Grime and Punishment

I was done with my husband.

Coming home every night smelling like old sweat and whatever he’d been rolling in at work. Didn’t shower. Cock tasted like it hadn’t seen soap in days.

I used to put up with it.

Not anymore.

One night he reached for me in bed and I shoved his hand away.

“No,” I said. “Sex is off the table until you clean yourself up. Properly. Every day. Shower. Soap. Clean clothes. I’m not fucking a pig.”

He stared at me like I’d slapped him. Then he nodded. A quiet understanding. That was three weeks ago.

The first few days he tried the usual half-measures. A two-minute rinse. The same sour socks. When he reached for me that first night I caught his wrist and held it.

“You still smell like the shop,” I said. “No.”

He blinked, then tried again the next night, fresher but not clean. I made him take his pillow to the couch. The night after that I didn’t even let him get under the covers. I just looked at him standing there in his boxers, cock already half-hard, and shook my head.

“Shower. Soap. Every inch. Then we’ll talk.”

By the end of the first week the message had landed. He started setting an alarm. Long, thorough showers. The bathroom door left cracked so I could hear the water running. I lay in bed listening, legs shifting under the sheets, and felt myself get wet at the sound of him finally obeying.

I watched him change.

The sour smell disappeared. His skin started to look different under the bathroom light—smooth, scrubbed, the dark hair on his chest still damp when he walked out with a towel hanging low on his hips. I’d forgotten the exact weight of his cock when it was clean. The way it hung heavier somehow. The way the head would push against the towel when he caught me looking.

Some mornings I stood in the hallway and watched him clean the kitchen counters on his hands and knees. The flex of his arms. The way the clean jeans sat on his ass. I slipped a hand between my legs right there in the doorway and rubbed myself slowly, never letting him see. Just taking what I wanted while he worked.

I thought about making him wait longer. Another week. Another month. The power of it was intoxicating. He was becoming something I actually wanted to fuck again, and I was the one who decided when.

To his credit, he didn’t push things. With his balls so full and cock so desperate, he even started cleaning the house. Kitchen counters sparkled. Bathroom floors too. He even washed the sheets twice a week without me asking.

Then last Friday night, he came to bed smelling like soap and clean skin. Hair still damp. I rolled over and looked at him.

“You did good,” I said.

He waited. Didn’t reach. Just watched me with those hungry eyes as I pushed the covers down and climbed on top of him. I straddled his hips and felt his cock already hard beneath me. Thick and clean as I reached between us and wrapped my hand around it.

“This is your reward,” I told him.

I lifted up, guided the head to my cunt, and sank down slowly. Taking every inch and moaning as he filled me. Not realising how much I had missed this feeling as I started riding him, grinding my clit against his base, tits in his face.