Sixteen Military Wives
“Did you come?” Martin Mackenzie asked peering up from between Phoebe Phoenix’s thighs. He knew she’d come. She’d writhed, jerked and dripped in all the appropriate ways but he asked her anyway. He was fully aware she was fed up with these sorts of questions. Still, he couldn't seem to help asking. Phoebe Phoenix threw her pillow at him and lay back panting. Martin caught it and unthinkingly went to wipe his mouth.
“Don’t use my pillow you creep!”
“Sorry,” Martin, unable to find anything else, picked his work shirt up from the floor and used that instead. He crawled across the bed with his erection pointed towards her. It occurred to him that he hadn't had sex or even masturbated in over 48 hours. This was an oversight. It didn't bode well for his lovemaking stamina. His penis and balls felt tingly with future embarrassment already. A new song came on Phoebe’s laptop speakers. It was The Decemberists. Martin didn’t care for The Decemberists. He’d tried to like them once but it didn’t work. Martin entered Phoebe Phoenix carefully. He wanted to last at least until the end of the song.
“Sixteen military wives.... Thirty two softy-focused brightly coloured eyes”
Martin clenched his eyes and focused on the polite nasal-folk. Each movement was thoughtful and slow, maybe too thoughtful and too slow. Could she even feel movements that were this thoughtful and slow? He opened his eyes to check. Phoebe Phoenix was looking up at him, concerned.
“Are you ok?” she panted, “You look in pain.”
“Yeah, I’m amazing. Totally amazing,” Martin gasped. He jerked his head and checked the laptop on the desk. The song had 4 minutes 37 seconds left. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again Phoebe Phoenix was looking up at him, almost giggling.
“It’s ok if you want to come Martin.”
“Cheer them on to their rivals.... Because America can, and America can’t say no”
“It’s ok if you want to come.”
“Yeah, amazing, amazing.”
“And the anchor person on TV goes La di” (3 minutes 25 seconds)
“Seriously Martin, I came just before. You’re going to be late for work.”
Martin figured he was focusing 70 per cent of his attention on The Decemberists, 10 per cent on the pleasure surging though his body, and 20 per cent on Phoebe Phoenix. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was wide open showing her gappy teeth. Martin loved her gappy teeth. When they were on display like this it usually meant she was laughing at of his jokes or having sex with him. Her black hair was splayed on the pillow all over the place. She’d cut it into a bob last week. It didn’t suit her. He’d told her so thinking she’d find the honesty refreshing and attractive. She hadn't. He noticed a pubic hair that had wedged itself somewhere near his back left molar. He used his tongue to search for it. He now estimated 30 per cent of his attention was diverted to dislodging it.
‘”Fifteen celebrity minds leading their fifteen sordid wretched chequered lives” (2 minutes 35... no 34 seconds)
He was never that good at estimating ratios but he knew these percentages weren’t good. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to convince Phoebe Phoenix to have sex with him before work, knowing full well that morning sex kind of grossed her out. At least brush your teeth first, she’d said. Martin tried to tighten his interior muscles. This was a sure sign he was about to come. He thought about percentages again.
“15 percent...” he found himself muttering against his will.
“What?” Phoebe was visibly pissed.
“What the fuck is 15 percent?” Phoebe had stopped against his movements.
“Nothing, don’t worry.” Phoebe pushed him off her aggressively. He almost fell on the floor.
“Is that how you’re rating this in your little head Martin? 15 fucking per cent?” She yelled from the bathroom after she’d slammed the door.
“No Phoebe that not it at all! I love you.” Phoebe turned on the shower. Martin finished himself off into some tissues.
“And the anchor person on TV goes La di da de da di daaa... “
Martin slammed the laptop shut.
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