Wife Gives into Humiliation Kink
By Butcher2025.
She was a bigger woman, heavier than she wanted to be. She was pretty in the face with her makeup skills, but the kids did a number on her body. She was 5’8 but pushing 200 pounds, which she knew Jason was, too. She carried it in her boobs and ass, which he always pointed out was a good thing. Even with his stamp of approval, there was something in her that wanted to feel small in bed. She wanted him to be the dominant one. So this book got her thinking, maybe we could try something new. I can act my way through it and keep a straight face.
She’d also been thinking about the podcast all day that she heard on her way home last night. Two women with voices like gin and honey, laughing about the things men never admitted they wanted to hear. Tell him he’s small. Watch what happens. It ran counter to every compliment she’d ever given a man. You’re so big, you feel amazing. I love your cock. That was the script. But the podcast had planted something, and the novel–well, the novel had watered it.
She was feeling saucy tonight and thought she could give some of this a try. She knew the hardest part would be not to break character.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Put the phone down.”
Jason’s eyebrow twitched. He set the phone on the nightstand. Monica shifted onto her side, letting the sheet fall away. Her nightgown hung loosely–but the way she moved it off her shoulder was new. Deliberate. Her breasts, heavy and full, strained the silk.
Her hand found his thigh. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she slid down the mattress, and Jason’s breath caught when her fingers hooked his waistband. A blowjob wasn’t on the normal rotation of predictable sex moves and acts. But here she was, tugging his sweatpants down, and he was already hardening before she touched him.
“Monica–”
“Shh.”
She took him in her mouth. Warm and wet and unhurried. His head fell back against the pillow. Her tongue traced the underside, a slow, curious stroke, and her hand wrapped the base, fingers touching–he was thick enough, she’d always thought, nothing noteworthy either direction—just Jason.
Then she stopped.
Pulled back. Studied him.
“What?” His voice was thick.
“Nothing.” But she was still staring, her head tilted, her fingers repositioning. She held her thumb and forefinger apart, measuring. Moved them wider. Narrowed them again. A little frown creased her forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“I said nothing. Hold on.”
She reached over him to the nightstand drawer–her breast brushed his chest, a deliberate graze–and came back with the small tailor’s tape measure she kept for online shopping returns—yellow, flexible, cheap plastic.
“Monica, seriously.”
“I read this article,” she said, unspooling the tape. “About penis size. Apparently, six inches is average.”
She knew it wasn’t. She’d looked it up after the podcast. Five and a half was average, but Jason didn’t need to know that.
“Hold still.”
“Are you actually–”
She laid the tape alongside him. Her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She let the tape curl away and held her fingers up instead, marking a length. “Looks like you’re…” She paused, tilting her head the other way. “A little below average.”
His cock twitched. Visibly. Against her palm.
Monica’s pulse jumped. Oh my god. The podcast women had been right.
“Almost,” she repeated, softer now, like she was thinking out loud. “That’s okay. That’s fine.” She wasn’t looking at his face–she couldn’t, not yet–but she heard the change in his breathing. Shallower. Faster.
She’d told him years ago about her first boyfriend, Ralph, a fumbling high school thing. She’d always said he wasn’t anything memorable. Now she held her hands apart, marking a length considerably beyond what the tape measure had shown.
“Ralph was about… here.” Around seven inches of air between her palms.
Jason made a sound she’d never heard before–a stifled exhale, a swallowed groan.
“And girth-wise.” She wrapped her fingers around him, then loosened them, let them hover. “Mmm. You’re on the skinny side, too, aren’t you?” She said it as she’d just noticed like she was commenting on the weather. “I never realized that, honey.”
His hips shifted. He was fully hard now, straining upward, and the tip glistened.
“I mean,” she continued, letting a chuckle slip through, “I really never knew you were smaller than average. That’s a little disappointing.” The chuckle grew, warm and teasing. “But you can make up for it. In other ways.”
She didn’t recognize her own voice. It was hers, but not–lower, slower, a little condescending.
She swung her leg over his chest and slid back onto his face.
“What are you doing?” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Making sure you earn your keep.”
Monica never sat on his face. It was something she saved for his birthday sex, and even then, it wasn’t annually. He asked–god, he asked–and she always deflected. Too heavy. Too self-conscious. The math was simple: she weighed as much as he did. The image of settling her full weight onto his jaw, his nose, his airway–it felt reckless and made her feel like a whale regardless of what he thought.
Tonight, though, she was in the spirit of the role.
Her thighs bracketed his head. She hovered, weight on her knees, the old hesitation flickering.
His hands found her hips.
And pulled her down.
“Jason–”
But he was already buried. Her ass–big, soft, the thing he always called juicy while she rolled her eyes–covered his face completely. His nose pressed into her, his tongue found her, and the sound he made was desperate.
She reached back, hooked the fabric aside. Let him have her.
“That’s better,” she murmured, and the words came easier now. “You’re good at this. At least there’s that.”
His tongue worked in circles. Her thighs tightened. She’d spent two decades keeping her weight forward during sex, bracing on her arms, never fully letting go. Now she let her hips settle. Let gravity do what gravity wanted, not that she wasn’t nervous at first.
His groan vibrated through her.
“See? You don’t need a big cock. You’ve got a mouth.” She braced her hands on the sides of his hips. “And you know how to use it. I’ll give you that.”
Below her, his erection jerked against his stomach. She could see it from this angle, shiny with the pre-come smearing across his belly. He hadn’t leaked like that in years. The realization sent a hot pulse between her legs.
“You’re making a mess already,” she said. “I haven’t even touched you.”
He made a muffled sound against her and redoubled his efforts. His tongue dipped inside her, then back to her clit. Steady pressure. Insistent.
“You want me to stroke it? Is that what you’re asking for?”
A nod. Frantic. His jaw was working against her.
She reached back without looking, found him, and wrapped her hand around his shaft. Slick with precum. Fascinating, she thought to herself.
“Oh, look at that. You’re dripping. I’m barely doing anything, and you’re–” She twisted her wrist. He bucked into her palm. “That’s embarrassing, honey.”
She stroked him twice. Three times. Slow, deliberate pulls that made his thighs shake.
“Is this because I said you’re small? You like hearing that?”
A sound punched out of him–half moan, half whimper.
“God, you really do.” She let out a laugh, genuinely surprised, genuinely delighted. “All these years, and I never knew. I’ve been telling you you’re fine and what you wanted was–”
His tongue stopped. His whole body seized.
“No, no, no–keep going. I didn’t say stop.”
She ground down, her weight fully on his face now, her ass pressing him into the mattress. His tongue resumed, sloppier, more urgent.
Her hand sped up.
“You’re going to come already, aren’t you?” She could feel it building in him–the tension in his shaft, the way his hips lost rhythm. “I’m not even going to use my mouth, and you’re going to–”
He came. A hot spill across her fingers, pulsing and pulsing, and she kept stroking through it, drawing it out longer than he’d lasted in years.
She made a small tsk sound.
“Oh, honey,” in a condescending tone.
She lifted her hips just enough for him to gasp for breath. Then settled back down.
“You’re not done. Keep eating.” She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but damnit if it didn’t feel great on multiple levels. She was pissed at herself for denying herself this pleasure for so long because of her own insecurity. So much better than the traditional eat her out position. She could control the exact placement of his tongue.
His hands found her ass again, gripping the flesh–his fingers couldn’t span even half of each cheek, and he squeezed like he was drowning–and pulled her tighter against his mouth.
She let her weight go.
All of it.
The headboard creaked. Her thighs spread wider. Her clit throbbed against his tongue, and she ground against him, riding his face with a rhythm she’d never allowed herself, never imagined herself capable of. The tickle of his stubble. The wet heat of his mouth. The way his fingers dug into her, pulling her down harder.
I could smother him, she thought, and the thought didn’t scare her. It made her wetter.
Her climax built from somewhere deep–deeper than any orgasm she’d had in a decade. It rolled up through her belly, her chest, her throat, and when it hit, it knocked a sound out of her that wasn’t a moan or a scream but something raw and new. Her thighs clamped. Her hands fisted the sheets. She came against his mouth in long, rolling waves, and he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, until she finally lifted herself off him and collapsed beside him on the mattress.
The ceiling fan turned. Her heart hammered. She could smell herself on his face, and she didn’t care.
She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her hand, and looked at him. His chest was heaving. His stomach was slick. His eyes were wide and stunned and so, so dark.
“So,” she said, letting her smile curl at the edges. “Was that what you wanted?”
Jason just nodded, “You just turned into Catwoman. Wow, what a surprise.”
*****
The group was called Cleopatra’s Secrets.
Monica found it through a Reddit thread three days after the night with the tape measure. Her thighs were still sore from grinding his face, and Jason had been walking around the house with a dazed, hungry look she’d never seen on him before. Twenty years of marriage, and suddenly, he couldn’t meet her eyes at breakfast. Not because he was ashamed.
Because he was waiting.
She created a fake profile — no names, no photos, a username that wasn’t traceable to her. Within an hour, she’d been admitted to a private forum where women swapped techniques like gardeners trading heirloom seeds. Small penis humiliation scripts. Cock cage recommendations. The finer points of psychological dominance.
Monica read until her eyes burned. This wasn’t like her, or now she thought maybe there was some of this in her DNA.
The women there spoke in jargon she did not know. SPH, cage, cuckold, rimming, etc. She googled them one by one, her phone’s incognito mode getting a workout. She learned about aftercare. About the importance of checking in. About how dominance wasn’t meanness–it was control, and control could be loving.
“Your husband is giving you a gift,” one post read. “His submission. Treat it with respect, and you’ll both get more than you imagined.”
Another woman — clearly a veteran — had written a guide titled Small Penis Humiliation: Beyond the Basics. Monica bookmarked it—memorized passages.
The key is consistency. Don’t just call it small — compare it. Give him a reference point. Make him picture something he’ll never be.
Ask questions. Make him answer. A silent submissive is a bored submissive. A humiliated submissive who has to repeat it back to you? That’s where the magic happens.
Monica started a notebook. A physical one, spiral-bound, hidden in her nightstand behind the vibrator he knew about but had never seen her use. She wrote down phrases. Timelines. Ideas.
*****
“Take off your pants.”
Jason looked up from his phone–same sweatpants, same as Thursday–but his response was different. Immediate. The phone hit the nightstand before she finished the sentence.
“Not the boxers. Not yet.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. She stood over him, wearing the black yoga pants she’d bought for the gym, the ones that lifted her ass into something sculptural. She’d put on lipstick. Nothing else fancy–still the lavender nightgown on top–but the lipstick was a signal.
They both knew it.
“Monica–”
“Did I say you could talk?”
His mouth closed. His pupils dilated visibly.
“Better.” She paced in front of him, letting him watch her hips move. “I’ve been doing some reading. Research, really. About men like you.” She stopped, turned, and met his eyes. “Men who aren’t quite… enough.”
His swallow was audible.
“Do you know what SPH means?”
A pause. Then a shake of his head. But his cock was already pressing against the cotton of his boxers.
“Small penis humiliation.” She said it slowly, as if she were teaching him a foreign language. “There’s a whole community out there. Men who know they’re inadequate, and women who help them accept it.”
“I–”
“I said you could talk?” Her eyebrow arched.
He shook his head again, breathing faster.
“That’s right.” She moved closer, stopping between his knees. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer them. And while you answer, you’re going to look at this.”
She pulled the tape measure from her pocket. The same yellow one. His cock jumped.
“First question.” She knelt. His thighs trembled on either side of her. “When I measured you last time, and I told you you were almost average–how did that make you feel?”
His voice came out strangled.
“Small. Inadequate.” A pause. “Yours.”
Something flared behind her ribs. She hadn’t expected that word. Yours.
“That’s right. Mine.” She tugged the waistband of his boxers down, freeing him. Hard already. The tip is wet. “Now. How big do you think you are? Don’t guess. Tell me what you remember.”
“Five and a–” He swallowed. “Five and a half.”
“Five and a half inches.” She let a smile flicker. “That’s very honest. And do you know what seven inches looks like?” She held her hands apart, marking the same length she’d shown him before. The phantom Ralph measurement. “Do you see the difference?”
Eyes fixed on the space between her palms. “Yes.”
“How much is missing?”
“An inch and a half.” His voice cracked. “Maybe more.”
“That doesn’t sound like much. But look at it.” She moved her hands closer to his erection. The visual comparison was stark — her phantom length versus his reality. She also pulled out an empty toilet paper roll and slid it over his penis, chuckling at how skinny it was. “That’s the difference between a man who satisfies a woman and a man who–” She paused, tilting her head. “Well. You tell me.”
“A man who has to find other ways.”
“Exactly. You’re learning.”
She wrapped her hand around him. He was slick enough that her palm slid easily, and the sound it made–wet and quiet–filled the room.
“Now. I want you to say it. Out loud. ‘I have a small penis.'”
His hips jerked. A bead of pre-cum welled at the tip.
“Jason. Say it.”
“I have a small penis.”
“Again. Slower.”
“I have”–his voice dropped–“a small penis.”
“And what does that mean for me?”
He looked at her. Finally, his eyes were glassy, stripped of something. Shame and arousal in equal measure. “It means I have to earn it.”
“Good boy.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. But they worked–god, they worked. His whole body shuddered.
She stood. His erection bobbed, abandoned, and she watched him fight the urge to touch himself.
“I’m not going to let you come tonight,” although she wondered if he would be hands-free. She really hoped she had that power over him. She set the tape measure on the nightstand. “You’re going to take off your boxers. You’re going to get on your knees. And you’re going to eat me out until I’m satisfied. If you do well, I might let you finish yourself off afterward. On the floor. While I watch.”
*****
In the days that followed, Monica’s notebook filled up.
She learned about cock cages–devices that looked medieval but were, according to the forums, transformative. It’s not about pain, one woman wrote. It’s about ownership. When he’s locked, his orgasms belong to you. He doesn’t get hard without your permission. He doesn’t come without your say-so. After a few days, he’ll be so focused on you he’ll forget he even has a penis. She thought she wasn’t into a multi-day incarceration of his penis, but maybe for a night to start.
Jason’s birthday was three weeks away.
A cage seemed like a natural gift. But the forums also contained threads that made Monica pause — women describing golden showers, water sports, and the power dynamic of marking a submissive with something so intimate. Going inside someones mouth, that was a bridge too far.
But.
A poster read: “It doesn’t have to be about degradation.” It can be about trust. About what he’s willing to do for you that no one else would. The act itself is less important than the surrender. Her mind spun with other ideas.
Monica closed the laptop. Thought about surrender.
Jason now surrendered to her whenever she asked. He never once asked if this was an act, because she thinks he realize she was really getting into the scene, especially when he saw she was taking notes.
On his knees. Face buried in her. He’d stopped asking for reciprocation, stopped expecting his own release. She’d trained him in two weeks to understand that her pleasure came first, and sometimes exclusively.
But.
There was something else. Something she’d circled in her notebook and kept coming back to.
He loved her ass. Had always loved it–the size of it, the weight of it, the way it filled out those yoga pants. They’d tried anal years ago, fumbling attempts with too much lube and not enough patience. Her “cushion,” as she called it, made penetration difficult.
But as she’d learned, he was pretty with his other tools.
The forum had a thread on rimming. Women described receiving it in clinical detail–the warm pressure, the slick intimacy, the vulnerability of letting someone’s mouth explore somewhere so private. A few had written about asking their submissive husbands to do it as an act of devotion.
He’ll be hesitant, one woman wrote. They always are. But if you’re clean and you frame it as a privilege rather than a punishment, they’ll come around. And you—she’d added—you might be surprised by how it feels.
Monica thought about her shower routine. About the body wash she could use. About the way Jason looked at her now–like she was a door he’d been knocking on for twenty years that had finally swung open.
Three weeks until his birthday.
She picked up her pen and started a new page.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Jason said. They were in bed, lights low, the afterglow of another session settling around them. He’d lasted longer this time–she’d made him beg before she touched him, and he’d come in thirty seconds flat. She’d laughed. Not cruelly. Playfully. The way you laugh when a puppy trips over its own feet.
“Planning,” Monica said.
“Planning what?”
She turned to look at him. Still flushed. Still breathing hard. Still hers.
“Your birthday.”
*****
The package arrived in a plain brown box, with no branding and no return address.
Monica opened it at the kitchen table while Jason was at work, lifting the silicone device from its nest of black tissue paper. Lighter than she’d expected. Almost cute, in a clinical sort of way–smooth, flesh-toned, with a small metal lock and two keys on a ring. She held it in her palm. Imagined him inside it.
The keys were immediately placed around her neck on a thin silver chain. The weight of them settling between her breasts felt like an announcement.
“Pants off.”
The sweatpants were gone before she’d finished speaking. Jason stood at the foot of the bed, watching her with the expression of a man who’d stopped trying to predict her.
Monica sat on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed, wearing nothing but the yoga pants and the silver chain. The keys caught lamplight.
“I have your birthday present.” She opened her palm. The cage rested there, unassuming. “Do you know what this is?”
His eyes flicked to it. Widened. “A cock cage.”
“Correct.”
She stood, closing the distance between them. “Kneel.”
“This is mine now.” She crouched so she was level with his face, holding the cage between them. “Not yours. You don’t come without my key. You don’t get hard without my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hands behind your back.”
He obeyed. She worked the cage over him–he was too aroused for it to slide easily, so she waited, patient, until the sight of the device and the chain and her calm expression brought him down enough to fit. The silicone yielded. The ring settled behind his balls. She clicked the lock shut and tugged once, testing.
“There.” She straightened, admiring her work. The cage encased him completely, rendering his erection a muted suggestion. “Look at you. All locked up and nowhere to go.” She fingered the key at her throat. “This stays with me. Always.”
His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
“Now.” She turned, walked toward the bed, and glanced back over her shoulder. “Birthday boys get special treatment. Up. Follow me.”
She’d prepared. Two showers that day–one in the morning, one an hour before he got home. She’d used the body wash from the back of the cabinet, the expensive one, and she’d taken her time.
The bedroom was dark except for the bedside lamp. She’d laid a towel across the mattress, something old and navy blue, and positioned her vibrator within reach.
“Kneel on the side of the bed.”
Her voice softened–just for a beat. “This is something new. Something I’ve been reading about.” She met his eyes, the woman he’d married rather than the woman who’d locked his cock in silicone. “Since you love it so much…. I want you to… use your mouth. On my ass.”
The color drained from his face. Not arousal. Not revulsion. Shock.
“Monica–”
“I’m going to stop you there.” Her tone shifted back, firmer. “I’m not asking for your input.” She saw the flicker of uncertainty–the line between fantasy and reality stretching thin. Sensing his trepidation, sweet Monica makes a brief appearance, “Relax. It’s extremely clean. I showered twice.” A small smile. “You know you’ve always wanted to.”
He exhaled, eyes acknowledging that the statement was true.
He climbed off the mattress as she backed up her ass off the side of the bed. Here goes nothing, she thinks as she rests her elbows on the bed, and he spreads her cheeks.
Her own breath caught when his tongue reached the entrance. Go slow,” she said, and the command came out softer than she’d intended—almost a request.
A single stroke. Light. Tentative. She sucked air through her teeth–not because it hurt, but because it was so absurdly, unexpectedly sensitive. A nerve map she’d never consulted. Her fingers curled into the sheets.
“Again.”
He complied. Slower this time. A deliberate, wet pressure that traveled the full length of her and back.
Her hips pressed down. Unconscious. Involuntary.
“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s–yes.”
Her vibrator was within reach. She fumbled for it, found the switch. The low hum filled the room a moment before she pressed it against her clit. The dual sensation hit her like a wave–his tongue tracing places she’d never surrendered, the silicone pulsing where she needed it most.
“Oh.”
Just that. A syllable. But it carried more weight than any command she’d given all night.
He found a rhythm. Circles and strokes and something she couldn’t name but could only feel, radiating outward from a center she’d ignored her entire life. The vibrator buzzed against her. Her thighs began to tremble.
“Don’t stop. I’m–” She didn’t finish. Couldn’t.
The orgasm is built differently from the face-sitting climax. That had been power. This was a discovery. It rolled through her like a door opening rather than a wall breaking, expansive and strange and so consuming she forgot the cage, forgot the game, forgot everything except the tongue working against her. The vibration humming through her clit and the sound she was making–a low, keening thing she didn’t recognize as her own voice.
She came in pulses that seemed to last minutes.
Afterward, she lay still, breathing hard, his mouth still pressed against her. She could feel his erection straining inside the cage, useless, and the thought sent a final aftershock through her belly.
She lifted herself off him. Rolled to the side. Her legs were jelly.
“Okay,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “Okay. That was–” She laughed. Shaky. Genuine. “I didn’t expect that to work so well.” She could end this now, and they both would be happy, but she had one more trick up her sleeve.
She sat up. Looked at him. His face was slick, his eyes glassy. The cage looked almost painful now, his shaft pressing hard against the silicone walls.
“Don’t get comfortable.” She swung her legs off the bed. “We’re not done.”
She’d thought about this part for a week. This was so over the top that she wasn’t sure he’d be willing.
Two towels on the floor. She’d spread them earlier, while he was at work, and they waited now in the center of the bedroom like an unanswered question. She gestured.
“Lie down. On your back.”
He obeyed without hesitation. The cage was still there, still locked, and when she looked at it–really looked–she felt a flicker of doubt. He was straining hard against it, the silicone taut, and for a moment she worried she’d gone too far.
But his eyes were on her. Not pained. Waiting. Trusting.
“Here’s the thing, my little mouth slave.” She stepped over him, feet planted on either side of his hips. “You still don’t get to use your favorite tool. Because it’s still not enough.” She crouched, lowering herself into a squat over his cage. But I want to remind you who owns every part of you. Even the parts that don’t satisfy me.”
Her bladder was somewhat full. She’d planned that too–the extra glass of water with dinner, held until this precise moment.
She let go.
The stream hit the cage first, splashing over the silicone and running down onto his balls. Warm. Golden in the lamplight. She watched it pool in the space between his hips, soak into the towel beneath him. His whole body stiffened, and for one heartbeat, she thought he might use a safeword, but he didn’t. “That’s right, I own this pathetic dick.”
He stared up at her.
The woman squatting over him, emptying her bladder onto his locked cock, wearing the key to his release around her neck.
Monica held his gaze. She saw nothing in his face but wonder.
“You are so strange,” she said, and her voice was almost affectionate. “All these years. This is what you wanted.”
The stream stopped. She stayed in the squat, letting the last drops fall, letting the moment. Then she stood, stepped over him, and retrieved the washcloth and bucket she’d left in the bathroom.
The key turned in the lock with a small, definitive click.
She pulled the cage off. His erection sprang free, red and angry and weeping.
“Here.” She handed him the cloth and water.” Clean yourself off, birthday boy.”
He took it. His hand was trembling.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” She paused at the door, the silver chain swinging. “I’m sleeping in the spare bedroom tonight. I’ll let you have this room.”
She didn’t need to say why. They both knew what he’d do the moment the door closed.
*****
Morning light through the curtains.
Monica padded upstairs in her robe, the keys still around her neck. There was something electric in her step–a mixture of anticipation and the familiar warmth of the woman she’d been for twenty years.
Jason was sprawled across the mattress, sheet tangled around his legs, his morning erection pointing toward the ceiling. He blinked awake as she entered.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
“Hey, yourself.”
She climbed onto the bed. The sweet wife was back now–the one who packed lunches and remembered dentist appointments. But something else lingered underneath. A new flavor. Permanent.
“Wow,” he said, propping himself on his elbows. “You, uh–” He shook his head. “You’re one hell of an actress. Or you’re really into it. I don’t care which. Wow. Just. Wow.”
Monica beamed.
“Well,” she said, pulling the robe open. “We can keep some of this stuff around. But I do like the oldies but goodies too.”
She slid under the sheet. Took him in her mouth–unlocked now, free and hard and familiar–and he groaned. Her tongue traced the underside, no measurement this time, no comparison—just the taste of her husband on a Thursday morning.
When she climbed on top and guided him inside her, the keys swung forward and tapped his chest.
His hands found her ass. Her big, juicy ass. He squeezed as she rode him, and their rhythm was the old rhythm, the scripted rhythm, but it felt new because they were new. She came first, grinding down onto him with a cry that wasn’t a performance. He followed a moment later, pulsing inside her, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave marks.
Afterward, she lay with her head on his chest, the keys pressed between them.
“Happy birthday,” she said.
“It really was.”
The End.
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