A Hand To Hold Onto
written by:
Naughty Miranda

"The thing is, it's not really cheating, is it? If one partner doesn't want to do something, and the other does... I mean, how is that wrong? Really?"

I gave him what I hoped was my best look of astonishment. "You're not serious, are you?" And he wasn't, because his tone of voice was wavering in that funny way that tells you when someone's just floating a theory.

"Okay then, so why is it wrong?"

"Because you're meant to be partners, you idiot. And you two, you're meant to be husband and wife. For better or worse, and all that stuff. How would you feel if she came home and announced, ‘oh, you know that thing you won't do for me? I found someone else who will'."

He smiled. "Well, I'd hope she wouldn't tell me. Besides, I don't think there's anything I wouldn't try, if she asked me to."

I leaned back in our booth. Around us, the bustle of the breakfast crowd was thinning out fast - the great thing about a workday that begins at 10 is, you can have that first coffee and croissant in relative seclusion.

"So come on then, what is it that you're so desperate for, that she won't oblige you with?" Inwardly, I shuddered. No matter how late it was by other people's standards, it was still way too early in the morning to be having a conversation like this. Especially as I just knew he was going to launch into a litany of things that he'd seen in some porn flick, and wanted to try at home, farting in her face, probably, or sticking a cellphone up her ass.

"She won't let me go down on her."

Oh. Well, maybe I can order another croissant. "Really?"

"And she doesn't like me jerking off."

"Well, do it when she's not looking."

"No, she doesn't like me jerking off when we're together. She thinks it means I prefer my hand to her."

"Okay." I spoke slowly, wondering how the hell I ought to respond to that. The going down bit I could understand; a few of my girlfriends, over the years, have admitted that it really doesn't do much for them anymore, although it's usually because their mate still hasn't worked out how to do it properly, rather than any physical loss of interest. You just get tired of him slobbering around down there, and the occasional tingle simply isn't worth the rest. Especially if he makes "yum yum" noises while he's doing it.

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"A bit. But it hasn't helped."

"Well, how's everything else? Does she..." I searched for the word... "reciprocate?"

"Oh yeah, everything else is great," and the faraway look that flashed across his face proved he was telling the truth. "It's just those two things, and they shouldn't really matter. But, of course, the more I try to put them out of my mind, the bigger deal it becomes. So I was just thinking, if she won't, maybe I should find someone else who will."

I smiled. "I'd love to see you having that conversation." But I had the distinct feeling that I already had.

Paul works in the office three doors down from mine, which means we usually only bump into one other on our way to the bathrooms, or out by the water cooler. Just lately, though, I've noticed him around more and more - on my way in and out at lunch break, in the elevator at the end of the day and, for the last week or so, in the diner across the road, where I've been breakfasting as long as I've worked here.

I didn't think anything of it. People change their routines... and their hours... all the time. Besides, we've always got on, in that "hi, how are you, did you have a good weekend" kind of way that separates work mates from simple colleagues. Today's conversation was straight out of the blue, though. One minute we were talking about - shit, I can't even remember what we were talking about, but it was innocuous as hell. And the next, he was telling me - well, you know what he was telling me. And the worst thing was, the more I thought about it, the more I understood why.

"He wants you." Sheelagh never wasted words when a topic caught her interest, and the fact that she could paraphrase a Beatles song (last track, side one, Abbey Road) only delighted her even more. Sitting on my desk, drumming her legs against my waste basket, she picked up my cell for a microphone and crooned discordantly. "He wants you so ba-a-a-a-d!"

"Don't be stupid," I lied. "He just needed someone to talk to. Besides, he's married."

"Yeah, like that's ever stopped a guy. Or you, for that matter." Damn; that's the trouble with having a long-time confidante; they know all your little secrets.

"I know, but..." I searched for an escape route. "He works down the hall. It'd be like fucking your building's superintendent."

"But you just said he doesn't want to fuck. So what's the problem?"

"What if we did do something? I could never look him in the eye again."

"You wouldn't have to. Most guys keep their eyes closed when they're eating you, anyway." She laughed. "Have you noticed that?"

Oh my God, she's incorrigible. "That's probably why they never get it right. They can't see what they're doing." I blurted the words out, tried to make a joke of it, but she maybe had a point. Plus, there's really nothing better than sucking a cock and looking up at its owner, watching his face, gauging his feelings, worshipping his taste. And it must be great for him as well, watching someone watching you while you slip in and out of a warm, hungry mouth. Damn it, what is wrong with me today?

Sheelagh was still talking. "They're not all bad. My Barry ..." But I didn't want to hear about her Barry. I wanted to think about someone else's Paul. I wondered what his wife's name was, what she looked like, what her story was, and then stopped myself. That way lies madness. Or, at least, a decision. And I didn't particularly want to deal with either.

Neither, it seemed, did Paul. A couple of times as the morning passed, I saw him in the hall, studiously marching hither and thither, but never once glancing in my direction. I could normally expect at least one cheery "hi" from him.

He wasn't around when I went out to lunch, either, and the whole afternoon might have passed by, too, if I hadn't been talking in the doorway with my assistant, Marlene, and seen him sidling... yes, literally sidling... into the men's room. I touched her arm. "Excuse me. I need to sort something out."

I was waiting for him when he emerged. "Hello stranger."

"Oh hi. Um... I was hoping I'd catch you. I wanted to apologize."

"Walk with me." I turned and led him back to my office. With the sales team all out on calls, and Marlene off to the mailroom, we'd have the place pretty much to ourselves. Sheelagh was there, of course, and I could sense her watching as we walked in, and went into my cubicle. I think I saw her stick out her tongue, too, but that might just have been my imagination.

"Apologize for what?"

"Well, for making a pass at you this morning. It was stupid, it was clumsy... I think I just needed someone to talk to, and it came out completely wrong."

Oh. I looked into his eyes, tried to find a hint of disassemblage floating around in those light gray pupils (stop that now, Chrissie)... wondered if he kept them open when (I said stop it!). "Really, it doesn't matter. I just wish I could have helped more. I mean, said something to help." God, I was making a mess of this.

"You did. Just talking about it, being able to talk about it, helps."

"Well, you know where I am if you ever need to. Talk about it. Or anything else. Okay?" I was regaining my composure. "It takes a lot to offend me, and you were nowhere close."

He smiled. Firm lips. Nice teeth. A warm sensation in my stomach, reaching down between my legs. Don't even think about his tongue. "Will I see you on the way out tonight?"

"Yeah... I'm meant to be calling in at that conference uptown later on, so I was going to cut out at six, and go grab a bite to eat before I head over there." He paused, and I already knew what was coming next. Did I want to join him? "Thanks, that'd be nice." Yes, that's what I said. "Nice."

Nothing fancy, nothing too intimate... we wound up in one of those pseudo-chic burger bars that are popping up all over the place, where the light is low enough to fool you into thinking you're not chowing down on an over-priced MacDonald's, and the salad bar takes up one wall, so you can kid yourself you're eating healthy.

"So tell me about yourself?" I was genuinely curious, and he was genuinely open. A couple of years younger than me, married for almost twelve years, no kids, decent house out in the burbs, blah blah blah. You've heard one person's basic life story, you've heard them all. Except he didn't stop there. They met at a Police concert... Sally (her name is Sally. Poor, sweet, unsuspecting Sally) was there with one of his friends, they hit it off, started dating. Things got serious, they were wed within six months. And everything was fine. She ate him, he ate her, and they fucked like bunnies for the next two years.

Things slowed down as they always do, but still it was good until the night he pulled her over, his head dipped down below her stomach, and she wriggled gently away. "Don't." At first, he didn't think anything of it, because they fucked as usual and it was as wonderful as ever. But it happened again a few weeks later, and suddenly a year had gone by and he'd not licked her once.

I repeated myself. "But everything else is fine?"

"Yeah. We don't do it as often as I'd like, because how many married guys do? But, when we do, she's great. It's great. Apart from that."

"And the other thing," I prompted. To be honest, that was the one that fascinated me, simply because I wondered how it came up in the first place? Was she just lying there as he rose above her, his hand on his cock and pulling madly, when she squirmed away and told him to stop because it was dirty? Did he whip it out of her pussy one night, and try to finish up on her tits? Inquiring minds want to know. I want to know.

"That's just me. We were... well, we were, and I stepped back and went to finish off myself and she got really upset, because she thought she wasn't doing it right."

"Doing what?" How cute; he was blushing. And stammering. I decided to help out.

"She was blowing you, right?"

He nodded. "And she always pulls away when I'm coming, because she doesn't like it in her mouth or on her face, so I didn't think it was a big deal at all."

"Did you tell her that?"

"I did later. I was too shocked when it happened... sort of, ‘what have I done'? And she was almost crying, and asking what she did wrong, had she hurt me or something, it was a total mess." And total insecurity, I thought. I can't even imagine what it must be like to be married to someone for twelve years, but if I still hadn't figured out the bedroom stuff after that amount of time, then there was a serious lack of communication going on. "So, tell me what you actually wanted to do?"

"I dunno. Not at the time, anyway. I'd probably have come on her breasts, or something. But now,it's become this all-consuming passion. I imagine tying her down on the bed, teasing her with it, stroking her with it, dipping it in her pussy, wiping it across her mouth... stop me if I'm telling you too much?"

I shook my head. "No, carry on."

"All that stuff. Let her suck it a little, and then when I couldn't take any more, I'd stand up and just let it fly all over her. Then maybe I'd lick it off, if any got where she didn't want it."

"And I bet you've not told her any of that, either."

"No. How can you? It's one thing for things to just happen in the heat of the moment, but you can't come out with something like that over dinner."

"No, but what if she has something else in her mouth at the time? You said she still does it, right? And she likes it?"

"She loves it. Some nights..." his voice faded, so I nudged him.

"Come on, spit it out. You can't start a story like that, and then cut off halfway through."

"Well, some nights she'll wait till I'm half asleep, then just sink below the bedclothes and take me in her mouth, without a word of warning, or even a sign that she was in the mood."

I felt a little shiver. I like to do that as well - it keeps the element of surprise in your own court, and besides, there's something amazing about feeling a prick get hard while it's in your mouth. Hard and hot... I wondered what Paul's looked like? Tasted like?

"Well, talk to her then. She'll probably be a lot more receptive." And why not? Shit, I know I would be! Some guy does all that, then snatches it away from me when he's about to shoot his load, I'd be wriggling like a fish on a hook, just to catch every drop I could. And the moment I got free, I'd have him do it again. Only this time, I'd ask him to aim for my mouth.

Paul was smiling. "What would you say. If you were her?"

I laughed. "Probably nothing. Your cock would be so far down my throat by that time, you'd be prizing me off with a crowbar."

He looked at me curiously. "Really?" I cursed the over-priced beer we'd been sitting there sinking, but it was too late to go back now. "Really. And if you still had any come left to spray around once I'd finished with you, then you could squirt it wherever you wanted." Oh shit, and I know exactly what that look in his eye means. It's the one that guys get when they want to know whether or not they can come in your mouth. For want of a more charming way of putting it.

"God, I wish Sal would do that."

"Some girls do, some girls don't." God, who was that song by? I'm going to have it stuck in my head for days, now. "And some just haven't tried it with the right guy. Something else for the two of you to talk about. Or not, if you play your cards right." I glanced at my watch. "What time did you say you had to be wherever it was?"

"Nine... oh shit, I've got to run, haven't I?"

I nodded. "Yeah, you'd better. See you for breakfast in the morning?" He was already picking up his coat, and throwing a pile of bills on the table. "That should cover dinner and the drinks. I'll trust you to give me any change tomorrow."

"Okay." I tilted my head as he bent to kiss my cheek, gave him a farewell pat on a surprisingly tight ass, then looked towards the bar. Yes, he was still there, the guy who'd been glancing over towards me all evening, with an "are they or aren't they a couple" look painted across his face. I flashed a quick smile to answer the question, and watched as he made his way across to my table, his drink in one hand, and his jacket thrown casually over one shoulder.

"May I?" He sat before I could answer, and I hoped that wasn't indicative of his manners. Not, I reminded myself, that I especially cared how well-bred he was. So long as he knew how to tie a good knot, and didn't mind using his hand for a while, I was sure we'd get on fine.

"Get me another beer," I told him, "and you can sit anywhere you like."

I hope he chooses my face.