God bless grandmas — especially the ones who offer your children an occasional "sleepover." Only one of our two kids was out of the house Saturday night ... but that didn't stop Amy and me from tacitly agreeing that it would be a night of raunch.
One problem: The kid taken off our hands was not the one lately having trouble sleeping. It was past 10:30 before Amy and I were the only conscious humans in the house. The bedtime process exhausted us. I assumed Amy was beyond "recovery" for sex, but she surprised me by asking to be woken up with an episode of The Black Donnellys. ("It is St. Patrick's day, after all," she explained.)
"I'm sorry this evening isn't turning out the way we'd hoped," Amy said after the show. She was stroking my head in her lap.
"What were you hoping for, exactly?" I inquired.
"Oh ... I was thinking we'd watch a porno...."
We stared at a muted television playing some South By Southwest band I had lost interest in. I debated internally whether to reveal my fun secret.
"Well ..." I started, "I do have something on my computer that I've been saving to show you. It's the greatest blowjob I've ever seen filmed."
I always feel weird about revealing to Amy that I've been looking at porn, even though she's totally cool with it. She knows I masturbate a lot, and that I use "educational materials" accordingly. Still, it feels a little ... seedy.
"Okay," she said, sounding genuinely interested. "But ... You shouldn't have that stuff on your computer."
"I know. This is the only thing. I just put it on there for you to see, and then its gone."
"'Cause you don't want someone finding that by accident and being forced to fire you."
"No, you're right. It's gone after tonight. So ... You want to see it?"
"Oh yeah, sure," she said. She went to get a snack while I opened the laptop.
The video is a semi-amateur thing — meaning that the women in it are probably in the industry, either as dancers or as low-level porn actresses, but this is an improvised, small-time, Internet-only cheapie, shot with a single handheld consumer camera in a nondescript bedroom. The cameraman talks way too much, making inane smalltalk and frat-boy comments. Most of the videos I've seen by this guy is ruined by his bullshit logorrhea.
But this one video transcends his blathering.
The stars are two (naturally) large-breasted women. ("So it's a real departure for me!" I explained to Amy.) They spend the first one-third of the video playing with each other's breasts, adeptly incorporating baby oil, hands and mouths. I skipped this part for Amy's viewing and cued it to the point where the male is introduced. The women give his (large and very nice) cock a tandem blowjob. Both women are then fucked in numerous positions while they continue to kiss or play with each other's tits or go down on each other. It concludes with a money shot on their tits.
Pretty basic, vanilla stuff. Except ... Except for that blowjob. You see, these two women have sizzling chemistry. I'm not a huge fan of girl-girl, but what these women essentially do, as the guy is reclined on his back, is have an incendiary makeout session ... and the guy's dick just happens to be perched between their mouths. Their kissing is wet, wild, slow ... almost longing. They savor each other. And ... yeah, there's this huge cock that, almost as a side-effect, gets sucked.
The moment this video becomes worth every penny (even if I did download it for free) is when both men — the one in front of the camera and the one behind — unconsciously cease their nonstop chatter. Suddenly, there is silence, except for the moist sound of lips sucking on lips ... lips sucking on cock ... under-the-breath alto moans. In the span of fifteen seconds, these two lovers instantly own the room, the camera, the cock.
Two minutes later, they break with a nervous giggle; they sense the sea-change. "How's that?" One of them asks. The cameraman/director, clearly caught off guard, is almost speechless, outside of a couple of "Holy fucks." He says that he has filmed probably 1,000 scenes, and this is easily the hottest blowjob he has ever witnessed. I've probably watched that many scenes, and I don't doubt for a minute that he's right.
Amy, watching, clearly agreed. The video is broken up into four files, and this amazing head (later continued with the two women on their knees and shot from the suckee's point of view) happens in the part two. When it ended, I asked Amy: "You wanna keep going?"
"Yes!" she said, enthusiastically.
"You know," I added as I get part three open and running, "if you ever want to set something like this up for me...." She laughed.
We continued watching the whole thing, through all the fucking (both of these women have larger-than-your-usual-pornstar asses — it makes it that much better when they get fucked from behind), right up to the payoff. Just for good measure, the women have one last passionate soulkiss as their cum-covered tits rub together.
(For those interested, I've provided a link to the teaser page for this video in the comments section of this entry.)
The video over, Amy wordlessly popped off the couch and walked around the living room, dining room and kitchen, turning off lights. "After that, you probably want the lights on, though," she considered.
"There's plenty of light," I said, knowing outside ambient light would cast the room in a nice, cool blue wash.
Amy sat down on my lap, straddling me, and began a passionate kiss. Shortly, her top came off. "You get to enjoy my new bra," she said. Few things are hotter than a really well-fitted bra. I played with her covered tits until she popped the front closure and pushed a nipple into my mouth. I'm not sure if it was the focus the video put on my predilection for tit-play or if she was just that turned on, but the she was making tonight about her breasts. She and I shared one of her nipples for awhile, semi-recreating the makeout blowjob we'd seen, with a nipple in place of a cock.
She slid down off my lap, pulled off my pants. So typical of Amy: She never takes my pants off and then my underwear — they always come off together, getting her to the "prize "faster. She rubbed one tit, then the other, up and down my shaft. Finally, her mouth enveloped me, and she primed me with wetness and warmth. She wrapped her breasts around my cock and absorbed my hip thrusts. She seemed to want me to fuck her tits, but she kept coming back to sucking on my dick. At one point, she slowed down and tried her best to re-create a solo version of what the young ladies earlier had accomplished. "I'm imagining you teaming up with someone else as you do that," I suggested.
She stood up, pulled off her pants, straddled me again, pressing her wet cunt against my dick, and sliding up and down. "Am I catching your clit?" I asked her. She moaned in the affirmative. "Use my cock," I encouraged. "Use me to get yourself off." She tried, but what Amy really wanted became obvious when she stood up on the couch and pushed her pussy in my face.
I went to town. So did she, rubbing her cunt all over my mouth, and finally collapsing sideways onto her back — but taking care to keep my mouth in full contact with her clit through the fall. From this position, I brought her to an intense, bucking orgasm.
After a short rest, I asked, "More?" hoping to get to eat her out again.
"More with something else," she said.
I got up on my knees and pushed into her, starting slow and building a rhythm.
"Tell me what else you liked about that video," she ordered.
"I loved their asses," I said. "Nice, big asses, made for fucking."
Amy giggled and kissed me. "How come you never see a video where women are lusting after a man with a big ass?" I had no good answer to that. I was laughing too hard anyway.
I continued: "I have to think it was a good thing that guy didn't fuck 'em in the ass."
"He was huge," Amy said, stating the obvious.
"And I know they're passé, but I loved the one woman's back tattoo," I said. "It's so ... slutty."
Amy laughed. "Don't put too fine a point on it!"
"I'm serious!" I said. Our hips were starting to pick up speed. "You know, you can get temporary tattoos like that," I said, remembering the image of Penelope on her and Odysseus' blog. "You should try one sometime. Then you can be my whore." We both laughed, and things ratcheted up into another gear. I reiterated: "I would fuck my whore." She moaned and pushed back against me harder.
I pulled away and said, "Let's try reverse cowgirl, so I can watch your gorgeous ass."
"I love the way you call it by it's 'official name,'" Amy said with a roll of her eyes.
"What? That's what it's called!"
"I know," she said, straddling my legs, lowering herself onto my cock. "But .... Mmmmmmmmm."
This was a very good position for Amy. She really started getting vocal now. But her thighs weren't holding up; she had to beg off long before either of us wanted her to. Instead, she took up on her hands and knees, on the couch. I took a moment to admire the view before sinking into her once again.
At some point, I found the right spot. "Oh yeah," she panted. "Right there."
I really wanted some talk tonight. "This the way you like to be fucked?" I said.
"Yes!"
"I can tell. Come on, fuck me back." Her rocking became more punctuated. Then I held her ass still while I pulled out, just the tip still in her folds ... and I slammed home.
"Oh God, yes!"
Well, that worked. I tried it again.
"Uhhh. Yes!"
I gathered my strength and fucked her hard with those same long strokes, but faster. And harder. I wanted to hear how loud I could make the hollow clap of my hips hitting her ass. The sound competed with her rhythmic screams. I could tell she was on the verge of new territory. I upped the ante, measuring my palm against her ass, and I came down hard with a slap.
"You know where I'm gonna come?" I hissed.
"Where?"
I slapped her ass again. "I'm gonna come all over your tits."
"Yes, please come on my tits! I love your come on my tits!"
That was the last thing she was able to say. This was just about my highest gear. The only reason I hadn't already come was because I had become momentarily preoccupied with the thought of how incredibly sore my already-wobbly legs were going to be on Monday. Amy brought me back to the moment with sounds I'd never heard before — simultaneously guttural and high-pitched. Was this it? The closest she'd ever been?
Her seeming transcendant state put me over the top. I laughed as I shot my load deep into her: There was no way I was going to pull out of her for the promised breast cumshot. My cock needed to be buried right where it was.
And after we'd come down, our panting the only sound in the room, I realized: I would have been hard-pressed to pull out at all. My hard-on was in a vice grip.
"Jesus, Amy ... You're pussy is holding onto my cock."
This never happens. I mean, she doesn't work to keep those muscles toned. But something had happened.
"I can't relax," she said. Funny, because at that moment, she was probably more relaxed than she'd been in ages. Just ... not her cunt muscles.
We finally were able to disengage, and she fell back into my arms, her eyes closed, her hands searching for my face, her lips devouring mine.
I asked: "Did you actually come?"
"I think so," she said. "If not, it was the closest. For the first time ever, I was able to lose myself and let a door open that I never let open before."
"Damn," I whispered. "Let's work on keeping that door ajar."
"It's funny that, after 16 years together, we're still searching for the ever elusive orgasm-while-fucking," she observed.
"I think it's pretty great," I said, "that we still have a goal like that after 16 years. Most couples have played it all out by then."
We hobbled to the bedroom, leaving all our clothes and the couch pillows all over the living room floor. If we'd tried bending down to pick that stuff up, I doubt we would have been able to get back up again.
Showing posts with label breasts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breasts. Show all posts
19 March 2007
13 March 2007
18 February 2007
King's Night
What's the best thing about The World's Softest Pajamas™? When Amy straddles me and slowly, seductively unbuttons the oversized buttons on the top.
This was a King's night tonight: my chance to lie back and enjoy being "tended to" by my wife. Amy's was "out of commission" for another couple of days, but that didn't stop me from asking her if she would blow me before we went to sleep. As she slipped on those pajamas, she surprised me with a "Sure," considering how late it was.
I liked that she was putting a little thought into it, notjust going for the standard-issue, get-him-off-fast head. Or, perhaps she's smart enough to know that playing the seductress gets the job done faster in the long run, thus getting her to sleep faster.
Regardless, here we were: My wife, now hovering over me, her breasts peeking from behind the opened front of her pajama top, going for a full, soul-exploring kiss while grazing her fingernails over my chest. She silently started to move down toward the bottom of the bed, pausing to suck on a nipple, and then driving me absolutely wild via warm, wet kisses on my sides. (I've never told her what this does to me, by the way. It seems like an odd area to set off such erogenous feelings ... yet it isn't quite strange enough to earn the classification of "kink.")
There is that moment, before she takes me in her mouth, when the anticipation can make me giddy. Some nights, as she did tonight, she kisses around my cock. Or she goes further down and kisses my thighs. Or her nipples trace along my legs, causing her hair to inadvertently tickle my dick. I am in awe of expectancy. This is the moment, if she were on top of her game, when she would ask me for something I might not be giving her. (As if there were ever anything I would give her!) Note to the authorities: If I'm incarcerated and you need the information I've been withholding, bring my wife in, get me to this point, and then ask your most probing questions. I am putty.
Luckily, she didn't stop there. She slipped just the head in, suckled the helmet for a second, and then began the "lip walk" down the shaft. I wish I had a recording of the exhale that escapes me; I'm sure that breath sounds unlike any other I take during my entire day.
There are times that I honestly think I could have survived my entire life without ever having fucked someone, as long as I could give and receive oral sex. On this evening, Amy brought out her A-game: nibbling and sucking up and down the side of the shaft, tonguing my balls lightly, consuming them at times, with an involuntary grunt. Working hard and fast ... backing off slow, seeming to savor my cock. And at some point in the process, that cock always manages to find its way between her breasts, squeezed and massaged, lubricated with her saliva. Groan-inducing, indeed.
It's hard not to sound cliché after a blowjob like this, but I can't help it: As she lies back next to me again, and I feel the fresh deposit of cum on my stomach and dripping down my softening member, I kiss her deeply and say with as much import as I can muster: "God, do I love you!" It always brings a laugh, and I'm probably playing to the humor ... but I do truly mean it. I'm a lucky man.
***
Note: It's been a ridiculously busy couple of weeks for me, and the pressure of keeping up with Real Life and still blog as much as I wanted was too much. The timing was awful, seeing as the Sugasm thing last week increased visitors to this blog tenfold — literally — and then, just as suddenly, new original content seemed to stop. So it goes.
The funny thing is, at the same time that my life got all packed, Amy and I actually had sex three times in a seven-day period. Not an amazing thing for many of you, but for us, it was a truly remarkable feat. Of course, two of those can be attributed to Valentine's Day. But something else has happened, too — something in Amy's mind. You'll get to hear about in an upcoming post. I know I'm champing at the bit to write about it. Until then, you'll have to put up with the above vignette from last Sunday's encounter.
This was a King's night tonight: my chance to lie back and enjoy being "tended to" by my wife. Amy's was "out of commission" for another couple of days, but that didn't stop me from asking her if she would blow me before we went to sleep. As she slipped on those pajamas, she surprised me with a "Sure," considering how late it was.
I liked that she was putting a little thought into it, notjust going for the standard-issue, get-him-off-fast head. Or, perhaps she's smart enough to know that playing the seductress gets the job done faster in the long run, thus getting her to sleep faster.
Regardless, here we were: My wife, now hovering over me, her breasts peeking from behind the opened front of her pajama top, going for a full, soul-exploring kiss while grazing her fingernails over my chest. She silently started to move down toward the bottom of the bed, pausing to suck on a nipple, and then driving me absolutely wild via warm, wet kisses on my sides. (I've never told her what this does to me, by the way. It seems like an odd area to set off such erogenous feelings ... yet it isn't quite strange enough to earn the classification of "kink.")
There is that moment, before she takes me in her mouth, when the anticipation can make me giddy. Some nights, as she did tonight, she kisses around my cock. Or she goes further down and kisses my thighs. Or her nipples trace along my legs, causing her hair to inadvertently tickle my dick. I am in awe of expectancy. This is the moment, if she were on top of her game, when she would ask me for something I might not be giving her. (As if there were ever anything I would give her!) Note to the authorities: If I'm incarcerated and you need the information I've been withholding, bring my wife in, get me to this point, and then ask your most probing questions. I am putty.
Luckily, she didn't stop there. She slipped just the head in, suckled the helmet for a second, and then began the "lip walk" down the shaft. I wish I had a recording of the exhale that escapes me; I'm sure that breath sounds unlike any other I take during my entire day.
There are times that I honestly think I could have survived my entire life without ever having fucked someone, as long as I could give and receive oral sex. On this evening, Amy brought out her A-game: nibbling and sucking up and down the side of the shaft, tonguing my balls lightly, consuming them at times, with an involuntary grunt. Working hard and fast ... backing off slow, seeming to savor my cock. And at some point in the process, that cock always manages to find its way between her breasts, squeezed and massaged, lubricated with her saliva. Groan-inducing, indeed.
It's hard not to sound cliché after a blowjob like this, but I can't help it: As she lies back next to me again, and I feel the fresh deposit of cum on my stomach and dripping down my softening member, I kiss her deeply and say with as much import as I can muster: "God, do I love you!" It always brings a laugh, and I'm probably playing to the humor ... but I do truly mean it. I'm a lucky man.
Note: It's been a ridiculously busy couple of weeks for me, and the pressure of keeping up with Real Life and still blog as much as I wanted was too much. The timing was awful, seeing as the Sugasm thing last week increased visitors to this blog tenfold — literally — and then, just as suddenly, new original content seemed to stop. So it goes.
The funny thing is, at the same time that my life got all packed, Amy and I actually had sex three times in a seven-day period. Not an amazing thing for many of you, but for us, it was a truly remarkable feat. Of course, two of those can be attributed to Valentine's Day. But something else has happened, too — something in Amy's mind. You'll get to hear about in an upcoming post. I know I'm champing at the bit to write about it. Until then, you'll have to put up with the above vignette from last Sunday's encounter.
07 February 2007
Black Tie Optional; Cleavage Required.
"How are the contacts?" I asked Amy as we drove to the birthday party last Saturday night. She doesn't wear them very often -- they're often more bother to her eyes than they're worth.
"Fine. Of course, I can't see very well at night...."
"Then, you're not driving tonight," I ordered. "Which means you get to drink all you want tonight. Go for it."
Though she was looking out her window, I could tell she was smiling when she commented, "You just want me to get loose."
"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," I insisted in mock shock.
Many impure thoughts had been crossing my mind for much of that afternoon. We had gone dress shopping for this event. Specifically, it was a friend's fortieth birthday, and the invitation said, very prominently: "Black Tie Optional." While it's rare that we go to grown-ups-only parties at all at this point in our lives, it's unheard of that we find ourselves at a party this formal. So Amy and I had spent a few hours at an upscale department store. We had narrowed it down to two dresses, both of which showed off her cleavage beautifully. It had been so long since she'd worn something like this, I had to keep checking in and making sure she was really comfortable with appearing in public looking this ... well, sexy.
"Well," I said, talking to Amy but raising my eyebrows at the saleswoman who had been helping us all afternoon, "you can bet I have no problem with it." The sales associate laughed, only slightly embarrassed. I'm sure she'd heard worse.
She decided on a flashy teal-and-brown number, with some sharkskin-like shimmery material highlighting in places, and some colorful beading. Her final touch, added just before we left for the party, was a necklace I had given her a couple of Christmases ago: a silver chain, with a second silver strand attached, and a black pearl dangling from the end. It worked beautifully, though Amy pointed out that the necklace essentially pointed to "the obvious" below. I noted that it wasn't likely that people were going to miss that cleavage, necklace or not. She didn't dispute me. I'm sure she also knew that I was going to enjoy the view all night. She had even assigned me the responsibility of letting me know if the dress had shifted, showing the strapless bra during the night.
"We should have a code phrase," I suggested.
"Just tell me, if it's alright, that you just checked in and 'the girls are fine.'" Perfect!
I dropped Amy off at the party and went to park the car. The first person to greet her was the birthday boy's wife, who instantly said: "Wow, you've got great cleavage. I'm so envious. I could never pull that off." When Amy told me this upon my arrival, I mentioned: "You have to figure, if the women are commenting on it...." She just smiled, but with an underlying boldness. She was gonna be fine.
As it turned out, cleavage was in no short supply at the party. One woman had been so daring as to wear a very nice navy pant suit with the coat buttoned up to only partially hide a red push-up bra. It sounds more slutty than it actually was ... she pulled it off nicely. Another woman, most definitely falling under the category of BBW, was working her benefits to the best of her advantage as well. But -- and this is a completely unbiased opinion here -- no one had pulled off the "revelation of the bosom" with as much class and flair as my wife.
The party was a low-key affair, held in a space inspired by 1920s France, with wall-to-wall red velvet, period fixtures, and Folies Bergere posters galore. It felt opulent, decadent. Though we knew hardly anyone there, Amy's outgoing personality attracted a couple, Adam and Maria, to our table, and we spent most of the night getting to know each other. They were about four years our junior, and really quite the gorgeous couple.
An astrologer had been hired as part of the entertainment, and Amy and I signed up for readings, as did our new friends. Amy got her reading first while I looked on. She was accurate on all the insanely general things ("You're feeling some stress in your life right now") and pretty wrong every time she tried to narrow in on more specific information. But at least she had a lovely British accent.
She asked Amy if she had any specific questions, which caught us by surprise. ("I didn't know we had to study for this test," I commented.) That gave me time to figure out my questions, and when it was my turn, I was prepared. My question about the health of a family member flustered the astrologer a little bit. (She wisely disclaimed everything she said by saying, "Of course, I'm not a medical doctor.") But then I really did a number on her when I looked over at Amy and said, "What I really want to know about is how my sex life is going to be in the future." Everyone at the table laughed, the astrologer most nervously.
"I want to know that too!" exclaimed Amy.
This emboldened me. "Okay! That's what I want to know!"
The astrologer, with a silly grin, couldn't stop giggling. All she could do was shake her head. She wasn't gonna go there. What a wuss! I asked some vague question about my job, and of course I was assured that everything was going swimmingly but that "there would be some change" coming. (Ya think?) We wrapped things up.
Later, as songs from the celebrated gentleman's birth year played over the P.A., we compared notes with Adam and Maria about our silly astrology readings. Conversation moved on to culture, work life, parenting. It was hard for my mind (helped along by two glasses of wine, a Tom Collins, and probably too little food) not to wander away to thoughts of us with this couple. Maria had these girl-next-door good looks, a natural beauty that looked slightly uncomfortable in this more formal setting. (I surmised she would have been happy to get out of her dress, and I was betting that Adam and I would be only too happy to oblige.) Adam had those chiseled features that reminded me of someone, and at some point during the night, I figured it out, bent to Amy's ear and whispered: "Sting!" She nodded agreement without breaking her conversation. I wondered if Adam's thoughts had wandered at all, courtesy Amy's, um, necklace.
In the car on the way home, Amy was feeling hungry. "Cheese fries sound decadent and amazing," she suggested. "Don't they?"
I slowed down -- we were just about to pass the exit we would need to take to get the best cheese fries in town. "That's a possibility," I said. "Another option would be a big bowl of buttered pasta after I'm done having my way with you tonight."
Amy half-smirked; she knew that overture was coming sometime in the evening. "That sounds good too. I can't decide. It all sounds good. Fries, pasta ... Either is fine. Regardless of your having your way with me." My zooming past the exit made the decision for us: Pasta it would be.
We arrived home after midnight, and I ran the babysitter back to her place. By the time I returned, I passed through the kitchen and saw a pot of water already heating on the stove. Amy was on the couch, still wearing her dress. "I thought we shouldn't delay getting the water going." I turned the burner down to simmer and proceeded to the living room, kneeling next to her. "I left my dress on. I figured you wanted to remove it."
"How astute."
She stood up and I turned her hips so that she faced away from me. Zipper down. Straps off shoulders. Dress sliding past the waist. Legs stepping out. I pressed my cheek against the small of her back as I reached up and cupped her tits, still clad in her strapless. I felt this internal release. Almost as if it was a relief to be here again. A hunger about to be sated ... finally. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years?
And what the hell was that bra doing still on? Away it went.
Amy was feeling tired from the long day and asked to lie back down on the couch. We continued kissing as I rubbed her nylon-clad legs. Her neck was deliciously warm, and tucking my face in there, I felt like it was a favorite secret place. I noticed that as we kissed, Amy was doing something she doesn't normally do at this stage in the evening.
"You're really playing with your tits a lot tonight," I whispered. She was kneading them with both hands, rubbing them with flat palms. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about these tits rubbing against you...." she moaned. "Your chest ... Your cock...."
"Show me."
She sat up. "Lie down."
Once I was on my back, my wife kissed quickly down my chest while undoing my belt. Soon the pants were history, and she rubbed her face against my cock and balls. Somewhere in there, as if by magic, my cock was deep in her mouth -- and then, just as suddenly, feeling the air again. And then quickly enveloped by her tits. It wasn't a tit-fuck so much as it was a breast attack ... rubbing all over, with intermittent cock-sucking to keep things lubricated. When she didn't have her mouth full of cock, it was full of words.
"I'm thinking about another man fucking me," she hissed, "while I suck this cock."
"God, yes," I encouraged. "I'd love to see him drilling you back there."
"He's filling me with his hard dick," she moaned.
I had to hand it to her, she was giving it her all. Maybe too much for her, in fact: She seemed almost restless, rushed. She stopped after only a short while, insisting: "I need to really get fucked." She stood up long enough to inside-out the pantyhose, and then she was straddling me. Without further "ado," she shoved my cock into her cunt. No lube, no other prep.
I'm losing count of how many times recently she has become the aggressor. And for the first time -- just for a moment -- I was a little bothered by it. In my version of how things would go tonight, I had imagined that I would be the one in control. Yet, here we were again, with her fucking me. Not that it was difficult to adjust my expectations! But just for a moment, I wondered if she was using the control as a way of keeping something else from happening, something she didn't want. For the life of me, I can't imagine what that would be.
Was this a case of getting what I had asked for? I had wanted her to be a little more aggressive in bed, to tell me what she wanted, to take it rather than always waiting for it to be handed to her. On the grand scheme of things, this is an extremely minor issue, not even rising to the level of "complaint." More an observation, something to be aware of.
Meanwhile, the fucking continued, hard and fast, but again, not for long: She popped off of my dick and moved up the couch until her pussy was pressing against my face. I caught her oh-so-subtle hint and went to town on her with my tongue and teeth. Her pussy was delightfully soft, tenderized by the frantic fucking. She ground hard against my mouth as I worked her pussy to an orgasm that temporarily tensed every muscle in her body. The tension was followed by a sigh, a balloon slowly, soundlessly releasing all of its air.
Aware that I hadn't gotten mine yet, Amy laid down in the opposite direction on the couch, sort of curling herself around my dick and beginning some serious oral with intent. I encouraged her: "That's right ... nice and sloppy. Let me hear you sucking my cock. Suck your husband's cock 'til he shoots his come all over." I tried playing with her pussy a bit as she blew me, but she nudged my hand away.
When I got close, I told her I wanted to come on her tits, and her approval came in the form of a moan that moved me quickly to the goal. Soon she was pushing my cock between her breasts as I squeezed out a few shudder-accompanied spurts. "Sorry the angle wasn't better for getting it all over my tits," she said.
"No need to apologize." I pressed her against me, feeling my cum on her chest, now on mine as well. "It's not like I was going to take the time to reposition us just for a money shot." At least not this time.
She snuggled up against me. "So how about that pasta?" she asked.
"I'm on it," I said. But I didn't move, and shortly we had both fallen into a light slumber.
Some time later, we roused, and Amy asked, "Do you still want the pasta?"
"Not really," I said. "I'm feeling pretty fulfilled at the moment." She still wanted something, so we settled on a grilled cheese sandwich, which I prepared in the nude. It's not the safest thing in the world, but if I'm not, say, cooking bacon, I love cooking in the nude. And it's not something I get to do too often anymore.
Amy was sore the next day -- not using lube turned out to be a slight mistake. But it did lead to her making a comment as we drove to work Monday morning: "I'm sorry we're not having sex more often ... But you have to admit that it's pretty amazing when we do."
Yes, I guess I do have to admit that. And hardly begrudgingly.
"Fine. Of course, I can't see very well at night...."
"Then, you're not driving tonight," I ordered. "Which means you get to drink all you want tonight. Go for it."
Though she was looking out her window, I could tell she was smiling when she commented, "You just want me to get loose."
"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," I insisted in mock shock.
Many impure thoughts had been crossing my mind for much of that afternoon. We had gone dress shopping for this event. Specifically, it was a friend's fortieth birthday, and the invitation said, very prominently: "Black Tie Optional." While it's rare that we go to grown-ups-only parties at all at this point in our lives, it's unheard of that we find ourselves at a party this formal. So Amy and I had spent a few hours at an upscale department store. We had narrowed it down to two dresses, both of which showed off her cleavage beautifully. It had been so long since she'd worn something like this, I had to keep checking in and making sure she was really comfortable with appearing in public looking this ... well, sexy.
"Well," I said, talking to Amy but raising my eyebrows at the saleswoman who had been helping us all afternoon, "you can bet I have no problem with it." The sales associate laughed, only slightly embarrassed. I'm sure she'd heard worse.
She decided on a flashy teal-and-brown number, with some sharkskin-like shimmery material highlighting in places, and some colorful beading. Her final touch, added just before we left for the party, was a necklace I had given her a couple of Christmases ago: a silver chain, with a second silver strand attached, and a black pearl dangling from the end. It worked beautifully, though Amy pointed out that the necklace essentially pointed to "the obvious" below. I noted that it wasn't likely that people were going to miss that cleavage, necklace or not. She didn't dispute me. I'm sure she also knew that I was going to enjoy the view all night. She had even assigned me the responsibility of letting me know if the dress had shifted, showing the strapless bra during the night.
"We should have a code phrase," I suggested.
"Just tell me, if it's alright, that you just checked in and 'the girls are fine.'" Perfect!
I dropped Amy off at the party and went to park the car. The first person to greet her was the birthday boy's wife, who instantly said: "Wow, you've got great cleavage. I'm so envious. I could never pull that off." When Amy told me this upon my arrival, I mentioned: "You have to figure, if the women are commenting on it...." She just smiled, but with an underlying boldness. She was gonna be fine.
As it turned out, cleavage was in no short supply at the party. One woman had been so daring as to wear a very nice navy pant suit with the coat buttoned up to only partially hide a red push-up bra. It sounds more slutty than it actually was ... she pulled it off nicely. Another woman, most definitely falling under the category of BBW, was working her benefits to the best of her advantage as well. But -- and this is a completely unbiased opinion here -- no one had pulled off the "revelation of the bosom" with as much class and flair as my wife.
The party was a low-key affair, held in a space inspired by 1920s France, with wall-to-wall red velvet, period fixtures, and Folies Bergere posters galore. It felt opulent, decadent. Though we knew hardly anyone there, Amy's outgoing personality attracted a couple, Adam and Maria, to our table, and we spent most of the night getting to know each other. They were about four years our junior, and really quite the gorgeous couple.
An astrologer had been hired as part of the entertainment, and Amy and I signed up for readings, as did our new friends. Amy got her reading first while I looked on. She was accurate on all the insanely general things ("You're feeling some stress in your life right now") and pretty wrong every time she tried to narrow in on more specific information. But at least she had a lovely British accent.
She asked Amy if she had any specific questions, which caught us by surprise. ("I didn't know we had to study for this test," I commented.) That gave me time to figure out my questions, and when it was my turn, I was prepared. My question about the health of a family member flustered the astrologer a little bit. (She wisely disclaimed everything she said by saying, "Of course, I'm not a medical doctor.") But then I really did a number on her when I looked over at Amy and said, "What I really want to know about is how my sex life is going to be in the future." Everyone at the table laughed, the astrologer most nervously.
"I want to know that too!" exclaimed Amy.
This emboldened me. "Okay! That's what I want to know!"
The astrologer, with a silly grin, couldn't stop giggling. All she could do was shake her head. She wasn't gonna go there. What a wuss! I asked some vague question about my job, and of course I was assured that everything was going swimmingly but that "there would be some change" coming. (Ya think?) We wrapped things up.
Later, as songs from the celebrated gentleman's birth year played over the P.A., we compared notes with Adam and Maria about our silly astrology readings. Conversation moved on to culture, work life, parenting. It was hard for my mind (helped along by two glasses of wine, a Tom Collins, and probably too little food) not to wander away to thoughts of us with this couple. Maria had these girl-next-door good looks, a natural beauty that looked slightly uncomfortable in this more formal setting. (I surmised she would have been happy to get out of her dress, and I was betting that Adam and I would be only too happy to oblige.) Adam had those chiseled features that reminded me of someone, and at some point during the night, I figured it out, bent to Amy's ear and whispered: "Sting!" She nodded agreement without breaking her conversation. I wondered if Adam's thoughts had wandered at all, courtesy Amy's, um, necklace.
In the car on the way home, Amy was feeling hungry. "Cheese fries sound decadent and amazing," she suggested. "Don't they?"
I slowed down -- we were just about to pass the exit we would need to take to get the best cheese fries in town. "That's a possibility," I said. "Another option would be a big bowl of buttered pasta after I'm done having my way with you tonight."
Amy half-smirked; she knew that overture was coming sometime in the evening. "That sounds good too. I can't decide. It all sounds good. Fries, pasta ... Either is fine. Regardless of your having your way with me." My zooming past the exit made the decision for us: Pasta it would be.
We arrived home after midnight, and I ran the babysitter back to her place. By the time I returned, I passed through the kitchen and saw a pot of water already heating on the stove. Amy was on the couch, still wearing her dress. "I thought we shouldn't delay getting the water going." I turned the burner down to simmer and proceeded to the living room, kneeling next to her. "I left my dress on. I figured you wanted to remove it."
"How astute."
She stood up and I turned her hips so that she faced away from me. Zipper down. Straps off shoulders. Dress sliding past the waist. Legs stepping out. I pressed my cheek against the small of her back as I reached up and cupped her tits, still clad in her strapless. I felt this internal release. Almost as if it was a relief to be here again. A hunger about to be sated ... finally. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years?
And what the hell was that bra doing still on? Away it went.
Amy was feeling tired from the long day and asked to lie back down on the couch. We continued kissing as I rubbed her nylon-clad legs. Her neck was deliciously warm, and tucking my face in there, I felt like it was a favorite secret place. I noticed that as we kissed, Amy was doing something she doesn't normally do at this stage in the evening.
"You're really playing with your tits a lot tonight," I whispered. She was kneading them with both hands, rubbing them with flat palms. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about these tits rubbing against you...." she moaned. "Your chest ... Your cock...."
"Show me."
She sat up. "Lie down."
Once I was on my back, my wife kissed quickly down my chest while undoing my belt. Soon the pants were history, and she rubbed her face against my cock and balls. Somewhere in there, as if by magic, my cock was deep in her mouth -- and then, just as suddenly, feeling the air again. And then quickly enveloped by her tits. It wasn't a tit-fuck so much as it was a breast attack ... rubbing all over, with intermittent cock-sucking to keep things lubricated. When she didn't have her mouth full of cock, it was full of words.
"I'm thinking about another man fucking me," she hissed, "while I suck this cock."
"God, yes," I encouraged. "I'd love to see him drilling you back there."
"He's filling me with his hard dick," she moaned.
I had to hand it to her, she was giving it her all. Maybe too much for her, in fact: She seemed almost restless, rushed. She stopped after only a short while, insisting: "I need to really get fucked." She stood up long enough to inside-out the pantyhose, and then she was straddling me. Without further "ado," she shoved my cock into her cunt. No lube, no other prep.
I'm losing count of how many times recently she has become the aggressor. And for the first time -- just for a moment -- I was a little bothered by it. In my version of how things would go tonight, I had imagined that I would be the one in control. Yet, here we were again, with her fucking me. Not that it was difficult to adjust my expectations! But just for a moment, I wondered if she was using the control as a way of keeping something else from happening, something she didn't want. For the life of me, I can't imagine what that would be.
Was this a case of getting what I had asked for? I had wanted her to be a little more aggressive in bed, to tell me what she wanted, to take it rather than always waiting for it to be handed to her. On the grand scheme of things, this is an extremely minor issue, not even rising to the level of "complaint." More an observation, something to be aware of.
Meanwhile, the fucking continued, hard and fast, but again, not for long: She popped off of my dick and moved up the couch until her pussy was pressing against my face. I caught her oh-so-subtle hint and went to town on her with my tongue and teeth. Her pussy was delightfully soft, tenderized by the frantic fucking. She ground hard against my mouth as I worked her pussy to an orgasm that temporarily tensed every muscle in her body. The tension was followed by a sigh, a balloon slowly, soundlessly releasing all of its air.
Aware that I hadn't gotten mine yet, Amy laid down in the opposite direction on the couch, sort of curling herself around my dick and beginning some serious oral with intent. I encouraged her: "That's right ... nice and sloppy. Let me hear you sucking my cock. Suck your husband's cock 'til he shoots his come all over." I tried playing with her pussy a bit as she blew me, but she nudged my hand away.
When I got close, I told her I wanted to come on her tits, and her approval came in the form of a moan that moved me quickly to the goal. Soon she was pushing my cock between her breasts as I squeezed out a few shudder-accompanied spurts. "Sorry the angle wasn't better for getting it all over my tits," she said.
"No need to apologize." I pressed her against me, feeling my cum on her chest, now on mine as well. "It's not like I was going to take the time to reposition us just for a money shot." At least not this time.
She snuggled up against me. "So how about that pasta?" she asked.
"I'm on it," I said. But I didn't move, and shortly we had both fallen into a light slumber.
Some time later, we roused, and Amy asked, "Do you still want the pasta?"
"Not really," I said. "I'm feeling pretty fulfilled at the moment." She still wanted something, so we settled on a grilled cheese sandwich, which I prepared in the nude. It's not the safest thing in the world, but if I'm not, say, cooking bacon, I love cooking in the nude. And it's not something I get to do too often anymore.
Amy was sore the next day -- not using lube turned out to be a slight mistake. But it did lead to her making a comment as we drove to work Monday morning: "I'm sorry we're not having sex more often ... But you have to admit that it's pretty amazing when we do."
Yes, I guess I do have to admit that. And hardly begrudgingly.
29 January 2007
Cop a Feel, Show Me the Love.
Amy and I are pretty good at "the communication thing." We talk things out pretty well. But like all couples with a long history, we make our fair share of assumptions without clearly communicating, and we end up in relationship minefields on occasion.
We resort to a lot of "shorthand" typical of marriage ... which is just a different way of making assumptions, I suppose. There is verbal shorthand -- language or phrases familiar only to us. (We refer to our favored way of lying together in bed as "position one.") And there is an emotional shorthand that develops. (Amy calls to me from down the hall, and I can tell from a tone in her voice that she's upset, so I move quickly down the hallway.)
Here's a less obvious example: On Saturday night, I suggested a shower together. Amy paused before answering. A fly on the wall might have assumed she was considering my proposal, but in fact it was being dismissed. To be honest, I knew before I asked -- she had been cleaning up crap around the house all night, obsessing about our home's disorder. Her speech was coming in short, purposeful bursts ("What do you want to do with these magazines?" "I'm getting rid of these socks, they bug me"). She wasn't angry, but neither was her demeanor light. In other words, she probably couldn't have been feeling less like having sex without being in an emergency room waiting area. Still, I had to ask, just in case she was willing to try and shift gears.
When she waffled, I took the burden off of her. What I wanted to do required her full emotional participation. If I didn't have that, I was no longer interested myself. There will be other nights.
Last night, I decided quite spontaneously to break down one of the "shorthands" Amy has built around us. I had propositioned her with oral (of the non-reciprocating variety), and she was semi-interested until she discovered how late it had was. "Sorry to ruin your fun," she said, officially taking sex off the table as she buttoned her pajamas. Already naked in bed, I told her that was fine, that I understood.
After she turned off the lights and climbed into bed, we were having a conversation about something unrelated, and I took her hand and put it on my cock. She didn't move it for a moment or two and we kept talking.
At a break in the conversation, I said: "Play with me for awhile."
"Well ... okay." Her hand moved around a little. The tone in her voice wasn't lost on me.
"Are you reluctant," I asked, "because you think you're going to get me going? That you'll leave me all teased and turned on and frustrated?"
"Well ... yeah," Amy said.
"You know, sometimes I just like being touched. Teased. It doesn't have to mean I want all-out sex."
"Okay," she said, and her hand moved with a little more assurance.
"It's nice to know occasionally that you know it's there, even when it's not gonna get used."
She got it. We talked about something else while she manipulated. My cock was hard. I was happy where I was, just enjoying the feel. This wasn't going anywhere, and that was just fine.
After a few minutes, Amy turned away from me. One might have taken that as shorthand for her being upset with me, but this was not the case. She's just more comfortable sleeping on the side of her body that faces away from me. Every night she does this, and every night I spoon against her after the flip. On this occasion I also thrust my newly aroused shaft against her pajama-covered butt.
"Thank you," I kissed into her ear. "It's nice to have just that once in awhile." Amy sleepily acknowledged.
Not a day goes by that I don't find opportunities to touch Amy in an "adult" way. Usually it involves caressing or grabbing her ass. Sometimes, if the "coast is clear," I'll come up behind her and gently palm a breast. Sometimes the touch is accompanied by a comment, eliciting one of her self-conscious laughs. I'm stealing a chance to fondle my lover -- on the sly, without my wife finding out. The fact that my lover and my wife are one and the same seems immaterial.
Some people would find this touchy habit annoying. Apparently Amy doesn't. In fact, this morning, after dragging a hand across her butt for the third time in less than five minutes as I moved around the kitchen, I apologized: "I'm sorry," I said. "I'll stop touching you."
"You do not have to stop touching me!" she assured.
Well, good, then. I won't!
(Except perhaps I do have to be more careful when I cup her breasts with cold hands. No need to see if she can put a hole in our bedroom ceiling with her head.)
So I have this shorthand with her body as we move through our day together ... but she doesn't return the favor much. She doesn't cop feels. Why is that? Maybe it's just not her thing. She enjoys receiving gropes, but maybe she's not comfortable giving them. Or perhaps it just doesn't occur to her. I'm trying to let her know that it's okay to tease me.
I was thinking about this in the shower this morning. When I got out, I returned to the bedroom where Amy was still snoozing. I woke her with a kiss and then I rubbed her back, which melted her. I reached under the pajama top and caressed a breast. She seemed to be enjoying it, not hurrying to get up. Then she said: "I suddenly need to pee." When she arose, she saw me in my turgid state. "I'm sorry that I'm leaving you with that," she said as she reached down and gave it a couple tugs. She sounded genuinely disappointed.
Off to the bathroom she went ... and off to the bathroom I followed. When she sat down and when she looked up, she was staring directly at my cock. She let out a low chuckle and took the head in her mouth. She sat there for less than a minute, sleepily licking the shaft while my fingers rubbed her head. When she was done peeing, I asked her what she wanted for breakfast, walked out, pulled on my underwear, and started the rest of my day.
Just play. Just fun. A little tease, and another suggestion to her that it doesn't have to go somewhere every time, that we can fool around for a few moments and then return to business as usual. It's hard to find the playful side of our days with the internal and external stresses. And as we go through our days as spouses and parents, it's nice to remember that we are also lovers.
We resort to a lot of "shorthand" typical of marriage ... which is just a different way of making assumptions, I suppose. There is verbal shorthand -- language or phrases familiar only to us. (We refer to our favored way of lying together in bed as "position one.") And there is an emotional shorthand that develops. (Amy calls to me from down the hall, and I can tell from a tone in her voice that she's upset, so I move quickly down the hallway.)
Here's a less obvious example: On Saturday night, I suggested a shower together. Amy paused before answering. A fly on the wall might have assumed she was considering my proposal, but in fact it was being dismissed. To be honest, I knew before I asked -- she had been cleaning up crap around the house all night, obsessing about our home's disorder. Her speech was coming in short, purposeful bursts ("What do you want to do with these magazines?" "I'm getting rid of these socks, they bug me"). She wasn't angry, but neither was her demeanor light. In other words, she probably couldn't have been feeling less like having sex without being in an emergency room waiting area. Still, I had to ask, just in case she was willing to try and shift gears.
When she waffled, I took the burden off of her. What I wanted to do required her full emotional participation. If I didn't have that, I was no longer interested myself. There will be other nights.
Last night, I decided quite spontaneously to break down one of the "shorthands" Amy has built around us. I had propositioned her with oral (of the non-reciprocating variety), and she was semi-interested until she discovered how late it had was. "Sorry to ruin your fun," she said, officially taking sex off the table as she buttoned her pajamas. Already naked in bed, I told her that was fine, that I understood.
After she turned off the lights and climbed into bed, we were having a conversation about something unrelated, and I took her hand and put it on my cock. She didn't move it for a moment or two and we kept talking.
At a break in the conversation, I said: "Play with me for awhile."
"Well ... okay." Her hand moved around a little. The tone in her voice wasn't lost on me.
"Are you reluctant," I asked, "because you think you're going to get me going? That you'll leave me all teased and turned on and frustrated?"
"Well ... yeah," Amy said.
"You know, sometimes I just like being touched. Teased. It doesn't have to mean I want all-out sex."
"Okay," she said, and her hand moved with a little more assurance.
"It's nice to know occasionally that you know it's there, even when it's not gonna get used."
She got it. We talked about something else while she manipulated. My cock was hard. I was happy where I was, just enjoying the feel. This wasn't going anywhere, and that was just fine.
After a few minutes, Amy turned away from me. One might have taken that as shorthand for her being upset with me, but this was not the case. She's just more comfortable sleeping on the side of her body that faces away from me. Every night she does this, and every night I spoon against her after the flip. On this occasion I also thrust my newly aroused shaft against her pajama-covered butt.
"Thank you," I kissed into her ear. "It's nice to have just that once in awhile." Amy sleepily acknowledged.
Not a day goes by that I don't find opportunities to touch Amy in an "adult" way. Usually it involves caressing or grabbing her ass. Sometimes, if the "coast is clear," I'll come up behind her and gently palm a breast. Sometimes the touch is accompanied by a comment, eliciting one of her self-conscious laughs. I'm stealing a chance to fondle my lover -- on the sly, without my wife finding out. The fact that my lover and my wife are one and the same seems immaterial.
Some people would find this touchy habit annoying. Apparently Amy doesn't. In fact, this morning, after dragging a hand across her butt for the third time in less than five minutes as I moved around the kitchen, I apologized: "I'm sorry," I said. "I'll stop touching you."
"You do not have to stop touching me!" she assured.
Well, good, then. I won't!
(Except perhaps I do have to be more careful when I cup her breasts with cold hands. No need to see if she can put a hole in our bedroom ceiling with her head.)
So I have this shorthand with her body as we move through our day together ... but she doesn't return the favor much. She doesn't cop feels. Why is that? Maybe it's just not her thing. She enjoys receiving gropes, but maybe she's not comfortable giving them. Or perhaps it just doesn't occur to her. I'm trying to let her know that it's okay to tease me.
I was thinking about this in the shower this morning. When I got out, I returned to the bedroom where Amy was still snoozing. I woke her with a kiss and then I rubbed her back, which melted her. I reached under the pajama top and caressed a breast. She seemed to be enjoying it, not hurrying to get up. Then she said: "I suddenly need to pee." When she arose, she saw me in my turgid state. "I'm sorry that I'm leaving you with that," she said as she reached down and gave it a couple tugs. She sounded genuinely disappointed.
Off to the bathroom she went ... and off to the bathroom I followed. When she sat down and when she looked up, she was staring directly at my cock. She let out a low chuckle and took the head in her mouth. She sat there for less than a minute, sleepily licking the shaft while my fingers rubbed her head. When she was done peeing, I asked her what she wanted for breakfast, walked out, pulled on my underwear, and started the rest of my day.
Just play. Just fun. A little tease, and another suggestion to her that it doesn't have to go somewhere every time, that we can fool around for a few moments and then return to business as usual. It's hard to find the playful side of our days with the internal and external stresses. And as we go through our days as spouses and parents, it's nice to remember that we are also lovers.
07 January 2007
Justify My (Blog's) Existence
I won't lie: Her breasts had a lot to do with the initial attraction.
I've never been the kind of guy who was getting so much sex that he could pick and choose his partners. I don't believe that many guys like that exist. But I definitely have predilections, and a good-sized chest was something that I favor, should the opportunity arise. While Amy wasn't the kind of woman whose breasts introduced themselves before she did, it didn't take long to sense another "presence" in the room. For me, it was a short hop from acknowledgment to outright desire.
And, at the risk of making Amy sound slutty, it was not a long trip from that initial desire for her breasts to my first opportunity to play with them. Within hours of our introduction, after a fascinating and complex evening of events (a story that may be expounded on another occasion), we lay on the futon on the floor of her bedroom. Her fuchsia t-shirt was pulled up over her tits, revealed in their supple, succulent glory to my hands and lips for the first time. Her hands were simultaneously inside the pair of shorts she had loaned me earlier that morning, getting acquainted with my own equipment.
We were in our mid-twenties, and we thoroughly enjoyed those first months of simultaneous love/lust in a most cliché way. We spent every spare moment together, essentially cutting out the rest of our friends (and family too) as we obsessively experienced every aspect of each other. I'm speaking mostly sexually here, let's be honest. She had heard from a mutual friend how much I enjoyed extended sessions of eating pussy. She showed herself equally talented when it came to oral exploits. Which was a nice change for me from my previous girlfriend, who seemed to begrudgingly fellate me. Amy helped me make up for lost time.
We jokingly kept track of orgasms for probably the first fifty or so. We slyly played with each other in public settings like movie theaters and restaurants. We shared music, books, and rug burns. We cooked for each other. We would find ourselves overcome with emotion for how lucky we were to have found each other. We made our rug burns much worse in a typically twentysomething effort to express said emotions.
Our lives were not solely defined by sex, but there is no denying that it was a huge part of those early years. Simply put, we loved fucking.
Amy and I are now in our forties. We are married. We have children. And like so many other couples who have walked a similar path, we chuckle with a vague yearning about how free those times in our twenties seemed. In so many respects, we are happy where we are now. But -- and trust me, I know how cliché this aspect of our relationship is as well -- the amount of sex has lessened dramatically. By cliché I mean "normal." A dropoff is to be expected for the vast majority of relationships that follow our trajectory.
We are struggling to find that balance between work and family, and somewhere in there we also need to nourish the needs of the primary relationship, the one between Amy and me. Intimacy still plays a major role, though now it seems to be defined more by its elusiveness.
Libidos have fallen out of balance. Mine seems as strong as ever, but the demands on Amy are such that she frankly is not as interested. This is not to say that when we do make the time that she's not an enthusiastic and thoroughly pleasing lover. But there is no question that I am the initiator in 95% of the encounters -- which themselves seem few and far between.
This blog is not meant to be a place for me to complain; that would be so deadly dull that even I wouldn't read it. But I am hoping that I might garner a readership of men and women in similar circumstances, and that my thoughts (and yours) might help us explore the issues that grow out of the aging sexual relationship.
Though there will probably be a certain amount of analysis and self-study, I am hoping that this blog will titillate too. I enjoy writing erotica, and I plan on discussing, in frank and usually prurient language, Amy's and my past and future encounters, as well as our fantasies.
Not unlike the way my marriage is a balance between my needs and my wife's, I will try to counterweight my exploration of our relationship's sexual psyche with my (imagined?) audience's desire for a little arousal. On the day that I'm writing this, I have no earthly idea if I'll be able to pull this off. It'll be fun trying, though!
I've never been the kind of guy who was getting so much sex that he could pick and choose his partners. I don't believe that many guys like that exist. But I definitely have predilections, and a good-sized chest was something that I favor, should the opportunity arise. While Amy wasn't the kind of woman whose breasts introduced themselves before she did, it didn't take long to sense another "presence" in the room. For me, it was a short hop from acknowledgment to outright desire.
And, at the risk of making Amy sound slutty, it was not a long trip from that initial desire for her breasts to my first opportunity to play with them. Within hours of our introduction, after a fascinating and complex evening of events (a story that may be expounded on another occasion), we lay on the futon on the floor of her bedroom. Her fuchsia t-shirt was pulled up over her tits, revealed in their supple, succulent glory to my hands and lips for the first time. Her hands were simultaneously inside the pair of shorts she had loaned me earlier that morning, getting acquainted with my own equipment.
We were in our mid-twenties, and we thoroughly enjoyed those first months of simultaneous love/lust in a most cliché way. We spent every spare moment together, essentially cutting out the rest of our friends (and family too) as we obsessively experienced every aspect of each other. I'm speaking mostly sexually here, let's be honest. She had heard from a mutual friend how much I enjoyed extended sessions of eating pussy. She showed herself equally talented when it came to oral exploits. Which was a nice change for me from my previous girlfriend, who seemed to begrudgingly fellate me. Amy helped me make up for lost time.
We jokingly kept track of orgasms for probably the first fifty or so. We slyly played with each other in public settings like movie theaters and restaurants. We shared music, books, and rug burns. We cooked for each other. We would find ourselves overcome with emotion for how lucky we were to have found each other. We made our rug burns much worse in a typically twentysomething effort to express said emotions.
Our lives were not solely defined by sex, but there is no denying that it was a huge part of those early years. Simply put, we loved fucking.
+ + +
Amy and I are now in our forties. We are married. We have children. And like so many other couples who have walked a similar path, we chuckle with a vague yearning about how free those times in our twenties seemed. In so many respects, we are happy where we are now. But -- and trust me, I know how cliché this aspect of our relationship is as well -- the amount of sex has lessened dramatically. By cliché I mean "normal." A dropoff is to be expected for the vast majority of relationships that follow our trajectory.
We are struggling to find that balance between work and family, and somewhere in there we also need to nourish the needs of the primary relationship, the one between Amy and me. Intimacy still plays a major role, though now it seems to be defined more by its elusiveness.
Libidos have fallen out of balance. Mine seems as strong as ever, but the demands on Amy are such that she frankly is not as interested. This is not to say that when we do make the time that she's not an enthusiastic and thoroughly pleasing lover. But there is no question that I am the initiator in 95% of the encounters -- which themselves seem few and far between.
This blog is not meant to be a place for me to complain; that would be so deadly dull that even I wouldn't read it. But I am hoping that I might garner a readership of men and women in similar circumstances, and that my thoughts (and yours) might help us explore the issues that grow out of the aging sexual relationship.
Though there will probably be a certain amount of analysis and self-study, I am hoping that this blog will titillate too. I enjoy writing erotica, and I plan on discussing, in frank and usually prurient language, Amy's and my past and future encounters, as well as our fantasies.
Not unlike the way my marriage is a balance between my needs and my wife's, I will try to counterweight my exploration of our relationship's sexual psyche with my (imagined?) audience's desire for a little arousal. On the day that I'm writing this, I have no earthly idea if I'll be able to pull this off. It'll be fun trying, though!
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