Husband's Gentle Anal Training

The lamp on the nightstand threw a low amber light across the bed, and the rest of the room stayed soft and dim. Octavia lay on her side in one of Lamar's old shirts, the hem riding high on her thigh, and she watched her husband come out of the bathroom with his sleeves rolled and his face still damp. Thirty-two, patient as ever, he moved like a man who had nowhere else he needed to be. They had been married five years, and most nights still ended like this, talking in the dark until one of them reached for the other.

Tonight her stomach had been tight since dinner.

"Come here," she said, and her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

Lamar sat on the edge of the mattress and set a hand on her hip, warm through the cotton. "You've been quiet."

She turned onto her back so she could see him. At twenty-eight she knew her own body well enough to know when a want had stopped being a passing thought. For months they had circled it in bed, after sex, in the kitchen with the lights low. He had asked, gentle and direct, whether she ever thought about him in her ass. She had said maybe. Then she had said yes, she thought about it. Then she had started thinking about it in the shower, in the car, at her desk at the design firm while she pretended to answer email. The curiosity had thickened into an ache she could no longer laugh off.

"I want you to try," she said. "Anal. With me. Tonight, if you're willing. I've been ready to say it for weeks and I keep chickening out."

His thumb stroked the bone of her hip. He didn't grin or rush. That was part of why she could say it at all. "We can try," he said. "Slow. Lube, fingers, nothing you don't ask for. The second you want me to stop, I stop. You run this, Octavia. I'm not in a hurry."

Her throat went hot. "I don't want to be bad at it."

"You can't be bad at it." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. "You're curious. I'm going to take care of you while you find out. That's the whole job."

She exhaled, a shaky little laugh, and the tension in the room sweetened instead of breaking. She reached up and curled her fingers in the front of his shirt. "Okay. Then train me. Gently. And if I want more, I'll tell you."

"You'll tell me," he agreed, and the promise sat between them like a hand on the small of her back.

He kissed her then, not a peck, a real kiss, mouth opening over hers until she made a sound into it. His hand slid under the shirt and found the bare curve of her waist, then lower, palming the swell of her ass with a slow, claiming pressure that made her hips tilt up without her deciding to. She tasted mint and the salt of his skin. Five years and the kiss still undid her; tonight it undid her faster, because she knew where it was going.

"Shirt off," he murmured against her mouth.

She sat up and let him peel it over her head. Her breasts spilled free, nipples already tight in the cool air, and he looked at her the way he always did when he meant to take his time, like she was a meal he refused to rush. He stripped his own shirt, then his pants, and the sight of him, thick and already half hard against his thigh, sent a pulse straight between her legs. He reached into the nightstand and came back with the bottle of lube they had bought together two weeks ago and never opened, and a towel he spread beneath her hips.

"On your stomach for a minute," he said. "I want to warm you up before anything goes near that pretty hole."

She rolled over, cheek on the pillow, ass lifted just enough that she felt exposed and wanted. Lamar knelt between her calves. She heard the cap, the wet sound of lube in his palm, and then both hands were on her, slick and hot, spreading her cheeks with a care that made her whimper. He didn't go for her hole yet. He massaged the muscle around it, long strokes over the globes of her ass, thumbs working the tension out of her until she was melting into the towel. Lube dripped, obscene and generous, running down the cleft and over her pussy. The smell of it, clean and faintly sweet, filled the small space between them.

"God, you're soft," he said. "Breathe for me."

She breathed. His thumb circled her asshole, not pressing in, just painting it, over and over, until the ring of muscle stopped flinching and started to yield. Heat gathered low in her belly. Her clit throbbed against the towel.

"Finger," she whispered. "Please. One."

"Yeah?" He kissed the small of her back. "Tell me if it's too much."

The first finger was a shock and then it wasn't. He went slow, the pad of his finger circling, then the tip breaching her, slick and steady, pausing every time she tightened. She focused on the lamp, on the sound of his breathing, on the way his free hand stroked her thigh. The stretch burned in a thin bright line and then melted into a deep, heavy fullness that made her mouth fall open.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, that's—keep going. Don't stop."

He worked the finger in to the knuckle, fucking her with it in tiny strokes, twisting, letting her body learn the shape. She pushed back, greedy, and the motion dragged her clit against the towel. A moan broke out of her, low and filthy.

"More lube," he said, and she felt the cold-then-warm rush of it as he added more, working it inside her with that single finger until she was dripping, until the sound of it was wet and unmistakable. "You're taking it so well, baby. Listen to you."

"Two," she said, and her voice cracked. "I want two. I can feel how empty I am. Please, Lamar."

He eased the second finger in beside the first, and the stretch doubled, a thick ache that made her toes curl and her hands fist in the pillow. He held still while she panted, murmuring to her, telling her she was doing perfect, telling her to bear down and then relax. She did. The ache opened into something hotter, a throb that synced with her pulse. He scissored his fingers gently, stretching her, and she sobbed out a laugh of pure want.

"Fuck, that feels good," she said. "I didn't know it would feel like this. Rub me. Please rub my clit while you do that."

His other hand slid under her, found her soaked and swollen, and circled her clit in time with the slow pump of his fingers in her ass. The two sensations braided. She rocked between them, shameless, the wet sound of lube and her own pussy filling the room. Her nipples dragged the sheet. She could feel herself getting looser, hungrier, the initial burn gone and replaced by a craving that scared her a little with how fast it had arrived.

"Look at you," he said, voice rough. "Grinding on my hand. You want my cock in there, don't you."

"Yes." The word tore out of her. She twisted to look over her shoulder, face flushed, hair stuck to her cheek. "I want it. I'm ready. I've been ready since the second finger. Please fuck my ass, Lamar. Slow. I want to feel every inch the first time. Then I want you to wreck me."

He withdrew his fingers carefully, and the sudden emptiness made her whine. He rolled her onto her back, kissed her hard, and she tasted her own urgency in the way he held her jaw. "Missionary," he said. "So I can see your face. You tell me how deep. You stop me anytime."

"I know," she said, and spread her thighs.

He slicked his cock until it gleamed, fist working from base to tip, and the sight of him that hard for her ass made her cunt clench on nothing. He hooked her knees over his forearms, lifting her, angling her so her hole was offered up, pink and shiny with lube. The head of his cock nudged her, blunt and hot, and she grabbed his wrists.

"Slow," she breathed.

"Slow," he promised, and pressed.

The breach was bigger than his fingers, a thick, relentless stretch that stole her breath. She kept her eyes on his. He watched her like she was the only thing in the room, jaw tight, holding himself at the tip while she adjusted, while the ring of muscle fluttered and then, inch by grudging inch, let him in. The burn flared and settled. She felt herself open around the head, felt the fat ridge of it pop past the tightest point, and a broken sound left her throat.

"There," she gasped. "Stay. Just—stay right there."

He stayed. His cock throbbed inside her, barely past the head, and the fullness was enormous, intimate in a way that made her eyes sting. She reached down and touched where they joined, felt the slick stretch of herself around him, and the reality of it hit her all over again. Her husband was in her ass. She had asked for it. She wanted more.

"A little deeper," she whispered.

He sank in another inch, then another, watching her mouth, her eyes, the way her stomach jumped. She controlled it with her hands on his hips, pulling when she wanted more, holding when she needed a breath. Loving words moved between them in the half-dark, nothing performed, just his voice low and steady. You're so tight. I've got you. Look at me. That's my girl. She answered in fragments, telling him it was good, telling him she could take it, telling him she loved him with his cock opening her up. When he was halfway in she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled, and he slid the rest of the way in one long, careful stroke until his hips met her ass and she was full to the root.

"Oh my God," she said, and laughed, breathless, eyes wet. "You're all the way in. I can feel you in my stomach."

"You okay?"

"I'm better than okay." She rolled her hips, an experimental grind, and the drag of him inside her lit up every nerve. "Move. Slow. I want to feel you fuck me."

He drew back and pushed in, a long glide, lube squelching, and the friction was deep and strange and perfect. He set a rhythm she could ride, shallow at first, then longer, his cock stroking places she hadn't known could feel like this. She kept her eyes open. He kept his on hers. Every few thrusts he leaned down and kissed her, messy and sweet, and she kissed back with her whole mouth while her ass clenched around him. Her hand found her clit and she rubbed in tight circles, the pleasure stacking, her pussy dripping onto the towel beneath them.

"Harder," she said, when the slow had done its work and the hunger had outgrown it. "I'm comfortable. I'm so fucking comfortable. I need you to pound me. Flip me over. I want it deep."

He pulled out, and the loss made her gasp, her hole fluttering open. He turned her onto her hands and knees with a firm hand on her hip, and she went willingly, back arched, ass up, presenting herself. He lined up and sank back in to the hilt in one stroke, and this angle was different, deeper, the head of his cock bullying into her in a way that made her arms shake.

"Like that?" he asked, already breathless.

"Like that. Don't be gentle anymore. Pound my ass, Lamar. I can take it. I want to feel you lose it."

He gripped her hips and fucked her. The slow romance of the first minutes burned off into something raw, his thighs slapping her ass, the bed frame ticking against the wall, lube and her own wetness making every thrust loud. She dropped to her elbows and pushed back to meet him, greedy for the depth, for the way he filled her so completely she couldn't think. He reached under and found her clit again, rubbing hard, and the combination cracked her open. She babbled, filthy and honest, telling him her ass was his, telling him not to stop, telling him she was going to come with his cock buried in her.

"Come with me," he gritted out. "I'm close. Your ass is milking me. Fuck, Octavia—"

She came first, a hard rolling orgasm that started in her clit and clenched all the way through her ass, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses while she cried out into the pillow. The grip of her dragged him over the edge. He slammed deep and stayed there, hips jerking, and she felt the hot pulse of him coming inside her, thick spurts flooding her ass while he groaned her name like it hurt. They shook together, locked, her cunt still twitching, his cock throbbing out the last of it until neither of them could hold themselves up.

He folded over her back, both of them panting, sweat cooling on their skin.

When he could move, he eased out of her with a care that made her sigh, a warm trickle following him. He reached for the basin of warm water he had set on the nightstand earlier, wrung out a soft towel, and cleaned her gently, between her cheeks, down her thighs, then himself, unhurried, murmuring that she had been incredible. She lay on her side and let him, boneless, a stupid smile on her face. He tossed the towel aside, killed the lamp, and pulled her into his chest, skin to skin, her ass tucked against his softening cock, his arm heavy over her waist.

He kissed her shoulder, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "I love you," he said. "You were brave. You were perfect."

"I love you," she said, and meant it down to the bone. She turned her face and found his mouth, a slow tender kiss that tasted like salt and the end of something they had both wanted. "I want more of this. Not just tonight. I want you to train my ass until you can pound me like that whenever you want, until I come just from you fucking it."

She reached back, gripped his spent cock, and squeezed.

"Next time don't stop until you've pumped my ass so full it leaks down my thighs and I beg you to plug me shut."