I Suck His Cock Ass-to-Mouth After He Fills My Arse by Salty Vixen

The rain came at Wellington the way a debt collector comes: sideways, without knocking, and with no intention of leaving until it had taken something. In July of 1865 it had already taken the colour out of the hills and the last pretence that this place was a city. From the upper window of the villa in Thorndon, Hannah watched the weather beat the new capital into mud.

The house sat on a slope that the earthquake of ten years earlier had rearranged like a careless hand. The 1855 shock had lifted the foreshore, cracked chimneys, and left Pipitea’s edge looking as if the land itself had tried to stand up and then thought better of it. Below her, the streets were only intentions: survey pegs, half-laid boards, yellow clay churned into soup. Timber frames stood skeletal against the grey. Smoke from wet fires crawled along the ground instead of rising. Everything smelled of salt, sawdust, and the sourness of earth that had been forced to become a street before it was ready.

Thomas was at the dining table with his maps. He had been there since before first light. The maps were his religion and his anxiety. Auckland had lost the capital; Wellington had gained it; and now the Crown required streets that could be named and sold. His fingers were permanently ink-stained. He spoke in chains and links and bearings. When he did look up, it was only to frown at a discrepancy between what the paper claimed and what the rain-soaked ground would actually accept.

Hannah stood with her forehead nearly touching the glass.

Down on the Pipitea shoreline a man was moving tōtara.

Manu.

He was Te Ātiawa, and he worked as if the weather were a relative he did not have to impress. Bare to the waist despite the cold, hair tied back with a strip of flax, he set his shoulder to logs that had come out of the hills like the bones of an older country. Each log was a dark, dripping mass. He rolled them, levered them, walked them toward the water with a patience that made Thomas’s frantic pencilling look like a nervous tic. Water sheeted off Manu’s back. The muscles there were not decorative. They were the reason the log moved. When he straightened, the rain ran down the groove of his spine and disappeared into the waist of his trousers.

Hannah’s corset was already too tight. She had laced it that morning the way she always did, because that was what one did, and now every breath reminded her that she was a container. High collar. Petticoats. The small, respectable shoes that would be ruined in ten steps of that clay. She watched Manu’s hands. They were large. They knew the grain of the wood. They did not ask the log for permission.

Thomas said something about the proposed alignment of Lambton Quay.

Hannah did not turn.

She watched Manu for the better part of an hour while the rain thickened and the light stayed the colour of dishwater. Desire did not arrive as a polite thought. It arrived as heat behind the navel, then as a pulse between her legs that made standing still a kind of work. She pressed her thighs together. The friction of cotton on wetter cotton was almost enough to make her gasp. She did not gasp. She wiped the fog her breath had left on the pane and kept watching.

In her mind she was already walking down the hill.

Not as Mrs Thomas, wife of the Crown surveyor. As a woman who had decided the costume was optional. She imagined the mud taking her shoes, then her stockings, the rain soaking the front of her dress until the fabric clung to her breasts and the cold made the nipples stand. She imagined Manu turning from the log and seeing her. Not smiling, exactly. Recognizing. The way a man recognizes weather he has lived with all his life.

She imagined him not speaking.

She imagined his hand closing on her upper arm, the heat of his palm through wet cloth, and then the cloth being irrelevant. He would push her back against the nearest log. The bark would rake her shoulders. Her skirts would come up in fistfuls. She would feel the air on her bare thighs and then his mouth—hot, certain—open against the place she kept hidden even from herself in daylight. She would come the first time like that, standing in the rain, one heel slipping in the clay, his tongue working her until her knees folded.

That was only the beginning of what she let herself see.

She saw him turn her. Saw her own hands braced on the wet wood, arse offered because she wanted it offered. The first push of him into her cunt would be thick and slow and she would make a sound she had never made in the villa. He would fuck her with the same economy he used on the logs: no wasted motion, all of it going somewhere. She would look back over her shoulder and see the town, the unfinished streets, her husband’s maps existing somewhere up the hill like a joke, and she would push back onto him harder.

Then the thought went where it had been wanting to go all week.

She saw him pull out of her cunt, slick, and press the head of his cock to her arse. She saw herself nodding, or not needing to nod. The stretch. The burn that became something else. Him sinking into her until his belly met her cheeks and she could feel how full she was, how little of the Victorian arrangement remained. He would fuck her arse the way the weather fucked the town: without apology. She would come again with him in her, squirting before and after receiving an anal creampie, a hot gush that ran down her thighs and mixed with the rain and the mud. She would look for a shard of glass, a window in a half-built store, anything that would show her own face. Creampie looking in the mirror at the queen of anal squirt cumming with pleasure!

The words sat in her head like a brand.

Ass to Mouth, until he Cums on my Face.

She saw it with a clarity that made her cunt clench around nothing. Him pulling out of her arse, the mess of it, and putting himself in her mouth while she was still shaking. Her tasting what he had just done to her. Then him standing over her in the rain, fist working, and spending across her lips and cheeks and open mouth. Ass to Mouth, until he Cums on my Face. She would swallow what she could and let the rest run. She would stay on her knees in the clay because kneeling felt more honest than the parlour.

Thomas turned another sheet. The paper made a dry sound that had nothing to do with the world outside.

Hannah’s hand was under her skirts before she had decided to put it there. Two fingers found her soaked and swollen. She worked herself in small, vicious circles, forehead against the glass, eyes still on Manu as he set another log rolling. Each time his shoulder bunched she pressed harder. She thought of ball busting only as a flicker—her hand closing, him hissing, the power of it—then let it go because what she wanted more was to be used, not to punish. Poker wife. Wife fantasy. Wife watches. The phrases stacked. Weed smoke in some other life, a pipe passed in the bush after, the two of them laughing at the sleeping wife she had been at dawn. Sheriff of nothing. No badge that reached this shoreline.

She came standing up.

It hit her in a hard, silent clench that forced a sound into her throat anyway. She bit it off. Wetness ran down her inner thigh and into her stocking. She kept her fingers moving because the first peak was not enough. The second followed while she was still looking at him, a longer, shakier release, and she imagined it was his cock still in her arse, still pumping, an anal creampie she could feel leaking while she squirted again. She wiped her hand on the hidden side of her petticoat like a criminal.

Manu paused. He looked up the hill.

For one stretched second Hannah thought he had seen her. The window was rain-blurred; she was a pale shape behind glass; he was a dark shape in weather. Then he rolled his shoulder and went back to the work. She did not know whether the look had been for her or for the weather or for nothing. It did not matter. The look had gone through her like a hook.

She stayed at the window until her legs complained.

The fantasy did not stop when her hand did. It ran on, filthy and specific. She saw them in the native bush above the town, fern and mud and the smell of wet earth, her dress gone, his mouth on her breasts, her riding him with her hands on his chest. She saw the harbour water cold around their hips, him lifting her, fucking her standing in the shallows while the town pretended to be a capital behind them. She saw herself taking him Ass to Mouth a second time, greedier, because the first time had taught her the taste and she wanted it again until he Cums on my Face and she wears it back up the hill under her respectable shawl.

Thomas asked if the tea had gone cold.

Hannah said it had not.

She poured. The cup rattled once against the saucer. She sat opposite her husband and looked at the maps without seeing the maps. The grid he loved was a net thrown over something that did not wish to be caught. Manu was still down there in the rain, a fact the paper could not survey.

The afternoon stretched. The light failed early, as it did in this latitude in July. Lamps would be lit. Thomas would talk about tomorrow’s measurements. Hannah would nod. At some point she would go upstairs and lie on the bed in her clothes and put her hand back between her legs and do it again, slower, with the memory of his back and the invented weight of him inside her, squirting into her own palm like a secret the villa was not built to hold.

Outside, the rain kept coming sideways.

The town stayed raw.

And the woman at the window had already left the room in every way that mattered. She would be there again tomorrow. So would the shoreline. So would the man who moved the logs as if the land still belonged to the body that worked it, not to the ink that tried to name it.

She pressed her thighs together under the table and felt the ache start over, patient as weather.