Relax. Sit down. There’s no race to win. Stop being the rule maker. Stop telling everyone what to do. Enjoy yourself. Smile. Laugh. Play music. Cut up. Life is too short to live it any other way.
That’s what I had on repeat in my mind last night as I awaited my husband’s return from work. He did let me know he was playing on his new toy, that small boat, taking it over to a friend’s house and might be an hour or so late.
Generally I cook dinner early then fuss over the clean up, chores, and homework game. With my husband’s later return, I had at least an hour or so of “free” time, time not filed into any productivity box. Incredibly, I had a hard time switching gears from go go go to be be be.
It had been a busy day, one of many great thrills as I rocked my speaking engagement in the morning and sent out my first agent submission email that afternoon. My late afternoon walk served as a kinda release from the masculine “git r done” energy of the work day. I listened to soothing music and did my best to transition into the evening with a happy, relaxed heart.
Once I was there, I had nothing to do. Eek. Just being is a very hard place for me. But its the place I believe I’ll find my elusive vaginal orgasm, the place of keen presence and very few plans. It’s the place of letting go and letting God or perhaps my husband rule the show.
That’s difficult for us women, especially today. As my husband told me the other day about his girlfriend who enjoyed “squirting” orgasms, I recalled other things I remember him mentioning about her in the past, things he both liked and didn’t. She was incredibly feminine, light, thin, soft-spoken and remarkably lacking in ambition.
Of course, I judged her for that and so did he, hince as to why they aren’t together anymore. But considering the pleasure she enjoyed through their sex and the pleasure he derived from being the source of it, I’d say I could learn something from her.
“She loved to read,” he always says, “and she could write all day long. But the girl wouldn’t do much of anything else. She sucked at cooking, was a terrible slob, and made very little money of her own. It was fun to fuck her, though. She was sexy as hell and gave herself to me in ways no other woman would or could. It’s why we were together as long as we were. Heck, I’d probably still be with her today if she’d not left me!”
My husband and I met a month after their relationship crumbled. He liked my ambition, but noticed right away how different I was in the bedroom. She was a meek sex kitten who enjoyed serious orgasms, and I was a serious career woman who enjoyed meek ones.
I am a better match for my husband’s energy, sure, but I do believe my ability to control everything in my life has eluded me in the bedroom instead of empowering me. It’s made me happier to plan small doses of joy than wait to be thrilled by the hefty doses that come on their own, in their own time. My control makes me focus on the destination instead of the journey, and I’m so tired of this shit!
I just knew we’d make love last night, especially since I fell asleep in tears the night before denying not just myself but my husband of an orgasm as well. He made me fix the problem in the morning with a quick ride on his dick to suck the cum out of it, which I didn’t mind a bit.
I was so still enamored with his sensitivity and support the night before. “I read all of March on your blog,” he admitted yesterday evening when he got home from work, “so I’d say I’m all caught up. I think I understand what you need now.”
But sex didn’t happen last night. The images I had of laying on my back again and allowing my husband to tease and taunt and please me left me burning with sexual desire. He said I kept him up too late and that he was exhausted. Love, I felt, but not the usual yearning. Instead we sang with the kids after dinner in the living room and all retreated to our beds early for an extended slumber, one I suppose we all needed.
My husband’s physical needs caught up with him early this morning. He reached over and touched my pussy trying to awaken me, but I didn’t budge. In fact, I denied three separate attempts to help him climax and instead gave him my body like a good girl only once I was getting ready to leave.
He propped me up on the counter in the bathroom, lubed up his dick and my pussy lips, and slipped himself into my paradise with a quick push and an audible Yes!
“Stella, my love, my queen, my fucking whore pussy, you just love giving it all away,” he began his ritual storytelling as he thrusted himself in and out. Occasionally he’d pull away long enough to take inventory of how my pussy looked with and without his dick before continuing on. “All of the guys fuck you, all of them, but only I make you cum. You have to wait for me for that.”
It was a story we’d played over and over and generally it makes me tick. Something about this time was different. I don’t want to be used without pleasure, no. I want to have the pussy that lets go in the moment, taking in all that’s being giving and releasing out all that doesn’t serve her anymore. She’s the pussy queen of great power, strong in her weakness, fierce in her vulnerability and open to being pleasured by everything, even a fucking mess. Her orgasms are dynamic and life-altering, engulfing the world in their wakes. They are big and come on their own. She’s fully alive and free from control, experiencing the yumminess of it all.
“I want to cum on every single dick,” I whispered to my husband and I felt his him grow with excitement.
“Oh, Stella, honey, I want you to too!” His body shook as it throbbed towards his morning quickie finish line. “My whore wife gets off on everyone. She just loves being fucked.”
Just then he shot his gooey goodness inside of me and kissed me on the lips. He then pulled out and stepped away surveying my breasts, my dripping pussy, my curvy hips.
My pussy is horny as I write and getting hornier by the minute. I love this journey I’m on even though I don’t like waiting, I don’t like not cumming, I really don’t like the process while I’m in it. I just want what I want at the end of it. And that’s why control is so fucking addictive.
Control makes me think I have all of the answers and know what’s best for me and when. Control makes me spend my life in the future conjuring ifs and thens. It forces me to worry about every mistake and should have beens. But letting go of all of that opens a woman, a pussy, a feminine queen up to the grand miracles that come on their own when she’s least expecting them.