Dear Hot Husband:
In some contexts, you’re shyer than in others. It’s always a precious thing to see because it’s so out of character. I know it comes from a place of love and fear; a disconnect in believing whether I really want the thing or not: the “thing” being the sexual context we are putting ourselves into.
Sometimes you perceive hints of resistance, even when I’m saying yes aloud. I appreciate this about you, but also want to ease your mind:
I trust you. I trust us. More importantly, I trust myself. Now that we’ve navigated this journey for over 5 years, it seems I have come to know myself and am confident in honoring that person. As I type that, I’m reminded of our latest visit to Club Absolu.
We hired a driver. We were dropped at the gates, escorted into the club by the hospitable security guards. We gave our coats – revealing our risqué outfits beneath – and headed to the bar.
You always stay so close to me, understanding my past and the fear that I carry around due to old traumas. It was a cool evening, but your proximity kept me warm.
We knew the evening was both a date and an experiment. It’d been sometime since our last Sexy Travel, and I’d been working hard on figuring myself out:
Who do I want to be in this world of pleasure?
There have been so many shifts lately, both in me and between us. For the better, I recognize. This night proved that, of course.
I don’t remember speaking much. It’s always a challenge when loud music and beautiful bodies swim around us. But, this night there was something more. The best word to describe it: certainty.
For the first time, I was sure of what I wanted. There were no doubts, and therefore, no insecurities.
I embodied my quean. I danced like I owned the floor. I kissed you deeply, knowing I’d soon lead you up those stairs, to the playhouse, and you’d follow without question.
Which you did…
More bodies lined the walls, moved in waves on mattresses, produced a soundtrack of moans and grunts. I took it all in, holding your hand, walking down the hallways of that dark and delectable chamber.
People stared at us.
Some grinned, some made no contact with our eyes, but every other inch of our being…
I didn’t mind. I was protected by my own self-knowing: I only want one thing.
There were two cutouts in one of the walls. Black curtains hiding the contents behind. I knew what they were. I smiled at you, pulling one of them back, letting you step in. I entered the other.
I positioned myself on my knees, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dark, and realize what I’d asked you to do.
Before me was a slot, and a round hole. I could hear you begin to unbuckle your pants; in the darkness, I could see subtle movements of skin on skin. When you were ready, you’d put yourself through the hole in the wall, where I could taste you.
Oh, the play of anonymity and being used.
As I took you into my mouth, I imagined your one hand pressed against the wall, your hips thrusting, “o”-faced…
I closed my eyes, felt you and heard everything. Moans and grunts of you and strangers; the bombastic pleasure that permeated the walls and darkness.
If I concentrated enough, could I feel its baseline? Thump, thump, thump: some kind of collaborated rhythm.
You eventually grew tired of not seeing my face, my body. You disappeared for a second before throwing open the curtain, lifting me from the ground, and pushing me against the wall. Your tongue swirled in my mouth like a kaleidoscope of want and flavor.
And, like the devilish tease you are, you pulled yourself away from me, lent a hand, and led me back down to the dance floor, where we moved with sexual tension.
Dear Hot Husband, nights spent with you are the most flustering. You make me dizzy with desire, and know how to pleasantly manipulate me into wanting you more.
You’ve given me time to become what I needed to be (wanted to be), and now, in those loud spaces – filled with bodies and heat – we can thrive together.
Love from your Quean xx
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