Memories - Silence

It’s just after 2 a.m. when I hear keys in the lock. The house is dark except for the soft glow of the hallway light I left on for her.

I’m still awake on the couch in my bra, panties, and thin nightie, waiting the way I always do. It’s dark in the living room; I’m in the shadows. I watch Emily slowly open the door and step through it. She’s carrying her heels, walking as if she doesn’t want to make a sound, doesn’t want to wake me. For a second I wonder if she thinks I’m asleep.

Her long hair is down now, different than when she left. The black dress is wrinkled, but it still frames her long legs and the dark seams of her stockings. She looks back over her shoulder. I know she can’t really see me, but she knows I’m here. She pauses like she wants me to see her exactly like this, fresh from a night with Matthew, her boyfriend, lipstick smudged, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with her perfume and something richer, thicker, muskier.

She turns just enough to look toward the couch and smiles. Soft. Affectionate. Loving. The smile of a woman who knows her sissy waited up for her.

Emily sets her heels down carefully, then turns fully toward me. The rule is the same as always: I’m not allowed to speak until she gives permission. She uses the silence. The silence is powerful, a weapon.

She reaches behind her neck, undoes the halter, and lets the dress fall. It pools at her feet. She stands there in the soft light wearing only the black garter belt, the sheer panties, and the seamed stockings. Her breasts are bare, nipples still slightly tight from the cool air of the hallway. I gasp, thankful I’m allowed to gaze at her, astonished by her beauty as always.

Then she walks toward me.

Slowly. Seductively. Each step deliberate, hips moving just enough to make the garters shift against her thighs. She doesn’t rush. She wants me to watch every second of it. When she reaches the couch she sits down beside me, close enough that her bare thigh presses against the thin fabric of my chemise. The heat of her skin bleeds straight through and I let out a soft gasp.

She leans in and kisses me gently on the cheek, soft and lingering.

“I love you,” she whispers against my skin. Her voice is low, almost tender. “I’m so wet, Sara. He was eager tonight. Really eager. He made a mess inside me. Such a mess. More than usual. It’s still leaking out of me. Such a mess.”

She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. Her hand rests lightly on my thigh, close to where my small, tucked penis is aching, straining uselessly against the tight panties, desperate to grow and unable to. Aching for any touch. Aching for release. For a moment I try to remember the last time she touched me, the last time she let me squirt but I can’t.

“Emily,” the voice in my head screams, careful not to voice it.

“Were you a good girl for me while I was gone?” she asks. The question is quiet, but it carries the full weight of the rule. Did you behave? Did you keep your hands off yourself the entire time I was with him?

I swallow. My throat is dry. I want to answer but I resist.

She smiles the same soft, affectionate smile. “Only good girls get to lick away the mess he made in me.”

A long pause. Then, almost gently: “You may answer.”

My voice comes out shaky. “Yes…I was good. I…I didn’t touch myself. Not once. I waited for you.”

“Did you stay tucked?” she asks.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say.

She studies my face for a moment, then nods, satisfied. “Good girl,” she says, leaning over, kissing me softly on the lips. Not passionately, but softly.

Her hand slides up my chest, then higher, fingers threading into my long hair. She doesn’t force anything yet, she just guides. She pulls my head slowly down toward her lap, towards her panties, towards her pussy, towards the mess.

“Look at me,” she says softly. I lift my eyes. Hers are dark, calm, completely in control. “I’m going to open my legs for you. You’re going to move my panties aside and put your mouth on me. You’re going to lick me clean. Every drop of cum he left inside me. Do you understand? You're going to lick me clean, you're going to be respectful, reverent.”

“Yes,” I breathe, already shaking. I hate myself for loving her so much. I hate myself for being this eager. I hate myself for giving her this much power over me.

She parts her thighs. The thin black fabric of her panties is visibly soaked, a dark, heavy patch right in the center. A thin trail of white has already begun to seep through the crotch. Her fingers still in my hair, she guides my face closer until the smell hits me fully—her familiar scent mixed with the thick, salty, unmistakably male evidence of a man.

“Go on, Sara,” she murmurs. “Lick your wife clean.”

I push the soaked crotch of her panties aside. She’s glistening, open, messy. Thick white streaks of Matthew’s cum are still leaking slowly from her, coating her lips and the soft inner folds. I press my mouth to her and taste it, her sweetness immediately undercut by the heavier, bitter, creamy foreignness of him. I lick slowly at first, dragging my tongue through the mess, then deeper, cleaning every fold, every slick trail that has leaked out of her. The taste makes my tucked penis throb so hard it hurts inside the tight panties. I knew I should hate it. I wanted to hate it. But I didn’t. I loved it, and the shame of that love burned hotter than the taste itself.

I can’t help it. My hips shift toward her hand, desperate for any friction, any pressure against the aching, trapped flesh.

Her fingers tighten in my hair and she pulls my head just slightly away.

“No,” she says, voice soft but absolute. “You know the rules.”

I freeze. My hips still. The ache is almost unbearable.

She strokes my hair once, almost kindly, then presses my mouth firmly back against her wet, messy cunt.

“Keep licking. You don’t get to squirt. You don’t get to touch yourself. Not tonight. Not after I’ve been with him. Good sissies wait. And you’re going to be a very good sissy for me, aren’t you?”

I nod against her, tongue still working, tasting him, tasting her, drowning in both.

She sighs above me—quiet, pleased—and settles back against the couch, thighs open, holding my head exactly where she wants it while the clock on the wall ticks past 2 a.m.

“To think your first wife used to make you do this because she hated you,” she says softly, almost wonderingly. “Where I do the same thing because I love you.”

I keep licking. Slow, thorough strokes, collecting every thick drop that continues to leak from her. The more I clean, the more my own body betrays me. My tucked cock pulses uselessly, leaking its own clear fluid into the front of my panties until the fabric is damp and sticky against me. I hate how much I love the taste of him inside her. I hate how my tongue keeps seeking the places where he’s been deepest. I hate the soft, helpless sounds I make against her while she strokes my hair like I’m something precious.

Emily’s breathing deepens as her orgasm builds, washes over her. One of her hands stays tangled in my hair; the other drifts down to rest lightly on the back of my neck, guiding without forcing.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, shaking in pleasure. “Get it all. He came so hard inside me tonight…filled me up until it was running down my thighs in the car on the way home. I almost called you then, just so you could hear how messy I was.”

A fresh pulse of his cum slips out of her and onto my tongue. I swallow it without thinking, then hate myself for the automatic, eager way I do it. My hips twitch again, but I force them still. The rules are clear. No touch. No release. Not after she’s been with him.

She lets me work for a long time, enjoying my attention, shaking softly, until the heavy taste of him begins to thin and only her own slick remains. Even then she doesn’t let me stop. She keeps my face pressed between her thighs, making me polish her clean, making me taste the last traces of another man while my own denied penis throbs and drips in its cage of fabric.

Finally she sighs, a soft, contented sound, and gently lifts my head. My lips are shiny. My chin is wet. She looks at me with that same loving smile and wipes a streak of mixed fluids from the corner of my mouth with her thumb, then presses the thumb between my lips so I have to clean it too, her eyes locked on mine as I suck her thumb like a small cock.

“Good girl,” she says quietly. “My good, patient little sissy.”

She leans down and kisses me, slow and deep, tasting herself and him on my tongue. When she pulls back she rests her forehead against mine.

“You’re going to stay just like this for the rest of the night,” she whispers. “Tucked. Untouched. Aching. And in the morning, if you’ve still been good…maybe I’ll let you lick me again while I tell you everything he did to me. Would you like that, Sara?”

I nod, eyes stinging, cock still desperately hard and denied inside my panties.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I whisper.

She smiles, kisses the tip of my nose, and settles back on the couch, pulling me down so my head rests on her bare thigh. Her fingers stroke through my hair while the last of his mess slowly dries on my tongue and the clock keeps ticking toward dawn.

"You're such a good girl for me," she says softly, "such a good sissy."