DITW 10-8 Exorcism

With the panties balled to his chest, he slumped against the bathroom cupboards. The position reminded him too much of sorrow, like if he wanted to curl in a ball like this, he should be sobbing. But instead of rolling tears, all he endured was a thundering pulse. So he stood, elbowing himself up from the counter to his feet, avoiding the mirror because what he saw might frighten him.

Now he was hinged at the waist, elbows on the counter, forehead resting on the knuckles of a fist. The scent of Kimmy’s panties close to his mouth and nose attuned him to the knife edge of his existence; love, lust, and trust on one blade cheek, hate and betrayal, but also lust, on the other. He tiptoed on its deadly razor edge like a tightrope, and with each step came closer to losing his balance at last, falling to one side, or straight down, cloven in two and ruined, from balls to brain.

He held the panties to his mouth and nose in the fashion of a chloroform rag and drew a deep breath, hoping to succumb to whatever powerful toxicity his wife’s panties held. This balled fabric had become an obsession point, damp and heavy with meaning. He moved one hand between his legs. His cock was hard as steel and dripping with excitement. He stroked it, his grip wet and heavenly, and with the panties held to his face, he closed his eyes, rolled them up high, and stroked faster, looking for release from the torturous grip the fantasy of the bleakest betrayal held him in. If he could come, he could escape. At least for a while. If he could come, Kimmy would hold no obligation over him. He could sleep. Sweet, innocent sleep next to the woman he loved.

Then, Kimmy’s quiet voice on the other side of the door, close, very close, as if her cheek pressed it: she called his name, her voice trailing high with questioning.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he mumbled, his voice thick, his breath hot. His heart ached.

“Josh?”

“Just a minute.”

A quiet beat, then: “Let me do it. Let me do it for you.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

Another slow beat of time. “Please, let me do it, Josh.”

He let his cock go, a shiver of embarrassment traveling through him, like he’d left the door open a crack and she saw what he was doing. He straightened and turned, folding his arms over his chest. “Do what?”

“Please, come out. Don’t leave me alone out here.”

When he stood without answering for too long, she said, “Come to bed and let me do it. Then we can go to sleep together. Okay? Let me help you. Don’t be alone.”

He said again, “Do what?”

An exhale. “I can hear you.”

“Why are you listening?”

“Please, Josh. Come to bed. Don’t lock yourself away.”

Shame burned his cheeks. He was easy to read. So easy his wife knew he’d retreated to his own fantasy to avoid reality. And reality was sex with Kimmy. And reality was much more than that. More than he could ever face.

“Come to bed, Josh. I really, really want to do it for you.”

Did she know what he was doing? Really know?

He turned and almost looked in the mirror by accident, stepped aside, came to his senses for one brief second, thinking he would hide the panties in the hamper again, but then darkness folding over him, his fist tightening, clutching the panties over his heart. He snatched a towel from the rack and draped it over his aching arousal, his cock poking a tent in it, anyway. Then he unlocked the door, put his hand on the lever and stood there, hesitating, for almost a minute.

Kimmy turned the lever herself and his hand allowed it. She’d dressed again, only in her oversized cotton sweatshirt, the neck hole to one side, slumping to expose most of her narrow shoulder. No yoga pants now, just bare legs, and he supposed no panties.

“Come to bed,” she said, showing him a soft, timid smile. She held out a hand for his.

In one hand he held the towel. His other reached out and opened and showed her the panties.

Her face furrowed with sympathy. Her lower lip sucked under her upper, and her black eyes sought his. “No, Josh,” she whispered.

His hand trembled, holding his sacred object, then he closed them in his fist, hiding them again. Kimmy took his hand in both of hers and pried his fingers open. “Josh, give them to me.” Her voice was easy and loving, but a voice of authority. His fingers surrendered their hold, and she removed the panties from his grip, reclaimed her property. “No,” she whispered again, stepping past him, going into the bathroom. He watched as her bare foot stepped on the bathroom trash’s foot pedal, flipped the lid open, and dropped in the panties. Foot away, the lid dropped closed.

It was for the better. But his brow grew heavy with more shame, more embarrassment, and a dark part of his heart wanted those panties preserved, memorialized. Treated with better respect than such an unceremonious farewell.

Kimmy opened the mirrored door of the vanity cabinet and retrieved a small tub of petroleum jelly she sometimes applied to her lips in the harshest days of the winter. Then she took his hand without asking and told him to, “Come on,” leading him to the bed with the towel covering his erection. He followed, saying nothing, and climbed into bed with her. She pulled the sheets over to cover them, staying in her sweatshirt, and saving him from the savage grace her beautiful naked body showed.

She stayed face to face with him, both of them on their sides, pulling off the tub’s tin lid with a small sound of suction. He watched those graceful fingers ply a dollop of ochre grease, then thumb the finger pads in crackling circles. Her other hand pushed the sheets down below their waists, and she stretched the towel out, taking it from his grip, exposing his erection.

When her hand gripped his cock with that slick velvety grease, his whole body stiffened and jerked as wicked pleasure seized him. But just like the bathroom mirror, he didn’t want to see his own reflection in his wife’s gaze, didn’t want to risk even seeing how his wife’s gaze assessed him. He dipped his chin, curled his body like a shrimp, his face dipping below her gaze. Kimmy kissed his forehead while her delicate grip stroked him.

For the sake of closure—for Kimmy’s sake and for his own—he let his eyes close and his mind wander in the dark. He thought of Kimmy doing the same thing for Devlin, using her hand on him. But Devlin wouldn’t lay passive on his side. Devlin would mount her, straddle her chest, her little titties jiggling as she struggled to control the python in her two-handed grip. Now here she was nursing the seed from her husband’s aching balls, comforting him with a prescribed milking, coaxing the poison from his system.

Kimmy cupped his balls, and he whimpered as if in agony, but her touch was exquisite pleasure. She kneaded his scrotum and stroked his cock with thumb and three fingers. The pace was slow and steady. Purposeful. Administrative. She tended a sick patient like a dutiful nurse. Again, she kissed his forehead. She knew his thoughts. Knew his darkness still swirled. Sought to bring light through a nocturnal emission. Peace might come from release. And he needed release from his pain.

So he tempted the wicked. Conjured what he needed to find the solace his heart pleaded for right now. While his wife stroked his cock with loving care, he imagined her in the worst ways he could. Imagined her possessed with lust and desire for an evil man, worshipping in private ceremonies his masculine spirit erected between his legs. Only she didn’t supplicate before it, didn’t grease the seed from his reproductive terminals, she lay prostate in horrible sacrifice, offering up her tight sexual core for Devlin’s sacrament.

Did Devlin come inside her? Was Kimmy that bad? No. Impossible. But in his fantasy she was wicked. And she begged Devlin to feel his eruption inside her body, to have his thick seed splash her depths, putting liquid pleasure where her husband couldn’t. It was impossible. But he imagined it for release. Pictured her getting pounded in Cayman. On all fours behind her husband’s back, getting it deep and hard. He pictured her toweling off, laughing with Devlin how late she would return to Josh, sitting in the hot tub with a bottle of champagne for them to share. Telling Devlin her husband’s fantasy. Telling Devlin the ugliest secrets he shared only with her.

Something turned over inside him. The release he craved had woken from its hibernation.

He riffled more terrifying images, flicking through them like a horny kid going through his first porno mag. And instead of playing them out, now he fantasized speaking them aloud. Asking Kimmy the most unimaginable things. Did you wear a condom when he fucked you? Has he ever come in your mouth? The night I smelled his finger, did you know he would do that to me? Did you come when he did it, imagining my humiliation? Do all your friends know you’re fucking him behind my back?

Do you all laugh at me?

His body trembled first, then seized, then rocked as his balls retracted and the sperm erupted. It came out with force enough that Kimmy emitted a small sound of surprise before purring encouragement, her matron’s tone that of encouraging a boy. It came so hard and so fast his urethra hurt for a moment. Then Kimmy squashed the pain away with her massaging grip, squeezing and stroking and working pure and awful pleasure from his body. He bucked more and more, looking down to see his organ in her beautiful hand, shining but unimpressive, spurting thick globs of semen onto the towel she’d lay out.

“Good, Josh, good,” she whispered, teasing him with only two fingers and a thumb squishing on his cock head. He closed his eyes and imagined Kimmy telling Devlin all about this on the phone, telling Devlin how he couldn’t stay hard enough to fuck her and she’d had to jerk his little dick off. Would she compare his load to Devlin’s? Would she say to Devlin she wished it was his cock in her hand? Say that Josh is home now and I want to see you again. I want to torment him more and more and more. I come so hard hurting my husband. It makes me squirt to know he suffers.

Now he pushed his forehead into Kimmy’s collar and she put an arm around him, still squeezing his cock, still milking the last drops of pleasure from his balls and his poisoned brain. He pulsed more come. Kimmy made a sound of pleasure. Satisfied she’d drawn more of his badness out of his body and onto the towel.

At last, she could squeeze no more from him and her hand stilled. He huffed for breath into her chest. She stroked his back, then eased away so she could dry her hands off on the towel. She dried his cock, too, and getting his scrotum and between his legs.

Then the towel was tossed away, and she lay with both hands under her cheek, studying him with those unreadable black eyes.

Nothing could be said. No thank you, no thanks for nothing. No sorry I couldn’t keep it up. The urge to survey more dark territory with her had ebbed. He didn’t want to ask her why she wasn’t sopping wet. I thought you missed me? Those questions didn’t inspire the same thrill.

And shame accumulated again, but now he didn’t cherish it, didn’t polish it and place it on any mantle to be admired from his leather chair. Now he hated it.

He took a deep breath, appreciating that, for the moment, Kimmy had cured him. His anguish may be chronic, but his beloved Kimmy didn’t want him to hurt as much as he dreamt she did.

He scooted higher on the bed, getting so his head was above hers, looking down on her, not up at. “I want to sleep,” he told her now, cold and unattached, his turbulent waters stilled by her ministration. Her face showed nothing, but she nodded once. He told her to roll over, and she did, unsure, a hint of worry maybe. But when she showed him her back, he reached beyond her and turned off the light, then put his arm around her. At his embrace, he sensed she’d begun to cry, so he held her tighter and fell asleep.