the place he drops the weight
he’s been doing everything himself again. i watch it happen in real time, the way you watch a sink overflow. work emails at midnight. dishes stacked by the sink he walks past three times. the stupid drawer that sticks that he yanks open with his whole body like it personally offended him. staying up too late because he won’t ask for help, because asking for help is a kind of admitting he needs someone, and he’s built like a man who’s not allowed to need.
i watch him and i’m like. babe. let me.
so i texted him. “can i be your lil stress reliever.” and then i panicked, because that sounds dumb when it’s just words on a screen, and i’m nineteen and sometimes i say things that are too soft for the room. i sat there watching the three little dots blink while he typed back, heart in my throat, and he sent a heart emoji and nothing else, which is how he says yes to things he’s not ready to say yes to out loud.
but it’s true. it’s the truest thing. i don’t just mean the obvious, though yeah, that too, the on-my-knees part, the part where i get my mouth on his cock slow while he’s still in his work pants and his hand finds my hair like it’s the first easy thing all day. i mean i want to be the one who knows he’s stressed before he says it. who brings him water. who turns the drawer handle so it stops sticking. who kneels not even for the fun part, just to show him he doesn’t have to hold the whole weight of his life in his own two arms.
that’s the boywife thing. i keep coming back to it. not being owned. being useful. being the place he puts the weight down. he’s built like needing someone is the same as being bad at it. but he lets me, on the nights when he’s too tired to keep the wall up. those are my favorite nights. when he comes in and drops on the bed face-first and doesn’t say a word and i climb up behind him and start rubbing his shoulders and he just goes limp, like the wall was the only thing holding him up and i was the one holding the wall.
tonight was one of those nights. he came in, didn’t even kick his shoes off right, just dropped on the bed and buried his face in the pillow and made a sound that wasn’t a word. i climbed up behind him and pulled his shirt up and started on his shoulders, thumbs into the knots, and he made the sound again, softer, and i worked down his back, over the shirt, until his breathing slowed and his body went heavy under my hands. his hand came back and found my hair. not pushing. just there. holding on.
i let my hand drift down from his back, slow, over his hip, and slipped my fingers under his waistband. the shirt had ridden up past his ribs by then and i could feel his stomach jump when i touched him. i took my time, stroked his thick cock until he was aching and hard in my hand, pre-cum slicking the head, and then i slid down and took his dick into my mouth slow, tongue flat against the underside, no rush, and his hips lifted into my throat without thinking, his body deciding before his brain did, the way it always does with me.
i took my time. i stayed there with one hand pumped around the base, saliva dripping down his balls, taking him in deep until i started to gag, breathing through my nose while he moaned into the pillow. i stayed there until his breath went uneven and his hand tightened and he said my name, quiet, into the pillow, and then he rolled us, flipped me gentle under him, and kissed me, deep, and i felt how hard his cock was against my thigh. i wrapped my legs around his waist and said “give it to me. i got you.” and he did. he pushed his thick head into my ass slow, stretching my tight hole open, then drove in deeper and harder, pumping into me like letting go felt better than holding on, and i held him, nails in his back, until he came with his face in my neck, pulsing and shooting his hot load of cum deep inside me, shaking a little, and after he just stayed, buried deep inside my ass, on top of me, heavy, safe, not saying anything, and i held him while his heartbeat slowed against my chest. there was cum going sticky and cool between us and my jaw ached and one of my knees was stiff from the floor, and none of that was the point, and i did not move.
not the sex. the staying. the weight dropping onto me and him letting it — he was still inside me, his cock going soft, and we stayed like that, my thighs sticky under his weight. i ran my fingers through his hair and he made the small sound, almost a laugh, almost not, and he said “ok. yeah. take care of me.” like he was admitting it for the first time, that he wanted to be taken care of, that it wasn’t weakness, it was just me.
i’m asking for the job permanently. not just tuesday. not just the nights he’s too tired to hold the wall. every night. let me be the reliever. let me be the one who unsticks the drawer and brings the water and goes to my knees without being told because i want to, because the wanting is the whole point. i built this door. i left it open on purpose. he thinks he found it. he didn’t. i’ve been standing behind it, ready, since the first night he dropped on the bed and didn’t say a word.
let me take care of you. or keep doing it alone.
