. I knew if I sped up, though, he’d come soon. Too soon. He always did when I was up there. But if I didn’t speed up, I wouldn’t come before he did. It would be a race against time. I released his arms and put my hands on his chest, stabilising my body as I rhythmically rocked a little faster, then faster, then faster again after that.
He leaned forward and drew one of my nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and hmmming a little. The vibrations there drove me wild, but he knew that they would. It was as if he could read my mind when we were naked together, like he’d understood my little orgasmic predicament without me even needing to say a single word. He lifted one now-free arm, using his fingers to twist and pinch at my other nipple. His other curved around my waist, guiding me backwards and forwards a little faster, still.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes more, and he said those three little words: “I’m gonna come.”
“Wait,” I said, moving faster, close… but not quite close enough.
“Now,” he grunted, bucking his hips to meet mine.
I stopped myself from crying, “No!” in disappointment and ruining the mood completely; instead, I refused to stop. I kept rocking my hips, grinding myself closer to orgasm, even as he whimpered and juddered beneath me. It was my first (and possibly only) experience with any kind of post-orgasm torture, and I’ve thought about it a great deal since.
His almost pained noises did the trick. I found exactly what I was looking for. It was my turn to whimper and judder, before breathlessly collapsing on top of him.
“That was cruel,” he frowned, a few minutes later.
“You were still hard,” I shrugged, untangling my half-naked body from his.
I grabbed us a couple of bottles of beer, then we barely moved from that couch, and that state of undress, for the rest of the evening.
It absolutely was not the last time that I’d turn feral when he got home from the gym… just in case you were wondering.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: The Car.
Thank you so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Would you like to read all about The Ex-Husband’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here: