Michelle Grant’s Husband Brian

 

 

 

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“Brian?  You going to open that can or just hold it all night?” Michelle says, a frozen cheerfulness in her voice.

 

Brian starts and glances at her, just now registering that she’s home.  She wears the stiff but patient smile she always wears when she stirs him from his reveries, which are deep and frequent.   She’s always waiting for him at the end of his daydreams, her smile at the ready like cold water to put out a fire.  Like ice for his coffee.  He looks away from her mouth and down at the unopened can of soda in his hands.

 

He wonders if he has that terrified, hunted look on his face.    She tells him he always has that look when he comes out of whatever it is he drifts into – a trance, perhaps, she suggests.  laughing.  So he does have it, that look, all over his face – and it’s incriminating him.  

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian wants to find out what it’s like to take it up the ass.   He wants to be some guy’s pussy.   Sometimes he thinks this makes him gay.   Sometimes he thinks he’s crazy.  Sometimes he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t feel a hard cock poised at his sad, hungry hole sometime soon.  Sometimes he thinks he’ll just die. 

 

She has to pull him out of it more and more often.   She stopped asking what was on his mind ages ago.   Brian thinks she thinks knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it articulated.   That’s why she stopped asking.   Brian thinks the reason she hasn’t left him, taking their one-year-old son with her, is that nobody’s actually spoken the answer to the question that hovers on her lips all the time.  The question she knows the answer to.  

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian masturbates frequently.  Several times a day he masturbates.   One of the scenes that gets his load features him naked and bound face down across the trunk of an enormous fallen tree.   There’s a line of fat, greasy truckers behind him.   A dozen.  Two dozen.   Two hundred.   All of these truckers have their dicks in their hands and they’re all stroking, waiting to fuck his upturned cunt.   One of them steps up and presses his darkly red, shiny cockhead against Brian’s clenched asshole.   Brian cums when he imagines it piercing his resistance in one long

 

Of course, now he does open the can.   And he grins.   Because to keep the can unopened in his hands and to keep from grinning would be a tacit answering of the question he’s pretty sure Michelle is keeping herself from asking.   So he grins and takes a long draw off the can.   The soda burns its diet lemon-lime way down his throat. 

 

Trail of piss

 

He shudders, but covers the shudder with a mildly hysterical giggle.  “I don’t know why I drink this stuff of yours - I hate it.”    He looks at her, the giggles taper back down to a composed grin.   “But I can’t stop drinking it.”

 

She gazes into his eyes.  Not trying to read him, that’s obvious.   She seems to do this to prove to both of them that he’s not the only person in the room.   Her smile thaws.   “Are you hungry?” she asks.

 

“Not really.   Just fix yourself something and I’ll pick at it.”  His grin widens to a smile that matches hers.

 

“I think not, Mr. Skinnybutt.”  She takes a playful swipe at him as he dances out of the way.  She knocks the soda can out of his hand and it flies, cold lemon lime soda spraying the floor, the cabinets, and them.   “Oh, FUCK!” she says.   She’s still smiling though, and she grabs the dishrag from the sink.

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian thinks that maybe his daydreams wouldn’t be so dirty if Brian and Michelle weren’t both so fucking clean.

 

“Well, now, at least, you don’t have to drink it,” she laughs.

 

Trail of piss. 

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian, in his fragrantly pristine twill cargo pants and his freshly laundered graphic tee is kneeling in the alley behind some generic dirty bookstore.   His hands are tied (loosely) behind his back.  A big old black man has his hands all full of Brian’s carefully cut hair and is pushing Brian’s smoothly shaved face onto the fat, black dick which streams Brian’s mouth full of bitter, salty

 

“You might pick up the can, you know, Brian,” she says, still smiling, but it’s her chilly smile again.  She’s looking at him.  For a second, she’s daring him to tell her what’s on his mind.

 

But he picks up the can instead.   “Figured you were doing such a good job cleaning up.”    They both force a laugh.   “So what are you gonna make for dinner?”

 

“See, what I don’t understand is why you didn’t fix yourself something to eat when you fed Joey his dinner,” she says, frowning now.

 

“I wasn’t hungry then.”

 

“You’re never hungry.  I don’t know how you do it,” is what she said.   What she meant was more like “I hardly ever see you eat anymore.  Why is that?”

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian is hungry all the time, but he’s become indifferent to food.   Food is always disappointing.

 

“I don’t…   I’m never…  I’m really never very hungry, that’s all.”

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian is hungry all the time.  He was hungry the other day when his boss Frank took him out to lunch.   He wanted to eat Frank’s mouth, right out of its bearded nest.   He wanted to devour Frank’s cock and balls and hairy asshole.    He wanted Frank to forcefeed him on a diet of cum, shit and

 

“Okay.  Well,” staring at him, “I’m hungry.   I’d have brought something home after my meeting if I’d known you hadn’t eaten, either.  Even though I should have known…  I think I’m gonna order a pizza.   Will you eat some of it?”

 

“Yes.  Yes.   I’ll eat… whatever… I’ll eat it.”  He looks up at her.  He has no idea what he’s saying or why he’s saying it.   This is another side affect of his drifting trances.   But they both understand this happens and it doesn’t get them into too much trouble.    Still looking at her, he finds can’t read her.  Perhaps because he doesn’t try to read her all that often.

 

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” she asks.

 

“I have some work to do.”   He walks over to his computer bag, which he’d left on the kitchen counter when he got home from work, his hands all full of bags and Joey.

 

“Come on – what have you been doing since you got home?”

 

“I’ve been…”   What has he been doing?   He fed Joe.   He gave Joe a bath and got him ready for bed. But none of that took much time at all. “Nothing, I guess.   I don’t know.  But I do have a couple things to do.   Maybe I can finish them fast and join you.  Go ahead and start the movie without me.”

 

And so they settle into their evening.   She settles into her movie.   Something quiet but mildly weepy.   He settles into his work.   Spreadsheets.   He opens one and stares at it.   He’s supposed to review numbers and formulas.   But at the moment they’re just pixels on the screen.

 

Michelle Grant’s husband Brian is on his knees, ruining his pressed khakis and scuffing his Doc Martins.    His hands are cuffed behind his back with some cheap fuckshop handcuffs that bite into his wrists.   His recently crisp white shirt is wet.   It and his undershirt stick to his chest.  And the wetness makes him aware of his nipples.  Somebody is pushing his face into a toilet in a public park restroom.   Telling him to lick the piss and shit stains from the rim of the toilet.   Telling him over and over that if he wants to suck cock tonight, he has to be a good boy and clean all the toilets in the park this way.  And so he does it.   There must be hundreds of them.   Filthy.  Crusted.  His cock is hard in his Joe Boxer briefs even though he doesn’t dare touch it.   Now he hears a rip in the seat of those expensive khakis, feels a hand tugging at the seat of his boxers.  And his brain feels soft and squelchy.   He feels alive and raw.   He licks at the gritty porceline.  Awww, so fuckin’ good… this is so fuckin’

 

He looks up from the computer, glancing at Michelle.    She’s absorbed in her movie.   But he’s gone.  Fever’s on him.  His cock is hard in his Joe Boxer briefs.   His heart is pounding.  He gets up from his chair and edges out of the room and into the hallway.   She never looks up.

 

Down the hall.  Into the bedroom and then to the bathroom.  The master bathroom.  Shuts the door.  Locks it.   He takes his clothes off mechanically - only answering the hunger in his body now.  When he’s naked, he looks in the mirror. 

 

“What am I doing?  Jeeezus…” he whispers.   “What am I doing?”

 

He doesn’t touch himself.   He just looks.   His cock stands out, bouncing and dark, glistening a little.   He doesn’t touch himself.  He just looks.

 

It’s a good body.   Fine, tight body.   He’d love to be somebody’s bitch.   A grin spreads over his face as he thinks about that.   He looks like he’d be some good jailhouse pussy.   What a pretty girl. 

 

Something.  Anything.

 

And if not now, when?

 

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His cock reaches up toward his reflection.  There’s longing and there’s pain.   But not enough.   Never in a million years enough.

 

 “What am I doing?”   And he picks up his Joe Boxer briefs and  slides them over his softening cock.   He pulls on the twill cargo pants.  Socks and Doc Martins.  Save something for Michelle tonight.  That’s a good cockwhore.   Save something for the wife.

 

He pulls his graphic tee back on and unlocks the door.  

 

He hears Joey crying in the next room..

 

“I’ll get it,” Brian calls to Michelle.  And he does get it.  The baby just wants a fresh bottle.  He’s hungry.

 

DC McGlothlen

June, 2002