Chemical [se]X (3 page)

His eyes said it all: I want my wife back.

It wasn’t just Terence’s eyes, though. Aubrey felt it in the strokes of his fingers when he sat beside her on the couch and rubbed her feet, and in the forlorn way he gazed at her across the dinner table. It felt like only yesterday that he’d last touched her, and yet she knew as she lay on her side of the bed every night that it had been far, far longer—two years, in fact, and she hated it. But somehow, between the overtime and the busy day-to-day dealings of bills, laundry, dishes, and everything else, she’d let it slide.

Sex.

This was the very thing that brought them together all those years ago, the connection that made her gush over dinners and phone calls with close friends. For the two of them, sex was worlds apart from that shared by the average married couple.

And then it just…stopped.

Some nights, Terence caressed Aubrey’s leg, and a tingle of memory would charge up her thigh as his fingers grazed her nightgown up to her hip, then smoothed along her waist. But Aubrey—once a veritable vixen, a hyper-sexual creature since the first time she’d discovered the act—would lie perfectly still, her breath held in the dark, all of her aching to make a move and yet not knowing how to respond. She didn’t like the foreign feeling, nor did she understand it, and as time kept ticking by she fell further down this rabbit hole of unfamiliarity, coldness, and desperate longing for something to alleviate her doubt.

That’s why, Friday night, Aubrey bought the chocolates at the confectionery store on the way home. She’d seen the small gold box tucked in the corner window display a few days before, the discrete label beckoning her with pristine cursive forming four decadent words.

Chocolates for Adults Only.

She’d heard about these chocolate truffles when she watched the news one night with Terence. They contained an extremely potent aphrodisiac harvested from a Brazilian rain forest, their effects extensively tested before release to the general public. Apparently, the truffles had increased sexual activity across the country at a surprising rate, and while Aubrey couldn’t originally fathom buying chocolates to spice up her marriage, something needed to change.

Once she arrived home, she put her purchase on the counter and eyed it for a solid minute. The quarter-pound box had cost seventy-five dollars, but the weight of its contents—not the hefty price—had sent a tremor through her all the way home. Heavy and taunting, the container had banged against her hip when she hoisted her purse over her shoulder, its presence as poignant as the need deep in her sex when she pondered what might happen after Terence came home. The wonder burned on as she waited for him, and when she ran her fingers across the top of the box, she tilted her head coyly to the side. Aubrey could actually smell the truffles through the cardboard and the wrapping, the scent definitively chocolate with a whiff of crisp mint and grass beneath. But there was something else, too. It was earthy and rich, she realized, much like arousal.

Her arousal.

Aubrey wanted to wait for Terence, but she ached to know what these chocolates could do. Lifting the lid, she admired the six candies inside, each piece tempting her from within the black and white polka-dotted foil cups. The store clerk had explained this decorative packaging as specific to the premium box, “guaranteed to satisfy” or her money back tomorrow.

How could she resist?

Quickly, Aubrey grabbed a chocolate and took the smallest nibble, then nested the candy back in its cup. The dark chocolate tingled along her tongue and down her throat when she swallowed, the sensation peculiar and warm. It had to be her imagination, but the lid was barely back on the box when the feeling spread through her neck, her breasts, and her arms. It was powerful, overwhelming and sweet—exactly how she felt when Terence thrust inside her, making her whimper and writhe in passion.

Aubrey gasped.

That. Yes, that.

Her mind raced with images of her husband then—over her, in her, touching her, kissing her…until Aubrey jolted with the bizarre realization they hadn’t had sex in two whole years. Who were they? Certainly not the couple they were in college, fucking in the back seats of cars under parking lot lights or sneaking romps on park benches when their fellow campers went to bed. She wanted that back.

She wanted Terence back.

Before she knew it, Aubrey leaned against the counter with her fingers at the top of her blouse, unfastening the first button, then the next. After she undid every button she tossed aside her shirt, then stripped off her bra to cup her naked breasts. The strongest rush of desire filled her as she pinched her nipples, and immediately she tugged off her skirt and panties. The pang in her core made it unbearable to delay touching herself, to prevent her fingertips from spreading apart her folds to tease her shockingly swollen clit.

“Um, honey?”

She moaned, the sound primitive in her ears, and the need circulating within her as she slipped a finger inside her impossibly wet pussy. Terence dropped his bag to the floor and faced her, his eyebrow arched, his hands freezing at his sides. His slacks tented at his crotch, and despite the smile growing on Aubrey’s face, the expression on his was confused.

“Aubrey?”

“I bought the chocolates,” she growled, nodding at the counter behind him. “Look.”

Terence spied the box, then glanced from it to his wife. Now, he understood. He’d been there on the couch during the news broadcast, calmly massaging her feet, likely knowing just like her that they needed an icebreaker, something to shake up the distance and bring them back together.

“How are they?”

“Eat one.”

It was all she could muster, her hands distracting and amazing on her skin. But she needed more, wanted more.

Terence didn’t touch the chocolates, instead watching the movement of Aubrey’s hands and undressing himself. Aubrey worked her swollen nub harder once he stood naked in front of her, the orgasm rising so fast within she gritted her teeth.

“Terence,” she whispered. “I miss you. And now I’m going to come.”

And she did. Right there, in front of him, she came on her own fingertips, crying and shuddering beneath his stare. Terence didn’t move. His mouth opened and his shaft stiffened, until finally Aubrey stopped shaking. She felt slightly better, but with the way her pussy continued to spasm, she knew she could do this again. And again.

And over again.

“How much did you eat?” Terence asked.

“Not even half of one. You should, too.”

“Do I need one?”

Aubrey laughed. “Probably not. But it would be fun if we both did.”

Her husband was a smart man—he popped open the box and ate a nibble from the same chocolate she had. Immediately, his pupils dilated and a fine layer of sweat coated his shoulders and neck. Terence offered her another nibble and breathed, “Holy shit.”

“Right?” Aubrey took a tiny bite of the chocolate as Terence pressed himself against her. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lowered his lips to hers, and Aubrey sighed into his mouth, surrendering to a kiss wilder than they’d ever shared in over a decade together. Terence’s cock throbbed against her hip, and when he guided himself between her thighs to graze her dripping sex, Aubrey curled her hands around his ass and urged him into her. Both of them groaned when he sank inside, and Aubrey felt his heart pounding through his chest in sync with hers.

“It tingles everywhere. Do you feel that?”

“Yes.” She pulled him tighter, both of them gasping as he nestled into her depths. The vibrations started all over in her, rippling through her torso, heating her cunt. When Terence withdrew and plunged again, her body shook with greedy need.

“I want you so bad right now,” she murmured.

“You’ve got me,” he said. “Forever.”

Their next kiss was frantic, as if easing the distance that had kept them apart. Between them rose the scent of lust, of longing, their bodies grinding together as Terence thrust. His movements grew faster, his breath tumbling over her face, and when he latched onto her neck with a groan, Aubrey threw her head back in a cry of bliss. She clawed at her husband’s ass as he came inside her, both of them trembling against the counter and panting like they had in the wild times of their youth.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Terence kissed her, the residual taste of chocolate on his lips. Aubrey’s body felt more alive than it had in years, and though this substance had helped, it was their connection, deep down, that drove this spark between them.

She never wanted to lose that again.

Terence pulled away and grinned into her face.

“I’ve missed you.”

“You too.”

He glided his hands over her hips, then slipped one finger between them to strum her clit. “Should we eat more chocolate?”

Aubrey moaned and shook her head. “I don’t think I need one. Do you?”

In response, Terence spun her around, bracing her against the counter where the chocolates still sat. The box dug into her back, but that was far less noticeable than the fact that her husband had started to harden again.

“Definitely not with a wife as sexy as you,” he said.

They were already at it when Terence swept his arm behind her and knocked the box off the counter, and both of them moaned as the chocolates scattered across the kitchen floor.

(du)X

Dario Dalla Lasta

I have never been a fan of chocolate. When presented with a box of Nuts and Chews from See’s Candies or offered delicate Godiva truffles, I wave them away like I’m swatting at flies. Honestly, I just don’t possess the gene that turns normal people into raving lunatics when chocolate comes around. The magnetic pull that the cocoa bean holds over my family and friends has been nonexistent in my life.

Until now.

Here’s how my new obsession with chocolate began—in a bathroom stall at a roller rink, of all places.

Last Friday night, my friend Allan turned 40 and celebrated with a big birthday blowout at the Complexx, a monstrous gay dance club on the West Side Highway in Manhattan known for its circuit parties, celebrity sightings, and rampant drug use. One night a month the club turned its dance floor into a roller skating rink, thereby shooing away the typical shirtless, Ecstasy-fueled partiers for a night dedicated to bell bottoms, ’70s and ’80s music, and the rental of roller skates.

Essentially, my kind of night.

Although I had not strapped on a pair of roller skates in more than 20 years, birthday parties at the downtown roller rink in my small California hometown had trained me well, and I was excited to show off in front of Allan’s friends. To get in the mood before I left home, I poured myself a double Fuzzy Pussy (Absolut Mandrin, soda, splash o’ cran), dressed in my most inspired vintage outfit, and listened to the Disco station on my television’s music channel. Preening in front of the mirror, I admired my silky yellow Dolphin shorts from my college days, blue and green-striped tank top that matched my eyes, knee-high athletic socks, and a short, blond surfer-boy wig from Ricky’s NYC that swooped back from my face like feathers. My dream of having a full head of sun-bleached locks was now a reality, and a radical departure from my own clipped one. If I may be so blunt, after smoking a blunt it perfected my look to a tee. Soon enough I was off and riding the subway downtown with only a modicum of embarrassment. After all, it wasn’t Halloween, yet I certainly appeared to be dressed in a costume. I’m glad I was a bit buzzed.

The party was in full swing when I arrived, the disco ball spinning like a globe of encrusted diamonds over an oblong space large enough for a hundred skaters or more to circle the rink. Allan had gathered a group of about 25 friends and almost everyone had dressed the part. I received several screams and fits of laughter when I strolled in wearing my wig and slinky shorts. “Kokomo” by The Beach Boys echoed through the cavernous club, and I had never felt more like a California surfer boy in my life. After describing the contents of a Fuzzy Pussy to the dim-witted yet gorgeous bartender, I sucked a few slurps down before gaining the confidence to sashay all over that rink in my skates. As for my roller disco moves? Well, let’s just say that my skills have turned a bit rusty over time. At least I didn’t fall or spill my drink.

The libations flowed, I tried to be a hotshot by skating backwards without landing on my ass and, once I got my nerve up, I sidled over to Sage during Sister Sledge’s classic, “He’s the Greatest Dancer.” Sage truly was a great dancer, in addition to being a hot, bearded, hairy-chested stud who always had a boy on his arm and a coke bag in his pocket. Even though we had never been good friends back in my halcyon days of nonstop New York clubbing, we had always shared a nice rapport. That was ten long years ago. Now he looked even better with age and, for once, didn’t have a boy clinging to his arm. Nor did he have some silly costume on. I felt like a dork in my get-up next to Sage, who looked like a hot lumberjack in his checked flannel shirt and worn-out jeans. His masculinity never failed to turn me on.

After catching up over the years we missed during our endless circling to “Boogie Wonderland,” “Ring My Bell,” and other charming throwbacks, he invited me to the bathroom. That could only mean one thing with Sage—sex. No, I take that back. Two things—sex and drugs. I would take either or both with Sage. I’d been yearning for him to ring my bell for years.

So off we went, stumbling in our skates as we left the rink and hit the carpet, tittering like kids on a first date. The bathroom was thankfully empty, a complete anomaly compared to the circuit parties I had attended previously. We cruised over to the last stall on the left past the sinks and urinals. Sage slid the lock shut with a smirk, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. I gulped and rubbed both of my hands on my skimpy shorts, noting for the first time how clammy they were.

“I gotta take a leak first,” advised Sage. He unbuttoned the fly of his faded 501s and pulled out a thick, beautiful cock, just like I had imagined. “Looks good, huh,” he observed. I nodded my head in agreement; it looked better than good. It looked downright succulent. I watched him urinate with a ferociousness I could only attribute to a steady flow of alcohol or a wide urethra. I didn’t care why his gorgeous arc of piss came out so strongly, all I knew was that I had to put that piece of meat in my mouth pronto. Maybe even drink from his fountain of golden delight. After finishing, he flushed, buttoned up, and turned to me with a wicked grin. We barely fit in the small space together, and his hairy arm kept brushing my soft one. The bristles made me hard.