Mitchell's Take
Copyright© 2026 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 2
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - husband's perspective
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction White Male Oriental Female Oral Sex Voyeurism
Could it have been because she was angry at me?
“I know you don’t want me to go down on you,” I’d said just the other day. We were getting ready to go out.
But I did it anyway. She still had her pajamas on, light cotton ones, and I did it through them and didn’t stop. It felt good and she didn’t seem to mind too, responded, liked it. Her legs spread apart, we were on the bed, my hands gripping her thighs to press my mouth, ignoring the pajama fabric as if it wasn’t there, probing with my tongue, really getting at her pussy, her softness, forms, all but penetrating the thin fabric, which became so wet it seemed it would give way, transparent, the white diaphanous flimsy weave sodden there, darker, not really darker in fact but dulled. Akemi’s bod softened, responded, arched, moved. God, I liked it.
Akemi had been wanting us to get started going out.
Could it have been things like that I did that did it?
I’d taught her American- New York- things I did growing up, not just stickball but stoop-ball, where you bounced the spaldeen (Spalding) against the front steps, caromed it hard, sent it shooting into the street. Akemi had trouble understanding the rules, thought there were more than there were, more rigid ones.
She’d watched me run after the red-orange ball, bouncing wildly, packed with energy, like a living thing. In pursuit I darted between parked cars, dodged moving ones, as she and others looked on. I was showing off a little and she seemed to enjoy it, though she didn’t exactly clap or hoot with glee or anything. That isn’t her style. She’s not American, after all.
We’d done stuff together. I’d gone with her on errands I thought she’d like, visited an animal shelter to look at dogs. We decided we didn’t want one, as we didn’t want children at least for now.
And I had done stuff like guessing the nationality of one of her ESL classmates who came along on a drive with us.
“Can I ask where you’re from? I realize it’s a personal question. I teach people from around the world so I’m interested. You don’t have to answer.”
He was sitting in the front seat beside me, big burly guy in a light blue checked shirt, Oxford type. He looked the part of a student.
“Guess,” he’d said, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
I took a moment, a long one, pondered.
“This may be wrong. Paraguay?”
He paused dramatically before answering, “Right. It’s Paraguay.”
“How did you know?” Others in the car, Akemi and a second friend, were really wowed. The guy seemed less impressed, but said something like “I’ve gotta hand it to you.”
“Process of elimination. I thought he couldn’t be Mexican because of his pronunciation, and probably not Colombian. Not Brazilian- Portuguese is really different. I think I know how Argentinians sound. And I once had a friend from Chile. And Peru’s heavier, spicy. Ha ha. So that left, pretty much, Paraguay.”
I didn’t think it was my behavior that drove her away.
Mitchell had no idea Akemi was in detention along with others in a government office building in lower Manhattan, one floor converted for that purpose. It didn’t occur to him she had been picked up by immigration enforcement police (driven away literally, in a patrol car). Wouldn’t have crossed his mind because she was here legally, married to him, a permanent resident, all legit, aboveboard, not even a paper marriage, far from it.
Times had changed. Fences, walls you’d counted on for defense were down and nothing stopped people from coming over where you thought you were protected, in your private spaces. Everything up close seemed normal as ever because it was.
Mitchell was walking up the street near home when a neighbor from their building approached on the sidewalk still narrowed by hardened snow. They exchanged greetings and Mitchell thought that would be it since they didn’t know each other well. But the neighbor, already passed, asked, “So how’s it going?” and Mitchell had to take care turning around and stepping off the snow embankment he had stepped onto to let him pass.
“Pretty good. Everything’s going well.” Mitchell, half-turned, craning, gave the neighbor a pat or a sort of swat, actually, on the shoulder, which may have been incongruous but Mitchell had done it to establish contact, show friendliness.
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