Reclaiming

It was well past sunrise when he brought your wife got home, hours later than he'd ever kept her. "I'm sorry," she said, "we...we fell asleep."

"That...that's okay," you said, watching her as she slipped out of her dress and got onto the bed, moving behind her. You sniffed her hair, smelled the combination of her sweet sweat, masculine musk. "I...I can smell him..."

"We...this morning...before we got up..."

You reached for her breast, the red bite mark, touched it gently, kissed her tenderly on her face. You felt a desperate need to reconnect with her emotionally, physically, to reclaim her. 

You knew she sensed your longing, could hear it in her breathing, her soft moans. "Oh, honey," she sighed softly, pressed her bare shoulders into your skin.

"We...we could..."

You felt the subtle shift in her body, a stiffening, resolve. "You know we can't," she said. She pushed back, pressed her ass against you, against the locked cage. "He...he doesn't like that."

"I...I just..."

"I know," she said, knowing how badly you wanted her. "You can do the other thing, I've been holding as much as I could."

The other thing. Reclaiming her not by having sex with her but by going down on her, licking her, pleasuring her, tasting her...tasting him. You hated it. And hated to admit to yourself how much you liked it. Not tasting him, so much, but tasting her after she'd been with him. Reclaiming her by participating.