Watching Her Take the Wood

“Fuuuuck, fuck, fuck,” I pant, THE RENNICK RULES orange notebook squeezed to my ear. Hard copy.

A man with sawdust in his arm hair wouldn’t need to ask me if I’m—I can’t look away from the ceiling fan. Dull gold arms. Spiraling dust motes filtering Doug’s one-ear-down game face.

Fucking him is like taking drum lessons. Cymbals, snare, pap-pap-pap. Jewelry pinging, snagging, clinking.

…A man with sawdust in his arm hair wouldn’t need to ask me if I’m ready to receive a good—I do that thing where I try to plow through my own wriggling. Eyes on the prize, Marisa. See the God on the Mount.

He wouldn’t have to ask to kiss the wrinkles in my manicure-damaged hands. Or to fuck me so hard I forget how to be a mom. Or that I am a mom. He’d rotate me so my big ol’ butt is up—stop looking at your own tits, Marisa—and the play-by-play would stop, because my hair would be twisted in his handcuffed fist. So good, he’d moan.

“Go on. Say the part about his hands.”

“You’d never do that. You’re too good to me.”

Doug’s rhythm jerks, which means I’m a hop, skip, and a jump from the magic finale phrase.

I know what makes him cum, A to Z. The dirty words we jotted down together. I’m not admitting shit. I’m parroting. Regurgitating nine months of collected data. I’m spitballing, Big Doug. No pressure on the man-pride.

Are my eyes sinking downward? I check my body’s chart to see if I’m on the right track. Holy shit, I’m doing jazz hands.

I’ve got a dry snizz. My nipples are getting a little hard from embarrassment.

“Gentle,” Doug pants.

He squeezes and tugs my hair (good touch), throws a leg over my side (he’s nine inches from home plate), and shifts his ass to accommodate the curve of my thigh.

With a snort, he goes deep. “I’m going to cum inside you. Your cunt is going to get nice and dirty.”

Gumdrop and I make eye contact in the dresser mirror. Need the sexy man chart to move, Gumdrop. My ticker is halfway to falling out of my ass, and everything is too tight.

I can’t keep speaking. But if I want to keep Doug in a good mood, I’ve got to push through.

“He’d put you where?”

Blink. Smile. You can do it, champ. “On the newel post.”

“You’d get on your knees for him, Marisa?”

“Knees on the painter’s drop cloth.”

“Tell me what he’d do after he finishes those seven rules. The most important seven. What’s thirty-one say again?”

“Rule thirty-one. He makes sure my husband is watching and fucks me doggy. Hands on the tops of mythighs. So deep and fast I scream. His swelling balls smack my motherfucking cunt. Oh shit… he’s going to cum on me. Right on my pink star.”

Doug’s eyes go hot. Security breach reversed. Good.

“Some inside, too.” Jizz jazz!

“Unnnhhhhhhhhh… fuck… Marisa — sorry — sorry — Marisa —!” A sound of confusion. “I — aw, shit — sorry —”

He jackhammers his hips, then stops to angle his body away from mine—but his head is thrown back, nostrils flaring like Zeus’s slightly less majestic cousin, as he fills the reservoir deep inside me. Hail, Debbie.

My legs climb his thighs, and my knees squeeze his torso, because I want to be flattened.

Doug takes that as a sign I want to be able to breathe, so he hoists an arm awkwardly into a plank hold.

Heavy breaths. Both of us staring