The Talk
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The days after Frank are a fever – shame and arousal mixing in my veins, memory playing on a loop in my head. Sometimes late at night, or alone in the bathroom, I stroke myself to the thought of Milly kneeling, of Frank’s hand in her hair, of her lips smeared with spit and cum, of that first obscene, desperate kiss. Every time I finish, I feel a little more empty and a little more alive.
Milly moves differently now, sure of herself, radiating control. I catch myself watching her, wondering if she’s thinking of him. Our apartment is quieter, more charged, every silence thick with questions we haven’t asked.
One night, after dinner, Milly sits me down on the floor and says it’s time to talk. She hugs her knees, face serious, eyes unblinking.
“We need to talk about Frank. About what I want. About what you want.”
I nod, heart racing.
She takes a breath. “It wasn’t just for rent. It wasn’t just survival. I want him. I like the way he takes control. I want you, Tom, but I want more. I’m sorry.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I jerk off to it. It makes me feel sick and excited. I want you, but I want you to have what you need, too.”
She smiles, a shaky, grateful thing, and reaches for my hand. “Let’s write down what’s okay and what isn’t. For real. No more secrets.”
We sit cross-legged, notebook between us, pen poised. We argue, negotiate, bare our fears. When it’s done, we have real rules – simple, but honest:
Our Rules:
Condoms are non-negotiable. If Frank fucks her, he wears one. Always.
Absolute honesty. Milly tells me everything – what happened, what was said, what she felt. Nothing hidden.
No solo meetings unless I agree. If she wants to see Frank, I have to know and say yes, whether I’m there or not.
No photos or videos without us talking first. Nothing is recorded unless we both agree.
No sleepovers. She always comes home to me after.
Either of us can stop this anytime. If one of us says no, it stops.
I read them aloud, my voice trembling. Milly leans in, forehead pressed to mine. “Are you sure?” she whispers.
“Yeah. I want you to be happy. I want to know everything. And I want to be part of it.”
Tears shine in her eyes as she kisses me, soft and searching, and we just hold each other in the quiet.
After a while, the silence grows warm and sweet. I look at her, eyes hungry. “Can I…?”
She rolls her eyes, a wry little smile flickering across her lips, but she doesn’t pull away. “Go ahead. I’m not really in the mood, but I want you to have what you need, too.”
She lies back on the rug, spreading her legs. I kneel between her thighs, my mouth already watering, the scent of her skin drawing me in. I press my tongue to her folds, gentle and patient, savoring every twitch, every slow sigh she lets out. She’s not aroused at first, her hips barely moving, but she lets me work, lets me worship her, lets me take my time.
My hand works my cock in slow, aching strokes, eyes fixed on her face, her body. I want her to come, want to give her pleasure, but mostly I just need to taste her, to belong to her for a little while. My own orgasm sneaks up on me, messy and desperate, spilling over my knuckles as I keep licking, keep loving her.
When I’m finished, I rest my head on her thigh, breath coming hard. She strokes my hair, lazy and distracted, but her hand lingers. We don’t say much. We don’t need to.
We have rules now. We have honesty. For the first time, it feels like this might be something we can survive – even if it breaks us open, even if we never see the end.