The Unobtainable Fourth Inch
An SPH Experience by GalapagosPink.
It never is.
A couple of nights ago, we were getting ready for bed. The kids were at my mother-in-law’s for the weekend, which meant the house was ours—quiet, dark, ours. She’d showered first and was already under the covers, smelling of lavender body wash, her damp hair spread across the pillow. I brushed my teeth, killed the bathroom light, and slid in beside her in the dark.
We lay there for a while in that comfortable, married silence. My hand found her leg under the sheets and ran down its length—thigh, knee, calf—then back up, my fingertips tracing the inner slope of her thigh where the skin goes soft.
“You’re in that mood, aren’t you?” she giggled, rolling over to face me. Even in the dark, I could see the shape of her smile. “Let’s take care of you.”
“I was hoping I could talk you out of your panties,” I said.
“Mm-hmm?” she prompted, and I could hear the smirk arriving before she finished the syllable. “For what?”
“I was hoping you were feeling like sex tonight.”
“Oh, yes?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It feels like a long time since we’ve fucked.”
The words left my mouth, and I winced immediately, hearing how they sounded—stupid, whiny, a man begging for something he wasn’t even sure he’d earned. I lay there in the dark regretting my word choice.
But instead of the eye-roll I deserved, my wife cuddled closer. She tapped me on the shoulder—a little gesture, come here—and leaned in. I turned my head so she could whisper in my ear. Her lips brushed my earlobe, her warm breath on my earlobe, and I shuddered with anticipation. This was her move. When she whispers, it’s either something filthy or something devastating, and with her, they’re usually the same thing.
“You have never actually fucked me,” she whispered at the lowest possible volume.
Then she pulled back and looked at me. I could just make out her eyes in the dark, patient, waiting.
“Well, we, I mean,” I stammered. “We do, we have, it’s just—”
“No,” said my wife, matter-of-factly but softly, without a hint of cruelty. Like she was telling me the oven was still preheating. “It doesn’t reach where it needs to go. It goes maybe this much in,” she said, holding her fingers apart about half an inch, and even in the dark I knew exactly what she was showing me because I’d seen the gesture before, under lamplight, held up next to me for comparison. “It pokes and prods a little bit. Seriously: what kind of fucking do you consider that?”
My cock answered before I could. It had been half-interested since I touched her leg, and now it surged to full attention against the sheet, straining toward her, all three point nine inches of it, nearly reaching my unobtainable fourth full inch. She adjusted her position and laughed—suddenly, genuinely, noticing it.
“It turns you on that you can’t satisfy your wife,” she stated bluntly.
It wasn’t a question. She kissed me, soft and slow, her tongue teasing mine, and then she pulled back and said the words that have become the unofficial motto of our marriage:
“Come on. Let’s take care of you.”
Her hand traveled down my chest, over my stomach, and found me. Her fingers wrapped around me, and I groaned, because when her hand closes around my cock, there’s still visible head poking out the top of her fist—and she knows I know that. She’s told me that, in moments like this, she can hold me with three fingers and her thumb and not miss anything.
She started to stroke me. Slow, deliberate, her thumb swiping across the head on every upstroke, the way I like it, the way she’s perfected over eleven years of taking care of me.
“Look at you,” she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at my crotch in the dark. “So hard. So excited. Over what, exactly? I just told you that you’ve never actually been inside me. Not really. Not where it counts.”
“I know,” I breathed. My hips were already moving, pushing up into her fist.
“Half an inch,” she said, stroking me faster now. “That’s what you give me. Half an inch of poking. Meanwhile I can feel my vibrator through two walls of the house when you’re not home.” She laughed quietly. “You want to know what it’s like for me? Actually being fucked?”
“Yes,” I whispered. It was true. I always wanted to know. It was the whole terrible engine of me.
“Full,” she said, right against my ear. “Stretched. Full to where I can feel it in my stomach, and I can’t think about anything else, and I don’t have to wonder if it’s in, because it’s in. There’s no guessing. There’s no ‘is it?’ There’s no holding still so it doesn’t slip out.” Her hand never stopped. “You’ve never once made me hold still and take it. You’ve never once made me take anything.”
I was leaking into her fingers, my whole body rigid. This is the thing nobody tells you about being built like me: the humiliation isn’t a wound, it’s a fuel. Every word out of her mouth went straight through my chest and down into those three point nine inches like electricity down a wire.
She felt it, the way my cock pulsed harder at the word take, and she smiled in the dark. She always knows.
“Should I feel guilty about this?” she asked, conversationally, still stroking. “Telling my husband he’s never satisfied me? That’s supposed to be a cruel thing to say. And here you are, dripping all over my hand like it’s a love poem.”
“It is,” I managed.
“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the part that still amazes me. Eleven years and it still works. I say ‘you’ve never fucked me’ and you get harder. I say ‘half an inch,’ and your toes curl.” Her grip tightened, just slightly, just enough. “Do you know what I was thinking about in the shower tonight?”
“What?”
“That dildo you bought me for my birthday. The one you held up to yourself in the bathroom mirror and laughed at. Eight inches. You couldn’t even get your whole hand and mouth around the idea of it.” She swirled her palm over the head of my cock, and I shuddered. “I was thinking about how it reaches places you’ve never been. Places you’ll never be. Places you can’t be, no matter how much you love me, no matter how hard you try. And then I was thinking about you lying here in bed, waiting for me, and I got out of the shower, and I thought—I bet he’s in the mood. I bet he wants to try again. And I bet it’ll end the way it always ends.”
“How does it always end?” I asked, though I knew. I needed to hear her say it.
“With me taking care of you,” she said, and her voice went gentle. “Because that’s what we do. You poke around down there for a while, being so earnest about it, humping so seriously, and I pat your little guy, and I say good effort, and then I take care of you with my hand, and then I take care of myself with something that actually fits, and we fall asleep happy. That’s our sex life, sweetheart. That’s what you married.”
“I love you,” I groaned. I was close. She could always tell—my breathing, the way my thighs go tense, the way my three point nine inches swells that extra fraction like it’s trying to prove something in its final moments.
“I know,” she said. “I love you too. All of you.” A pause. Her hand slowed to something maddening. “Well. All of you that there is.”
And that did it. That little addendum, tossed off so lightly, so lovingly. I came with a strangled sound, spilling over her fingers and my stomach, my hips jerking, my cock pulsing in her fist—five, six, seven contractions, each one a little weaker, a little smaller, like even my orgasms were running out of material.
She stroked me through it, milking the last of it out, and then she held her hand up in the dark like she was examining it, though neither of us could see.
“That’s all of it?” she teased. “That’s the whole payload?”
“You’re evil,” I panted, smiling at the ceiling.
“I’m thorough,” she said. “There’s a difference.” She reached over to the nightstand for the tissues, cleaned her hand off with practiced efficiency, and then cleaned me off too, wiping my stomach with a tenderness that stood in absurd contrast to everything she’d just said. This is the part people outside this kink would never understand—the cruelty and the care come from the same place, the same hands, in the same five minutes.
Then she settled back against her pillow and let out a happy little sigh.
“So,” I said when I’d caught my breath. “What about you?”
“Mm. I was thinking I’d use my birthday present,” she said. “Unless you want to take another honest shot at it.”
I felt my spent cock give a valiant twitch, already trying. Three point nine inches, always ready to try again. That’s the thing about me—hope springs eternal, and it springs about four inches short.
“Maybe in a bit,” I said. “You first.”
“You sure?” she asked, already reaching for the nightstand drawer. “You want to watch?”
“I always want to watch.”
She pulled out the dildo—the big one, the birthday one, the one that made me laugh at myself in the mirror—and I rolled onto my side to face her as she slipped her panties down and off. In the dark, I could just make out the shape of her: knees falling open, the toy disappearing downward, and then that first long exhale she always does when it goes in. All the way in. No poking. No prodding. No guessing.
“See?” she breathed, not even needing to say more.
I saw. I reached over and rested my hand on her lower stomach, where she’d said you can feel it, and I could feel it—a faint pressure moving under my palm, deeper than anything I’d ever reached in her, deeper than anything I’d ever reach. My wife, full. My wife, taking it. My soft little cock resting against my thigh, spent and satisfied and exactly as useless as it was an hour ago.
“Tell me,” I whispered, my hand pressing down lightly as I felt the toy work.
“Better than you,” she gasped, and then she laughed, and then she stopped being able to laugh, and I lay there in the dark next to her, holding my hand on her stomach, being the best husband I know how to be: three point nine inches, fully accounted for, taking care of her the only way I can.
Afterward, she cleaned up, came back to bed, and curled into me, her head on my chest.
“Same time next weekend?” she mumbled, already half asleep.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
She patted my hip, right above where my cock slept. “Good effort tonight,” she murmured.
And God help me, I fell asleep smiling.
The End.
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