Page 30 of Husband of the Year
My lips kiss around the perimeter before my tongue dives in, sending Olan’s hips higher. He wants more, so I cram my face into him, plunging deeper inside his sweet, warm hole. I’ve figured out how to turn my face at the right angle so my nose doesn’t get in the way. How’s that for ingenuity? When I pull out, he swings his legs in the air, desperate for more. We still have some time and I’m in no rush for him to finish.
I haven’t shaved in a few days, and there’s a good amount of stubble. With my incredibly coarse hair, my beard could cosplay as a Brillo pad, so I’m careful when I kiss and rub my face up and down his taint.
“Oh, Jesus,” Olan says.
“He can’t help you now.”
“Fuck. I need you inside me. Please.”
I glance up, and his fingers are wrapped around my hand as I stroke him. There’s a small bead of precum dripping down the tip—he’s so aroused, and knowing I’m doing this to him, my dick swells against my boxers.
We have about ten minutes before we need to get Illona up and kick our morning routine into high gear. I’m not sure how long he was up before he woke me with his raging boner, but Olan’s clearly ready. In the interest of time, my mouth and fingers will have to do.
“Stay like this,” I say. I take my hand off his cock and make sure he continues jerking himself.
Olan does as I ask, his sexy toes pointing toward the headboard, and I use both hands to spread him wide. He takes a heavy breath, relaxing on the exhale, and he opens even more, allowing my tongue deep inside. My index finger joins in the fun, pushing inside, assisting to keep Olan open while I devour him.
He rocks his pelvis, attempting to push back and provide more friction, and we find a steady rhythm, matching the drums in the song. Between his cock leaking more precum and the increasing frequency and volume of his moans, I know he’s close.
“Marvin. That.” He’s panting. “Keep doing that.”
Shaking my head, I rub my chin up to the base of his dick, licking and lapping, and when his whimpers crescendo, I slide back down, tongue-fucking his hole while my thumb massages his taint.
The contractions around my tongue are my first clue, chased by his hips jerking up and blasts of warm cum showering my mug as he aims it toward me. He knows how much I love when he paints my face with it. When he lowers his hips, and I know he’s finished, my tongue licks up toward the base of his shaft, lapping up his warm seed. I pop him in my mouth for a quick cleanup, and his powerful hands reach down, urging me on top of him.
“Your turn.” Olan uses his thumb to wipe a ribbon of cum off my cheek and pops it into his mouth.
“Daddy!” My eyes shoot open, and Olan lets out a little laugh. “Marvin? Are you up?” A loud tapping on our door follows Illona’s voice. Even though I know the door is locked, my heart pounds in my chest like an angry gorilla.
“One second, princess.” Olan nods toward the bathroom, and I leap from the bed, close the door behind me, and start the shower. I glance in the mirror as I wait for the water to warm up, and my face resemblesa freshly glazed donut. Taking my thumb, I wipe a drop that’s about to drip down my chin and pop it into my mouth. While it may not be as sweet as a strawberry donut, the salty tanginess carries the distinct flavor of Olan, and I can’t help but break into a massive grin, knowing that we kicked off our days with a bang.
“Have you thought about chairs?” Sheldon has an open notebook covered in purple shaggy fur, with a pen poised and ready.
Finally realizing that Olan and I were out of our depth, I contacted Sheldon, who was more than willing to meet. Sitting on soft patchwork chairs around the heavy wood table at Branch Booch, a favorite kombucha spot, Theo and Olan look like small boys being dragged into the lingerie shop with their moms. Theo, in his school janitor’s outfit, grips his Beach Break hard booch like a life preserver, and he and Olan do a lot of forced smiling and nodding. There are random grunts that resemble “Hey” or “’Sup” but no actual words or sentences yet. They’re two uncomfortable peas in a pod.
“The Ocean Inn has chairs,” I say. “I mean, they said we can use the ones they have.”
“What kind of chairs? Folding chairs? Are they metal? Plastic? What color? What are your colors anyway? Did you bring any photos? Fabric swatches?” Sheldon scribbles something in his purple Muppet notebook.
“Um.” My head spins. “Olan?”
Olan replies by gulping his non-alcoholic pineapple jalapeño booch. When he pulls the frosty mug away from his beautiful lips, he lets out a small burp.
“Okay, no colors. No swatches.” Sheldon jots more. “And the chairs at the venue are…”
“Chairs?” I ask, not sure what the correct answer is.
“Marvin. Bubuleh.” Sheldon winks at Theo, who offers a small smile. “You can’t have folding chairs at your wedding.”
“We can’t?”
“Why not?” Olan asks.
Hearing him finally speak, I choke a little on my kombucha, coughing to clear my throat.
“Yeah, why not?” Theo adds, and suddenly, the two of them are on my side.
“Because your wedding is on the beach. All of your friends and family will be there. Some of them are traveling from far away. They’ll be sitting for a long time. Pre-ceremony. Ceremony. Post-ceremony while they wait to exit for the cocktail hour. And you want comfortable, elegant chairs, don’t you?” Olan and I share a confused look. Before either of us can answer, Sheldon continues. “Trust me. You do.” There’s more frantic writing. “Now, have you picked a signature drink?”
