She settled next to him on the couch after having gotten the kids to bed. "You know," she said, as he absently surfed the channels, "I think about your cock a lot."

He froze, then slowly turned towards her, shock washing over his face. "You what?" he demanded.

She looked at him, equally shocked, then jumped to her feet. "Oh God!" she gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. "I didn't say that out loud...oh God!" She turned and fled into the bedroom, hastily shutting the door behind her.

The remote hung motionless in the air as he stared at the bedroom door, unable to believe what she'd just said. After 7 years of marriage, he thought he knew her. But this was not his wife and the mother of his children. No, the woman he knew would never, ever, use the word "cock."

A half-dozen horrible scenarios flashed through his mind. Was she spending too much time on the computer and somehow been seduced by all the pornographic content he'd heard about? Had she met someone in one of those infamous chat rooms? Was she having an online affair? Or a real one? Was she thinking of it? Had she become some kind of sexual deviant or had she simply hidden it all these years?

He dropped the remote and walked into the bedroom.

She sat on the bed, her face buried in one of his shirts, sobbing.

His suspicions fanned by her tears, he demanded. "Just what the hell was that?"

She didn't look at him and only muttered into his shirt, "The truth."

"You think about my...my...?" he demanded, unable to finish the sentence.

"Cock," she said, turning suddenly and looking at him, her face tear-stained but bright. "All the time. What it looks like, what it tastes like, what it feels like in my mouth or in my...."

"No!" he shouted. "I won't have the mother of my children using such language!" He advanced menacingly but she only stared at him with bright, hope-filled eyes.

"I am still a woman," she said, "your wife. What's wrong with me wanting you, with me wanting you to want me?"

"It's...it's...it's because...you're a mother!" he sputtered, as if that explained everything. "You're my wife! I can't think of you as...as...."

"A whore?" she finished for him. "A slut? A cunt?"

The room swam before his eyes, he was having trouble breathing and there was a mad buzzing in his head. He backed against the door, covering his ears. "No! No! No!" he repeated over and over to block out her words.

She rose and came towards him but he pushed her away.

"No," she agreed, "I'm not. I'm not that kind of woman at all."

He hesitated. "But...you...said...."

"That I think about you?"

"Yes! And that's...." He stopped, not sure why it was bad, just sure that it should be.

She sagged and sat back down on the bed.

"I know."

He was thoroughly confused. "You know what?"

"It's wrong to think about you the way I do."

"Why?" he asked, moving towards her, "How do you think about me?"

"I think..." she looked up at him then blushed. "No, I...I can't...." She bolted out of the room.

He whirled and caught her in the hallway, pinning her wrists to the wall. "You what? You think about what?"

Her eyes glazed slightly as he held her, struggling against the wall.

"Tell me," he demanded. "What do you think about?"

"You..." she stammered, "...like this. Not letting me go. Telling me exactly what to do."

He backed off.

She pulled away and ran to the kitchen. She leaned on the sink and stared out the window. He came up behind her and she began trembling. "I think about you coming into the kitchen when I'm doing the dishes."

He slid up behind her. "Oh?" he asked, trying to joke a little, "you think I'm going to help do them or something?" He heard her giggle and he breathed a small sigh of relief. That was more like her.

He slid his arms around her and stepped closer, feeling her heat. He suddenly realized what she wanted and he nearly stepped away but he felt his own need beginning to stir.

She didn't move, just stood there, staring out the window, her back arched slightly and her breathing rapid.

He struggled with himself. "But...it's disrespectful of you...."

She pushed herself back against him ever so slightly. "To know that your wife loves you and wants to do anything for you?" She paused, turned her head and looked at him. "Anything," she repeated.

His blood began to get hot as he thought of all the things he'd ever fantasized but had never dared ask even the bad girls he knew to try.

She bit her lower lip and waited.

"No," he said, "I couldn't ask you to...."

"No," she answered quickly, taking his hands and moving them down between her legs, "you can't ask. But you can tell me to. And I would. Do anything. To please you. Because I love you. Because I want to. Because I want you." She was close to tears again but he sensed there was a lot more to it than before. She really did want him to.

His hands trembled as he felt the heat of her thighs, felt her growing excitement when she said he should just tell her what he wanted.

He knew she wanted him to take her right there, in front of the window. Wanted him just to satisfy himself. His own need rose to match hers.

"No," he said, suddenly, stepping back.

She slumped against the sink in defeat.

He grabbed her wrist and spun her around, watching need and frustration and fear wash across her face.

"No," he said again, his voice firm and without anger.

She stared into his face, a small glimmer of hope flaring then dying.

He led her away from the window and backed her against the kitchen table. He wrapped his arms around her. "I wanna fuck you on the kitchen table first."

Published in Phaze's "Coming Together: For the Cure"
a 2008 Eppie Finalist in the Erotic Category.