But today, something feels off. My body goes through the motions, hips pumping mechanically, yet my heart isn't in it. It's like I'm watching myself from outside, disconnected from the passionate act. Sirre's cries grow louder, more urgent, and I feel her inner walls clench around me as she reaches her climax. The sensation is exquisite, but it fails to push me over the edge.
As her trembling subsides, I slowly pull out, my now half-hardened cock slipping free with a soft, wet sound. Sirre's breathing gradually steadies, and she turns to face me, her green eyes still hazy with post-orgasmic bliss. But as her gaze focuses on me, concern creeps into her expression.
"Baby, what's wrong? You didn't finish again," she asks, her voice soft and slightly raspy from her earlier screams.
I don't know how a pervert like me got lucky enough to end up with this beautiful, loving woman. The thought swirls in my mind, a mixture of guilt and desire that leaves me feeling dizzy. Sirre's concerned gaze pierces through me, and I can almost feel her trying to read my thoughts. My heart races, torn between the urge to confess my twisted kink and the fear of losing her.
I cup her face gently, my calloused hands a stark contrast to her smooth skin. Her cheeks are still flushed from our lovemaking, and I can feel the heat radiating from her. "I'm just tired," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I didn't sleep well last night."
I hate lying to Sirre, but I can't tell her that I want to watch someone else savage my wife. The very thought of it makes my cock twitch with renewed interest, even as shame floods through me. She'd throw me away if she knew. I'm certain of it. The imagined look of disgust on her face is enough to make me want to curl up and disappear.
Sirre frowns, her brow furrowing in that adorable way that always makes my heart skip a beat. "Do you want to go back to sleep, honey?" she asks, her voice dripping with concern. "I can run the inn alone today."
I force a smile, hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "No," I reply, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. "I'll be fine. Besides, you shouldn't have to handle everything on your own."
Sirre's frown deepens, and for a moment, I'm terrified she's seen through my lie. But then she leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. "If you're sure," she murmurs against my mouth. "But promise me you'll take it easy today, okay?"
I pull my lovely Sirre into a tight embrace. "Of course, honey."
—
As I wipe down the bar for what feels like the hundredth time, the worn rag catching on the countless nicks and grooves etched into the wood, I can't shake the gnawing guilt in my gut. The early morning sunlight filters through the grimy windows, casting long shadows across the empty common room. The silence is almost oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building settling.
I pause in my cleaning, inhaling deeply. The air is thick with the lingering scents of last night's revelry - stale ale, pipe smoke, and something else I can't quite place. Beneath it all, the mouthwatering aroma of Sirre's cooking wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach growl despite my troubled mind.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Sirre emerges from the kitchen, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. Her auburn hair is tied back in a messy bun, a few stray strands framing her face. She's wearing that old apron I love, the one with the faded floral pattern that's more patches than original fabric at this point.
"I'm heading to the market to get food for dinner," she announces, her voice cutting through the quiet. She crosses the room to me, her hips swaying in a way that never fails to catch my eye.
Sirre reaches me, a warm smile playing on her lips. She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. Her scent envelops me, a heady mixture of cinnamon, sweat, and something uniquely her. For a moment, I forget my troubles, lost in her presence.
"I love you," I murmur, the words falling from my lips as naturally as breathing.
"I love you too," she replies, her green eyes sparkling with affection. With one last smile, she turns and heads for the door, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet.
As the door swings shut behind her, the bell above it jangling softly, I'm left alone with my thoughts once more. But not for long.
The door opens again almost immediately, the bell's cheerful tone at odds with the imposing figure that steps through. He's tall, easily a head above me, with broad shoulders that strain against his expensive-looking dark coat. His blue eyes scan the room before settling on me.
The man sits down heavily on one of the barstools, its aged wood creaking in protest beneath his considerable bulk. He rests his elbows on the bar, broad hands clasped before him, and lets out a deep, weary sigh that seems to come from the very depths of his soul. The sound fills the empty common room, mingling with the motes of dust dancing in the early morning sunlight.
"How much for a room for a night?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that reminds me of distant thunder.
I lean against the bar, my rag still clutched absently in one hand. "Five coppers a night," I reply, studying his weathered face. Despite his imposing size, there's a weariness in his eyes that tugs at something inside me. "If you buy now, I can even throw in today's breakfast. My wife's cooking is the best in Dord, if I do say so myself."
The man nods, his expression unchanging as he reaches into his coat. With slow, deliberate movements, he withdraws a small leather pouch and empties five bronze coins onto the bar. They clatter against the worn wood, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"I'm good on breakfast," he says, pushing the coins towards me. His blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, meet mine. "Could get a hard drink, though."
I can't help but chuckle, shaking my head. "Buddy, it's barely 9 am," I point out, gesturing to the slanted sunbeams streaming through the windows.
The man's lips twitch, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. It transforms his features, softening the hard lines and hinting at a warmth beneath his gruff exterior. "Then you should join me," he suggests, his tone lighter now, almost playful.
"I really shouldn't," I say slowly, even as I reach for two glasses from beneath the bar. "But today..." I trail off, leaving the sentence unfinished as I set the glasses on the bar with a soft thunk.
—
The warm glow of midday sun now streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the bar. The air is thick with the scent of whiskey and laughter, a stark contrast to the somber mood of earlier. Babin and I are hunched over our glasses, shoulders shaking with mirth as he finishes recounting a particularly raunchy tale involving a nobleman, a donkey, and a very confused seamstress.
"And then," Babin wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye, "the donkey looks at the seamstress and says, 'Well, I didn't expect you to be wearing the hat!'"
I burst into another fit of laughter, slapping the bar with my open palm. The empty glasses rattle, a chorus of tiny bells chiming along with our mirth. As our laughter subsides, a comfortable silence settles between us. I take a moment to study my new drinking companion. The weariness that had seemed etched into his face when he first arrived has melted away, replaced by a warmth that makes his blue eyes sparkle like sapphires.
"Hey, Babin," I say, breaking the silence. "Why did you seem so down when you walked in earlier?"
Babin's smile falters for a moment, a flicker of that earlier melancholy passing across his face. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring it before answering. "Was that your wife who walked out as I was walking in?" he asks, his voice low and thoughtful.
"Yes," I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice. Even after all these years, the thought of Sirre still fills me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol coursing through my veins.
Babin nods slowly, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "I sighed because I saw such a beautiful woman," he admits, his fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass. "And it reminded me... it's been too long since I've known the touch of a woman like that."
The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken longing. I feel a pang of sympathy for this man, this stranger who has somehow become a friend in the span of an hour. "I'm sorry," I offer, feeling the inadequacy of the words even as they leave my mouth.
Babin shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't be," he says. "It's my own fault, really. I've been on the road for so long, chasing after... well, it doesn't matter what. But seeing your wife, it made me realize what I've been missing."
He looks at me intently, his blue eyes seeming to pierce right through me. "This wouldn't possibly be the type of establishment where..." he trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. "Perhaps I could pay for some... service from her?"
My breath catches in my throat as I process his words. Unbidden, an image flashes through my mind, Sirre, her auburn hair wild and messy, her lips wrapped around Babin's cock as he grips her head. The thought sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, and I feel myself growing painfully hard in my trousers.
I clear my throat, trying to banish the arousing mental picture. "Sorry," I manage to croak out, "this isn't that kind of shop. We're just a regular inn."
Babin nods slowly, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I understand," he says, his voice low and husky. "But I'd be happy to pay one silver coin for even just a blow job."
My cock twitches at his words, straining against the fabric of my pants. The room suddenly feels stiflingly hot, and I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. A bead of sweat trickles down my back as I grapple with the warring desires within me, the urge to protect Sirre's honor battling against the perverse excitement coursing through my veins.
I chuckle awkwardly, the sound catching in my throat like I've swallowed a mouthful of sawdust. "It's, uh, not in the cards," I manage to stammer out, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. The words feel hollow, a flimsy shield against the tide of desire threatening to overwhelm me.
Babin's eyes flicker downward for a split second before meeting mine again. He nods his head in my direction, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You sure about that? You wouldn't be the first person to be excited by a proposition like this, you know?"
I follow his gaze. My trousers are tented obscenely, the fabric straining against what is undoubtedly the hardest erection I've had in ages. The sight sends a fresh wave of shame and arousal coursing through me.
Annoyance flares within me, hot and sudden. "This is about something else," I say awkwardly.
Babin snorts, but there's no real malice in the sound. It's more amused than judgmental. "Well," he drawls, leaning back on his barstool with an easy grace that makes me envious, "if you change your mind, the offer stands."
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Okay, buddy," I reply, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.