Perhaps this is where I should begin, with public moments—intense, intimate and sometimes discreet. It matters not who is present or how many surround us. This is the story of us and why I am his...

My husband does what I call “flexing”. He laughs when I use this term. In general, it is that look of restraint he gets right before he is about to pulverize someone either mentally or physically. But that’s not what it means when his focus is on me. It too is a form of restraint. But, this form of restraint makes me weak and my pussy salivate.

Of course, he is oblivious to this fact. He doesn’t see this tell that does so much to me. What I see is the defined jawline of the sexiest man I’ve ever encountered, with a muscle at its curve that leads up toward his ears. When he flexes that muscle and the grayness of his eyes flash before darkening, I know what he wants.

His flexing is as involuntary as the beating of his heart. Within it I see his dominance, even though he claims not to be into that sort of thing. But a true dominate does not need a moniker, neither does his submissive. I feel his dominance within me. It is a warm flush I can’t control, the hardening of my nipples, an ache to taste him. My mouth waters. There is an endless fluttering in my abdomen. Some call it butterflies. It is far too demanding to be represented by something so fragile.

I immediately make my way to him, maybe excusing myself from another boring conversation. At that moment, nothing can possibly be as important as he is.

He may take my hand into his or place his hand at the small of my back as he leads me through a room. His touch is electric. Everyone makes way for him as if they too feel his power. I am untouched by anyone but him. I see the look in the eyes of other women. They too feel the draw of him. This is something else he does not notice.

I am reminded of many things. One is that feeling I sometimes get watching his lips move. I stop hearing what words are spoken. The base beat of my heart drops and hits this nerve at my core. His rhythm vibrates within me. Even my thoughts are in tempo with his speech.

He now whispers the things that he will do to me.

I am reminded of seeing him naked for the first time--me, already undressed and willing, waiting impatiently as he removed his tie and undid his cuff links in his slow, controlled manner. His eyes never left mine. But mine took in every inch of him. He loosened three top buttons and slipped his shirt over his head. The tatted markings that flowed across his chest and over his shoulder shocked me. I caught my breath, not only because of the beauty of his body but because the unexpected art was in great contrast to the expensively suited, conservative lawyer that the world saw. It was a secret he was sharing with me.

I’m reminded too of how he can be doing something quite regular and normal in a married couple’s day, but suddenly look at me in such a way...

These are moments that remind me that I’m married to an absolute fucking beast that does what he wants when he wants to. It is not just the education, reserve or class and control. It is not the well-honed collection of muscles and sinew or the smoothness of his movements. It is the living, breathing combination of it all. Power radiates from within him.

These are the moments that cement a sense of security. I am both in danger and safe. How does a woman explain the feel of belonging to such a man?

He makes me forget myself.

When he finds a safe spot, he turns to me. Running his hand up the back of my thigh, growling when he discovers I have no panties on. Our kisses are desperate and demanding as he lifts me up and backs me into a cold wall. My arms wrap around his neck and my legs wrap around his waist.

This is one of my favorite positions.

I can hear him undoing his pants, but our kissing never ends. I feel the heat of his cock first. He lifts me a little and brings me down on it. I am not shocked, but the feel of him as he stretches me open with his descent still causes me to cry out. I know why earlier, primitive cultures worshipped the phallus in all its different forms. I too worship it as he touches home.

And, he is home deep inside of me.

“You know I love you right.”

It is not a question but a statement.

“Yes, I know,” I return, gasping for air as he fucks me.

I want it hard and just short of cruel. This is how he fucks me—not sweet or shy. I take what he gives; my pussy is greedy for it. He pursues his pleasure within me with each groan that comes from his chest, which vibrates against my breast. These are his sounds and he doesn’t care who might hear them.

He’s aware of how my right thigh begins to shake with the oncoming of my climax. I always try to fight it, to tease him with my headstrong unwillingness to surrender so easily. But he feels it within me. He doesn’t even feign patience. This is not about love, it is about satisfaction—mine and his. My man knows how to break me down, the speed and the stroke that hits that spot. I am a network of fine and exquisite responses, losing myself with him.

He makes a sound that comes from deep in his chest as his hot cum coats my inner walls. Nothing compares to it and from it I know he is satisfied—for the moment. This is when I am his the most.

Forehead to forehead, we look deep into each-other’s eyes with devilish smiles.

“I love you,” I whisper.

I know you do,” he replies, flexing.