What Makes You Wet

"Why does it make you wet?" I asked her one night when we were intimate, kissing, nylon covered legs touching.

"What?" she asked, kissing me back.

"You said it makes you wet, thinking about it?" I said, wanting to ask, not wanting to.

"What?" she laughed, "you have to tell me before I can tell you."

I bit my lip. "Thinking...thinking about Evan...thinking about your boyfriend...holding, you know, holding the key."

Em smile. "You naughty girl, you've been thinking about it, too," she teased me.

"S...some," I admitted. "I'm not saying I'd want that, I just..."

"Keep thinking about it?" she asked.

"M...maybe," I said.

"Does it make you stir?" she asked, "does it make you stir inside your little cage?"

"S...some," I said.

"Why?"

I laughed to myself as how she turned my question around and was not asking it of me before answering it herself."

"I...I don't know...maybe the...the submissiveness of it, the symbolic submissiveness. It isn't that he just knows we don't have boy/girl sex, we actually couldn't, because of something he controls...you know...in my fantasy."

"Not just boy/girl sex, Sara, you wouldn't even be able to squirt like a boy without his permission."

"It would be like, he...he controls me in a way."

"That's it, isn't it? My sweet thing can never stop fantasizing about submitting to a man, can she?"

"Not always," I said.

"No, you're right," she said, "not always. Because you submit to me, too."

"Yes," I kissed her.

"It's ironic, you know."

"What?" I asked.

"You stir thinking about Evan holding the key, you swell, but you wouldn't be able to fully swell unless he allowed it. Irony, oh the irony."

"What...what about you?" I managed to ask.

"Hmmm," she kissed me. "It makes me wet because I like it when you're my girl. It makes me wet because it's exciting to think of Evan in charge, not just of me, but of you, of us. It makes me wet thinking you can only be my wife because that's all my boyfriend will allow, a decision he makes. It makes me wet thinking about my Sara submitting to my boyfriend. It makes me wet thinking we can only have girl sex because the kind of sex a woman has with a man is reserved for him. It makes me wet thinking he may never allow your little clit to grow, he will never allow it inside me, and he may never let you squirt like a boy."

"Emily," I moaned.

"It makes me wet thinking about it, fantasizing about the two of us presenting it to him, admitting we don't trust ourselves to hold it, admitting we're better off just accepting he's the man in our lives, admitting that as my boyfriend, this is something he should be responsible for. Not me, certainly not you. Him."

"Oh, god," I was shaking.

"It makes me wet thinking about holding hands with you as we hand it to him, as I tell him we think it's best you hold this, Evan," she whispered in my ear, "neither one of us trust me with it. It makes me wet  thinking about him taking the key, I squeeze your hand as he looks at it and smiles. In my fantasy, he looks at it, looks at us. If I take this, you both realize not just when, but if you see it again is up to me. Yes, we'll answer together. He'll smile at us. It's been more than a year, I understand, since you used this. Well take a good look at it, both of you, it may be a long, long time before you see this again. That's what makes me wet, Sara."

"It makes me stir," I said, "just the thought of just being your girl." I hadn't been anything but her girl for more than a year, hadn't been fully swollen for more than a year, hadn't had a 'male' orgasm in more than a year, hadn't been inside her since she got pregnant. In a way, it was fantasy, we both knew that, but as to reality, it had been so long. So long. "It makes me stir never having to worry about being a boy, sexually, ever again," I blurted out.

"He should be in charge of this, shouldn't he?" she asked, touching my panties.

"Yes," I moaned, "yes."

"I love your naughty fantasies," she said, "I just love them."

"It's fantasy," I said.

"Is it, though?" she asked. "Is it?"

"I...I think so," I stammered.

"Is it? Is it?"