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“About the… first rule.” You bring up later that night, after the two of you have come home, eaten dinner, and taken a shower. “I guess… what I want to ask is like—I’m not sure it’ll help that… I ask you for permission to masturbate, and you watch. Because we’ll probably end up… taking things up a notch after because well… we’re already there, right?”
Frank’s brows raise. “I don’t follow, kid.”
“I mean… you know, we’ll both get turned on at that. So… wouldn’t it just be a slippery slope for more?” A part of you finds plenty of holes in Frank’s initial logic for helping your addiction, probably because you haven’t had the chance to actually engage in a scene with the rules involved. “And I don’t wanna deny you…”
“Think you’re misunderstanding.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in that manner you find so cute. Frank rests his hand on the curve of your back, enjoying the weight of you on his chest as you were laid out over him. “Sex isn’t bad, don’t hav’to stop it entirely. But y’said it gets outta hand when you do it alone, so m’not gonna let you do it alone. Simple ‘s that.”
Okay, maybe you were projecting some skewed assumptions or just overthinking it. Maybe you had to try it before you could be proven differently, which you’d usually be down for, trying most bedroom activities with Frank were very safe, sane, and fun experiences until… you changed that with how you were last night.
“Why’d you even ask, anyway? Got somethin’ t’tell me?” He inquires, like a hound dog investigating your trail, tilting your chin up to look at him.
You avoid the invitation, instead trying (for once) to not think with your pussy.
“Just thinking about… the setup. Y’know, how it’s gonna work. And the caregiver thing too. It’s exciting but I actually don’t have a clue how to execute it.” Maybe you were looking for a change that felt less… subtle.
“Yeah, well… executin’ it is my job, sweetheart. You j’s hav’to follow along.” He replies casually, traces your cheek with his thumb. “You want me to tell you more about what I’m planning for it? Or d’you wanna try it already?”
You ask for the former, still frazzled at the idea of initiating intimacy right now given the context of yesterday. You couldn’t deny the craving was present (painfully, consistently so), but the possibility of hurting Frank again stops you in your tracks.
“Alright. Close y’r eyes.” Frank pulls you into the crook of his neck, your body pressed to his side, his hands resting on your back and carding through your hair. “Tell you all about it.”
You feel Frank kiss the top of your head before he speaks again. “We’re still going to have sex, sweetheart. Nothing changes with how it starts. I get to ask, you get to ask—jus’ like before.”
“But I decide how many times you can come. Y’trust me with that?” Frank feels you nod, your breath warm on his shoulder. The thought makes you both scared and aroused at the same time. You weren’t worried about Frank being unkind, no, you were worried about how you’d react to being denied. Frank was such a giving person to you, and a big part of your relationship was him learning that being controlling with you wasn’t the way forward. It was to grant affordance, freedom, agency, to make your life easier while still keeping you safe.
In a way, this was still agency, still him making your life easier. He was easing the burden of regulation away from you so you can focus on healing, feeling, reflection. Planning on keeping you company through the (anticipated) withdrawals, through the aches and pains, through the shame and embarrassment without passing judgement.
“Answer me when I ask questions, sweetheart. Be good.” The rumble of his voice in his chest douses your body with arousal.
“I trust you, Frankie.” You reply, warm body only made warmer by how cuddled up into your lover you were.
“Attagirl.” He croons, continuing to brush his fingers through your hair. “Don’t want you to be shy. Don’t want you to be ashamed.” He reminds.
“Is there a… daily limit?” You ask one of the questions that’s been present in your mind a while. You tried daily limits before and they were difficult to enforce, especially without an accountability partner. “To how many times we can… y’know.”
“We go by feel. You okay with that?” He hears your silent ‘yeah’ and continues. “I’ll base it off of how our day went, how we’re doin’. Know some days you need it more, some days I need it more.” He explains, you appreciate the candidness and the way Frank wasn’t approaching sex as if it were something morally bankrupt even after the revelation of your situation. (That had been one of your first mistakes during your first few attempts at recovery.) It was incredibly mature of him, and it makes you melt a bit more into his side.
Frank was shouldering quite a heavy mental load for this, you realize. But he’d already made it a point to tell you he wanted to do so, was ready to help. You honor that even though your mind is clamoring to apologize again.
“Anything else y’wanna ask?” He murmurs, nose pressed to the top of your head.
You think for a moment. Frank waits. He hears you take a slow, shaky breath.
“What… uh. How—what do you think about… this? About me. Now that you… y’know. Know about it.” You internally cringe at how much of a bumbling idiot you sound like.
Frank immediately knows you’re coming from a place of insecurity. He remains steady as he thinks of his answer, smoothing his hand along your back. No sudden movements.
“Think you’re hurting, kid. ‘Cause you were stressed and lonely for a while and uh, this is y’r way of dealin’ with it.” He shrugs. “You and I both know you got pretty big emotions under all that sweetness o’yours.” He speaks, sounding almost like a backhanded compliment, but it wasn’t untrue.
Only Frank could point out something you considered a flaw as plainly as that without sounding like he needed you to fix it, or that you should have been able to help yourself with it. You feel grateful (and undeserving) to constantly be on the receiving end of Frank’s emotional intelligence.
“Now it’s fucked up your brain chemistry and its gonna hurt to rewire it, but it’s not impossible.” He keeps combing his fingers through your hair. He phrased it with as little judgement as you’ve ever heard it be said. It was just something that would take time to alter into something less dangerous, less damaging.
There’s more compassion in his answer than if one would actually sugarcoat their words. In general, Frank spoke with very little filler, concisely, straightforwardly, with a certain sureness in himself that you adored. It made the way he approached your addiction feel even kinder, striking a balance of taking the issue seriously while still managing to be the one to ease your shame about the entire situation.
He feels you nod into his shoulder, it takes you a while to form words. “Why did… Why did you decide to do all this?”
Frank’s head shakes a bit at your question. “What—” He sighs. “Sweetheart, w’kind of man do you take me for?” He grumbles, hand pressing into your back. “Maybe you’re used to dealin’ with shit on y’r own just ‘cause the people around you think you bein’ able to handle it is an excuse to not help you.” His voice raises, just a little, in frustration.
His arms tighten around you. “Not with me. You hear? Not w’me.” To the untrained ear, that sounded like a threat, but Frank’s devotion to your well being has always been clear no matter how far back into your relationship you look into.
“Okay…” You never expected, in a million years, to be this supported. It makes your eyes sting just a little. “I—I love you, Frank. Thank you. Really.” You let out a shaky sigh. “Feel like I’ve just been apologizing and thanking you lately. Not that you don’t deserve it… just—just an observation.”
Frank sighs, chuckles, tells you he loves you too and to stop questioning him. He seals it with a kiss to the top of your head. The two of you stay like that a while, indulging in each other’s warmth.
Time passes, the low hum of the air conditioning and the sound of each other’s even breathing occupies the room. You find that your hand had slipped under Frank’s shirt, tracing idle patterns along the hard planes of his body.
But a resounding murmur in the back of your mind keeps gnawing at you alongside all the good you feel. You were so fucking horny. The yearning is there, has been, frustratingly so even after one of the most heartfelt conversations you’ve had with Frank (you’ve been having those a lot recently, it’s sweet, sickly—given how shitty you feel about the reason for said conversations). That itch for release, for pressure between your legs, for that tingling spreading into your veins as you finish—you need it.
You feel like a pervert.
Your eyes are still closed. Your nerves feel like they’re on fire with how turned on you are. “Frankie… what happens if I… ask to touch myself?”
“Yeah?” Frank grunts, sounds like he’d just woken up from almost-sleep. In an instant he’s active again, whispering his answer with a low voice. “Wanna find out?”
He hears the gulp you do, the shaky breath that follows. “Can I?”
“Ask properly, sweetheart.” He requests, not strict, just guiding.
“... Can I touch myself, Frank?”
Your words send shivers up your lover’s spine. Frank’s hand runs along your back in soothing motions. “Since when have you wanted to? Be honest.”
“During the drive home. After the cafe.” You confess, Frank exhales.
“Why didn’t you say anythin’?” He pursues.
“Wanted to feel normal for a bit longer.” Frank clicks his tongue, shushes you, sharp as ever as he catches the self deprecation in your words.
“Don’t talk about my girl like that.” The term makes you feel tingly, the hint of possession in his words, the correction in his tone.
You cuddle closer into him, he shifts to accommodate you. He continues his questioning. “Did’you sneak away to do it? Watch anything?”
“No.”
“Good.” He kisses the top of your head. “Still wanna play with yourself?”
“Yes… please?”
“Okay, sweetheart. Don’t beg.” He croons softly. “Never have to beg with me, you know that.” That was true, and it made your sins feel all the more heavy. “Move a bit f’r me first. Wanna see that pretty face o’yours while you touch yourself.” You feel Frank’s hand move up and down your arm. Warmth spreads all over your cheeks, all the way up to your ears.
“Oh…”
Before he could say anything more to cajole you, you sit up. Frank shifts so he’s comfortable and better angled to watch, using his hands to guide you into laying half your body onto the right side of his.
You’re laying slightly sideways, right leg with its foot flat on the bed, left leg laid between Frank’s own. The side of your left thigh is pressed right into the bulge of your lover’s sweatpants.
Frank’s right hand grabs a pillow to wedge behind your shoulder, making your position comfier. His left tilts your head up as he leans down to give you a kiss.
“Go ahead n’ touch yourself f’r me.”
You gulp, that should not have sounded as hot as it did.
Your lover is hyperfocused on your breathing, watching with rapt attention as you move your hand lower along your body. Your hand reaches the waistband of your cotton shorts, slipping underneath to pet your clit.
“That’s it… good girl.” He coos, combing through your hair idly.
“Let me hear you, baby.” He coaxes your attention, opens you up with his intense gaze. “How is it?”
Your tongue feels like lead but you will yourself to reply. “It feels… good.”
“Want you to feel good. That won’t change.” He confirms, his gaze wanders between your expressions and the way the loose fabric of your shorts move from the motion of your fingers.
“Y’touching that pretty clit o’yours?” Frank asks and you reply affirmatively, face warm with embarrassment and arousal as your fingers press tight circles into your nub. “How many fingers do you use?”
“Just one.” Your cheek is pressed to his chest.
“Mm.” He keeps talking, asking questions, urges your attention to him, positions himself as your anchor both physically and mentally. “Are you always this quiet when y’touch y’rself?”
You gulp. “Yeah. Learned to… because y-y’know. I hide it.”
“Makes sense.” He murmurs, right hand combing your hair affectionately. “But you’re done hiding, aren’t you, sweetheart? Think you can let go f’r me and make a little noise? J’s a little…”
“I—uhm,” your breath is shaky as you blink up at him. “I’m not used to it.” Your fingers are sticky as you play with yourself.
“That right? You’re loud when I’m th’one touching you.”
“Because… It's you.” You reason.
Frank leans down to give you a kiss, rubs your noses together. “Will you close y’r eyes and imagine it, sweetheart? That I’m the one touchin’ you? Make some noise f’rme. Let yourself really feel it.”
His request makes your face flush. Nevertheless, you nod. “Okay… okay—” You close your eyes, willing your mind to work.
To Frank’s credit, it does have the desired effect. Frank rewards the (now more frequent) hitches of your breath with lingering kisses to your forehead. Whispers encouragement, ideas, recalls memories of your intimate moments together and feeds them right into your fizzled out imagination. He revitalizes your mind, puts your brain to work because you’d told him you made it weaker by the amount of cheap porn you watch. His right hand combs through your hair, left searching for your free hand and squeezing, letting your intertwined hands rest over his chest.
“S’much better, yeah? When we do it t’gether. When y’do it with me like this.”
You gulp, replying. “It is…”
It really, really was.
Being so intensely held while you were masturbating felt so hot—and made you just a tad bit emotional. You’d always associated touching yourself with loneliness, developing into this fucked up feedback loop of negative emotion exacerbated by the exact same thing you use to alleviate the feeling.
Now you’re laid out over Frank, drowning in his watchful gaze and his whispers of praise, guidance, and care. You place your thighs over each other, letting your right collapse onto your left to keep your hand squeezed in place. You couldn’t keep as steady of pressure as Frank does when he touches you, not without your toys, so you’ve gotten into the habit of using your thighs to bracket your wrist, make the most out of that sweet, sweet press of your finger to your nub.
Frank watches, enraptured with the way you look like this, of the way you were indulging in your pleasure without performance; just raw, desperate need as you were laid out over him.
“D’you always do it with y’r clothes on like this?” He asks, notices you squeeze the hand you were holding whenever he speaks, his sweet girl. He squeezes back.
“Yeah… too much of a hassle to get dressed again after.” Frank grunts, acknowledging your answer. “It… it makes me feel like I actually did it, if that makes sense.”
“Makes you feel like you actually touched yourself?” He clarifies, brows furrowing.
“Uhuh. But… if I still have my clothes on after, I can just… slip my hand away after I come, wash my hands and pretend I didn’t just do that… That it didn’t happen.” You gnaw at your lip, eyes still closed, expression giving away how ashamed you felt about your admission.
Frank appreciates your openness, holds it close. He presses a kiss to your forehead, whispering a soft ‘s’okay’ to your skin. “No more hiding, yeah? No more pretending you aren’t doing it. Say it back t’me.”
“I won’t… pretend, anymore.” You choke out, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll stop hiding.”
“Attagirl.” He gives your hand another reassuring squeeze.
Your eyes were still closed, still trying to play out past scenes with Frank despite the insistent flow of guilt in your veins, imagining his hand between your legs instead of your own as you give yourself pleasure.
Frank continues whispering sweet nothings to you, and goddamn does his voice do it for you.
“Frank—” You pant. “Can I open my eyes?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” His eyes meet yours immediately once you can see again. Your mouth feels dry at Frank’s intense gaze.
“Hi…”
“Hey. Somethin’ wrong, baby?”
“Nothing… I’m just. I’m close.” You huff out, cheeks made warmer with how close to Frank you were right now.
“Yeah?” He lets go of your hand in favor of cupping your face.
“Yeah… and I wanted to see you.”
“Hm? That right?” There’s this toothy grin on his face. He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Wanna look into my eyes when you come from touchin’ yourself, huh? Y’like when I watch you?”
“U-uh, apparently—” You confess, the realization settling in once Frank brought it up.
Frank whispers teasing words, putting raunchy ideas in your head, stimulating your mind. “Well I love watchin’ you.”
You hide your face against your lover’s chest, he’s quick to urge you back to looking at him. “Sweetheart, you’re a sight.” His right hand roams along your side, appreciating each divot, each bump along your body. You felt so real over him like this, so solid, so close. Frank loves when he gets to lay with you like this. “But it’s not complete ‘f I can’t see that pretty face o’yours.”
“Frank—” You pant, drowned with his gentle whispers to look up at him, to let him see, to be good for him and let him watch his pretty girl make herself feel good.
Your lover was laid underneath you while you had a hand between your closed legs, actively masturbating, and somehow—he’s barely interested in seeing your cunt or your tits. Instead, he wants to see your face, what expression you make when you come, the shape of your mouth as you let out each moan. Frank lists all these off to you, tells you what he wants to see, how much he wants to see you. It drives you insane.
If this wasn’t the most potent definition of intimate you’d ever come across, you don’t know how else to top this.
You finally look up at him, finally heed his gentle requests. You’re met with the familiar, tingly feeling of release. All throughout, Frank murmurs sweet praise, his left hand finds the hand not between your legs and squeezes, tight. Holds you sturdy as steel as you come, as shivers wrack your body. His right hand pets your hip, the warmth of his palm a reassuring presence against your skin.
You’d taken your hand away from between your legs, but he sees and feels the way your thighs grind together, hips back and forthing as you were laid on him. The silent hitches in your breath with each squeeze tell him everything he needs to know.
“Keep those legs apart, I know what you’re doin’.” He pats your right thigh firmly, twice, doesn’t slap, doesn’t spank. You’re squirmy and needy but Frank stays solid, grounded, lets you try to follow his instructions first instead of manhandling you immediately. He wants you to feel like you can still muster up control over yourself, knows that that matters if you ever aspire to have any sort of confidence that you can manage your condition.
“Shh, shhh sh…” He gently urges your thighs apart, pride in his chest when you do comply. He shifts from underneath you, coos at you to lay back down on the bed, whispers reminders of keeping your legs away from each other.
He slips his leg between your thighs, pressing his knee to your mound as he hovers above you.
“Feel that? Feel my leg?”
“Yes…” You start to grind on it, but Frank grips your hip firmly, halting your movements.
“Don’t move. Be good.”
“But, then why did—”
“Just to ground you.” He keeps firm pressure on your pussy but doesn’t let you move. “Stay still. Deep breaths.” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingers, whispers encouragement. “You can do it.” “You’re such a good girl, aren't you?" “Don’t you like being good f’rme?”
That last line gets you pliant, making your breathing deep and less panicky despite that insistent ache between your legs. “I do. I really do.”
“Say it back t’me.” His request is laid out gently into the cool air of the room.
“I like being good for you…”
He murmurs praise for being so obedient, cupping the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your lips. “Keep still and keep breathing, yeah? Know it’s hard, but it's for the best. Want you to wait and just feel.”
Frank says it so sweetly, so kindly, so that’s exactly what you do. You trust him.
It feels unbearable. Like something was missing. Like only being able to have a small sip of water during a heatwave. Your thighs keep tensing against the leg Frank has pressed between them, desperately craving that pressure against your clit. You feel antsy, wound up and restless. Your breathing is laboured, unstable, pupils blown wide.
Your hand slips between your legs and you freeze when Frank calls you by your name.
“Hands off, sweetheart, be good.” You swear your clit jumps at his tone. You comply, moving to grab at the sheets instead as you’re hit with this insistent wave of need.
“Attagirl. Talk t’me instead, yeah?” You nod, visibly stewing in your thoughts. Frank waits.
“Frank…” You squeeze at his arm, he slides his hand from your hip to meet yours, intertwining them.
“What is it, baby?”
The request feels dirty on your tongue, heavy with shame, taboo. You shouldn’t—
But temperance wasn’t your job, not right now. That was exactly what Frank was offering to your altar. You just had to lay yourself bare, verbalize how you feel, and let Frank help, guide, let him do the thinking for now.
He knows what’s best for you, after all.
“Is it okay if I need more?”
“Just gotta ask, baby. Nothin’ wrong with wanting, just don’t want it to be too much.” He reminds. “Let me decide what’s too much, yeah? Ask me first.” His caring tone is mixed with how he usually sounds talking to you. It stirs a sense of safety and arousal in your veins.
“I want—I want to come again.” You confess, short of breath. “Can I come again, Frankie?”
Frank squeezes your hand.
His treatment plan for your addiction had only just started, so he lets you up the dosage, understands that it’d be painful to jump so suddenly into just one orgasm and end it there (especially with the way he’d gotten into the early habit of guaranteeing you three unless you say you’re tired).
Right now, he keeps his goals realistic; first was to lengthen the space of time between your orgasms. Frank makes sure to be careful because he wants you to savor it again, enjoy it more, to reteach your brain to make intimacy mean more than what it’s turned into for your neurotic mind.
“I’ll let you come one more time, sweetheart.” Frank soothes you. “But I’ll be th’one touching you. Okay?”
You nod, hazy mind just grateful that Frank let you have one more. You settle into the mattress, thank him, verbally.
Second; keep it slow. The less chances of you losing yourself too deeply, the better it will be for your confidence. Frank bides his time, takes the opportunity of being in the lead, of the nature of the dynamic the two of you were exploring, to set the tempo to a much lower register.
He leans down to kiss you, a thick string of saliva between your mouths as you part. Frank wipes away the drool from the corner of your lips before he starts to kiss along your body. “Can I take off your clothes, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” Frank thanks you, sucking a hickey onto the base of your neck. He slowly slips off your shirt, kisses down your chest and your tummy before he urges your hips up off the bed so he can slide off your bottoms.
He feels your hands tug at the hem of his shirt. “Can we take this off too?” Frank whispers his affirmative, letting you strip him of his top.
You pepper your own kisses along the expanse of his neck and shoulder. He notices the way you were angling your head up off the pillow to reach him, so he cups the back of your neck, supports you, urges you to sit up on his lap instead so you can indulge in him without strain.
“Can I…” You whisper into his neck, settled over his thighs. “Can I give you a hickey too?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.” He chuckles a bit at your request. “Give me lots’of it f’you want. M’all yours.”
You busy yourself with that, kissing all over Frank’s torso, sucking in red, blooming marks onto his body. You hold onto him like a lifeline, nails digging into his broad back. The need was persistent, still present, never once leaving.
“Mmh—” Frank groans when he feels you bite at the junction of his neck. He lets you, savors it, recognizes the effort you were doing in distracting yourself with other activities instead of demanding more direct pleasure (whether or not you were conscious of it, he’s unsure, but it favors the situation regardless).
He sighs when you lave your tongue over the bite, acknowledges the silent apology by petting the back of your head.
“Give me a few more ‘f those…” Your eyes widen at Frank’s request, but you don’t question it. Enthusiastically kissing a few more spots before biting into them, his reaction is instantaneous. You feel warmer between your legs.
“Attagirl.” The rise and fall of your lover’s chest from his shaky breathing gives away how much he was enjoying this. You pull back to admire your work, the multiple bite marks and hickeys scattered all over Frank’s upper body, a hint of a smile on your face. You cup his face, and he’s enamoured at how flushed and tender your expression is while you look at him.
It hits you all at once all over again, how lucky you were, how capable Frank was of just making you feel this immense sense of safety. How he cared for your well-being without being the one to impose self limiting beliefs on you. How he’d calmly coursed you through your emotional growing pains as a late bloomer.
Frank had such a deep understanding of human emotion that even you’d get stumped sometimes. Being with him, being taken care of by him, having him show so plainly that he’s committed to this union, to you; all of these were such freeing, fulfilling experiences that you could only have dreamed of a couple of years ago.
For just a moment, you forget your shame, forget that you were in active addiction, forget that you’d hurt the love of your life just last night.
Until you don’t.
Frank sees the shift in your emotions in real time, the way something more somber, heavier, more painful creeps up on your features. Your hands slip away from his jaw, move to rest on his shoulders instead, like you’re exiling yourself from indulging in him so lovingly.
You’ve been touching his face less than usual after last night. It hurts him.
He tilts your face upwards to get a better look at you, bringing you out of the dark. You know that look, intense, eager, listening—Frank was asking you to let him in (even though he has a pretty clear guess as to what you could be thinking about that warranted the change).
“Give me a smile, sweetheart?” He tries instead.
“I can’t—not when… when—”
“So, what? Y’r just gonna be miserable ‘till this gets fixed?” Frank squints at you, jaw tensing.
Frank had a point, but bringing yourself to smile despite everything felt so manufactured. The feeling of being undeserving was overbearing, outweighing all the other positive, well-meaning thoughts in your mind.
You sigh in defeat, you feel his hands slip away from your face, snaking at your sides to tickle you.
“Frank! You ass—” You laugh, swatting at his dumb, grinning face. He doesn’t let up, not until your laughter is choppy and you’re breathless on his lap. “Frank!”
Your lover is smiling as he takes in your joy. “See? Beautiful.” He cups your face, a tenderness to his gaze.
“Okay, okay…” You pant, the grin on your face lingers and you will yourself to focus on the good—if not for you, then for Frank.
Meanwhile, your lover’s mind was working on how to approach your next orgasm. Frank goes over his ideas.
Three; remind you that intimacy can be much, much more than just lustful passion. That it can be done alongside other lighter, more innocent sentiments.
Frank guides you to lay back down, pressing tender kisses all over your face. You do the same, supported by his hands cupping the back of your head. He sets you down on the mattress, hands along your arms, making sure you feel comfortable. You’re looking up at him so sweetly, it makes Frank’s cock twitch in his sweatpants.
But he had other plans for how this night would end. “D’you wanna come to th’ hardware store with me tomorrow?” He asks, the question makes your attention snap to him with how out of place it felt.
“Yes—” You’re always happy to go places with him. “What’re you going to get?”
“Faucet’s leakin’, gonna fix it.” He murmurs into your chest as he peppers kisses and whispers praise along your skin. “Showerhead too.”
“I also think we’re out of eggs…” You reply, Frank feels a tinge of pride at the way you hopped onto the topic instead of questioning why he’d think to talk about this at the moment. Knew you were a very reactive person and used it to both of your advantages (whether you were aware or not, Frank is unsure. He goes with it regardless).
Not being too horny meant more clarity, and Frank just needed to balance that with making you feel safe and cared for so you don’t careen off into being hyperaware. You having your mind elsewhere meant less need would be at the forefront of your thoughts, but if he isn’t careful you’d probably end up too stressed to relax.
“We’ll get some t’morrow then, after the hardware store.” He nibbles at your neck, stubble tickling your skin. “Wanted t’get ingredients for meatballs anyway.”
You gasp, face flushed at the way Frank was worshipping your skin. Frank cooking meatballs is an equally appealing prospect, though. “Yay…mm—”
“We leave f’r the hardware store bright n’ early so I can make that f’r you for dinner, yeah?” Frank smiles at your reactions, slides his hands down your body, rubbing idle circles along the plush of your waist. “Let me make you come, sweetheart. Get’ya to sleep.”
“Okay,” your hands rest on Frank’s shoulders. Warmth floods your face, your thighs tensing. You whine when he pulls away, the cool air of the room replacing the comfort of Frank’s steady weight.
He isn’t gone for long, though. He kisses down along your body, making you sigh at the tenderness of it all. You were idly running your fingers through Frank’s hair, relieved that you were calmer than last night (still needy, but Frank has you pliant and patient—he always delivers, after all).
If you weren’t so damn horny, you were certain you could fall asleep like this. You let your eyes close, savoring the slowness of each kiss that your lover presses into your body—that was until Frank starts blowing raspberries at your tummy.
“FRANK—!”
Your eyes snap open. He laughs.
You can feel the bastard’s stupid grin against the softness of your belly, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Him nudging his nose into your tummy was your only warning before he does it again.
The glare you try to shoot at him turns into laughter. Your faux attempts to push his big head off of you only make him more playful. Frank presses more kisses, moving lower along your body.
Soon, he’s nosing at your pubic hair, pressing a kiss to the roots before he parts your lips to lick at your slit.
You sigh, muttering a ‘thank you’ into the cool air of the room.
“Y’rwelchome, babhy—” He replies, voice muffled by your core. He laves at you, gets your clit wet with his tongue as he slowly eases a finger into you.
Frank’s breath is warm against your wetness, he whispers praise as he kisses it. “Want you to touch y’r pretty clit again for me, sweetheart.”
The request makes your breath hitch, your fingers slide between your legs, not needing to question Frank. “Okay.”
“I’ll guide you. Y’can be good and listen, yeah?” You whisper a silent ‘yeah’ in response to Frank’s question and he nods.
“One finger, small circles.” He murmurs, voice raspy with desire. He focuses on working his finger in you at the right angle, pleasuring you while you pleasure yourself. “Attagirl.”
You’re sighing once you follow Frank’s instructions, the tight circular motions making you pant. Your cunt flutters as he inserts a second finger, pressing them right at your sweet spot. “Try up n’ down for me, sweetheart.”
“Frank—ff-m” The aforementioned drinks in your moans, the variation stimulating you. He uses his free hand to keep your thighs from closing, shushing you softly. Your knee-jerk reaction makes him recall your earlier position in masturbating while you were laid out on top of him.
“Why do you close y’r legs when you touch y’rself, feeling shy?”
“N-not really.” You take a shaky breath, clit twitching under your finger from the direct contact. “It’s ‘cause my fingers start to cramp after a while…”
The corners of Frank’s mouth turn downwards, immediately catching an avenue to help you in. The reason behind it endears him, though, his sweet girl. He files the new information away and keeps it close, saves it for the endless next times the two of you will have together.
“Let me handle that then.” Frank kisses the backs of your fingers, easing your hand off of your nub and replacing the missing pressure with his tongue. Your mouth falls open, Frank’s fingers against your sweet spot alongside the way he sucks at your clit makes you gush all over his hand.
“Oh my god—Frank.”
“Pull m’hair, baby—” He murmurs against your mound, the grunt he lets out when you do as he says goes straight to your clit. Your toes curl, mouth agape, drool escaping the corners of your mouth “Mhm—Thassit—”
Frank was always so consistent. If you ever tell him to keep doing just that, he does, no sudden changes in speed, no sudden maneuvers in the hopes of thematically matching the erratic movements of your hips. Frank knows, innately, that his job is to be just that, that bringing you to orgasm wasn’t something that would be achieved through flashy moves or novel tricks—it was in being steady, calm, focused on you and the needs you clue him into. (That was exactly how he learned to love you outside of sex too; being gentle, talking openly, holding his lover with solid, unwavering hands, arms ready to catch you whenever you fall apart.)
You come, unable to warn Frank aside from a hard tug at his locks and the tightening of your cunt around his fingers. He coasts you for longer than usual, slowing the velocity in which the pleasure was being removed in favor of keeping you in that floaty headspace longer. Your moans are low and breathless—the sounds feeding straight into Frank’s hardness and his ego.
He pays his own arousal no mind, easing his fingers out of you and cleaning you with his tongue. He kisses up along your body, meeting your parted lips with a gentle kiss, movements akin to that of a non-verbal lullaby. You melt into your lover’s warm, steady sureness, gaze loopy and face flushed as you catch your breath.
“How d’you feel?” Frank cups your cheek, thumbing along the skin.
“Really… really good. And really really sleepy.” He smiles at your answer, nose nuzzling against your own.
“I’ll get a towel, stay here.” He parts with a kiss to your forehead, returns from the bathroom soon after with a clean washcloth. He guides your legs open, planting your feet on the mattress as he works, wiping away any stickiness from your core.
He’s still tenting the seam of his sweats, but you don’t seem to say anything. Usually, you’d tell him you want to help with it (and he’d always pass, always convince you otherwise, tell you he can have his turn tomorrow—but the point was you’d always ask) but tonight, you seemed lost in thought.
Frank is fairly certain he knows why you didn’t ask, but today was not the time to unpack it, not yet.
He kisses your knee as he leaves to put away the damp cloth, then he moves to the kitchen to wash his hands and bring each of you a bottle of water. He reopens the bedroom door to find you putting on your discarded clothing from earlier. You two hydrate, you only drink half of your water.
“Y’r shirt’s upside down.” He murmurs, the bed dipping as he sits beside you.
“Oh—” Frank is quick to help take it off of you, and is the same one to put it back on you properly. He offers his side to you, arm raised, grunting in satisfaction when you slide up to him, head on the front of his shoulder.
“M’proud ‘f you sweetheart. Listened to everythin’ and told me everythin’ too.” He commends, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and another to your forehead when you look up at him at that moment. “What d’you think?”
“It… it was great. I liked it.” You tell him. “So… I listen to you more and that means we can… be intimate without me hurting you. I get it now.”
“That’s right. And doin’ it a little slower never hurt anyone.” His eyes widen when he feels your hands grab at one of his own.
You press your thumb to Frank’s wrist. “Does this hurt?”
“Nah, m’peachy.” He smiles, finds your concern just a little bit endearing, especially coupled with the way your pinched brows ease up once you find he isn’t in pain. “Anythin’ y’wanna change or suggest, darlin’?” He asks, and you cuddle up into his side more, now holding his hand instead of inspecting it.
“Nothing… think you’re really hot like that. Not that you aren’t in general but—uhm…”
“Think you just like listenin’ baby.” He grins.
“No! It’s you, I swear.” Frank was at it again with his redirecting of compliments, the bastard. The two of you bicker about that for a while.
“But, uhm…” You look up at him. “Thank you, Frank. Really. I feel… hopeful, I guess is the right word.” Every time you think of the entire prospect of Frank helping you with this in particular, you feel like crying, the tug in your chest heavy and echoing. You let the gratitude swell while willing away the guilt and shame. You feel more fulfilled than hollow, more connected than lonely.
“Y’r welcome.” Frank looks to the side for a brief moment. “Like I said, y’did good back there. Real good. Y’trusted me and I trusted you, simple ‘s that.” Your lover looks you in the eyes for a moment, just drinking in your gaze.
“I love you.” You pout up at him, teary eyed.
“I love you too. Now you really should finish the rest of your water.”
You sigh, your earlier feeling of overwhelm being replaced by a laugh, shaking your head. “Of course you’d ask me that.”
“I’m insisting, not asking.” He jests. This man and his fixation with fueling and sustaining the human body. (Not that you weren’t appreciative, but damn.) You roll your eyes while accepting the bottle he hands to you.
This night ends less tearfully than the last, the two of you falling asleep, bundled up in each other’s warmth.