Amy and I were up extremely late, finishing preparation for a birthday party the next day for one of our kids. When we finally got to bed near 3 a.m., I was between the sheets first, in my customary position: On my side, head resting on hand, watching her undress. She glanced at me and laughed.
"What?" I said, all innocent-like.
"You're looking at me with a sense of purpose," she said.
I'm always transparent. And I'm always surprised at how transparent I am.
I decided to be blunt. "I do have a purpose: I want to eat your pussy."
She laughed again, this time more bashfully, and said in a small voice, "Well ... okay."
There was much wrapped up in that response. I heard: I'm not really feeling like it right now, but it has been a long time, and I know you really want to, so I'll let you do your thing.
Even though she wasn't into it, we both knew she'd enjoy it. It was understood, as is often the case for these very late-night sessions, that there would be no reciprocation. I'm really okay with that most of the time. I so love going down on her that it's as much a treat for me as it is for her. Usually we just go to sleep afterwards. Or sometimes I'll masturbate as she falls asleep, or she might put her lips next to my ear and sleepily weave a horny fantasy. Once in awhile she'll decide she's awake enough to finish me off with her mouth. It's all good. All I really want is to bring her off.
And more so tonight than usual. She had been unusually bitchy all day Saturday, short with the kids and with me. She has admitted as much herself through the day. She has been feeling little control in her life, and her response is stress-filled. I said to her as she continued to take off her clothes, "You're problem is that you don't get laid enough!" It was meant as a joke, but there was part of me feeling like maybe she doesn't do enough for herself, doesn't let herself just disappear into the beauty of a good orgasm.
I know that people respond to stress differently. When she is stressed, Amy can't think about sex. (From some of the many sex blogs I'm reading, she's not alone.) For me, stress makes me want sex -- The Great De-Stressor -- even more. So when we are both stressed, negotiations for sex can be tricky. Sometimes I'm left to deal with my stress on my own (Hello, Internet porn!); other times, I can talk her into some oral. She always seems more relaxed afterwards.
After some slow kisses, I didn't waste anytime heading south on Amy. At 3 a.m., she's usually not interested in a lot of foreplay. There's a "let's get this done" attitude, which is slightly annoying but understandable, and I'm okay with it under the circumstances.
When I got to her tits, I felt her tense up. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"I don't want that tonight," she said.
"Understood," I acknowledged simply, and down I continued. Amy is still nursing one of our kids on and off, and sometimes ner nipples are too sore to be messed with. Even when they aren't sore, she struggles with breast play these days. She's simply tired of feeling like her breasts aren't hers. It's another tricky situation for me, because I worship Amy's breasts. But it's not worth the (physical or emotional) discomfort, so I've learned to leave them alone more often than I'd like.
Off came her underwear, and my face descended to her dark triangle. A couple of licks on each inner thigh, but again, we weren't wasting a lot of time. Using my tongue to gently separate the folds, I settled my mouth up against her cunt and brought my tongue flat against the clit. I worked in the undulating patterns that I know work for her.
I looked up. This is one of the most scenic views in the world for me: Over her stomach, I see one hand underneath her breasts. Sometimes she plays with them, but in keeping with her feeling tonight, she was leaving them alone. Those gorgeous globes were lolling, and they began to move more as she got more into it. Beyond them, her head, rocking from side to side. Eyes closed. I imagined her trying to find an image on the back of her eyelids that will help her get to orgasm. Eventually, soft moans escape her lips.
Usually, one of her hands comes down and she starts rubbing in circular motions, right where her g-spot is, but on the outside of her pussy instead of inside. As my tongue finds rhythm and a "sweet spot," her rubbing becomes more frenetic. On this night, she actually rubbed with two hands.
Before long, she was writhing. I had to use my hands, which were underneath her legs and holding her hips, to fight the wriggling a little and help me keep my mouth in complete contact with her pussy. Just as she went over the top, I concentrated my tongue in hard, flat circles right against her clit. She bucked a few times, the moans coming out more as "huh huh huh" sounds.
I finally withdrew. She relaxed with a sigh. I moved back up her body, settled next to her. We kissed a couple of times, but she was already headed for dreamland. I let her go. I was tired too. I fell asleep without taking care of myself. In a sense, I already had.
We were on the couch, watching something. My head was in the customary position: In her lap. I hunger for this position. On many nights, this contact, her hands on my head and face, are the only intimacy we'll have.
The party was an unabashed success. Amy was less stressed now, though neither of us were happy about having to go to work tomorrow. I wanted to talk to her about her emotional state the last couple of days, so one of the times she leaned over me, I put a hand on the back of her head, gave her a deep kiss, and said:
"Right now, I really wish we were making love, but I know that this is not where your head has been."
She acknowledged that this was the case. "I know this sounds really silly," she started, "but sometimes I just want to be able to shave my legs. You know? Feel a little more sexy ..."
"That doesn't sound silly in the least, Amy," I said. "I want to make love to you, but if you're not into it, if you don't want it, it's no fun for either of us."
She smiled and continued rubbing my head.
"Besides," she said, "it's not like I'm never in the mood ...."
"No, you're often in the mood," I agreed.
"Well ... I think 'often' might not be accurate," she said sheepishly.
"More often than you probably think," I said.
But we both wish it was more. Hey, at least it's a mutual wish.