The veil of sadness has lifted and the sails of happy are back at full mast. Now that the blood of life is seeping out of my body releasing toxic energy in her wake, the world is bright once more.
After dinner last night a realization about pleasure hit me like a ton of bricks. I was cooking our food, fully enjoying the moment, dancing to the music and tasting the dishes as they simmered. All of the boys were at martial arts class, including my husband, and I looked forward to their return so we could all eat and I could hear all about it. As soon as they came through the door, though, my mood shifted and I instantly felt annoyed.
Bags were heaved all over the room, shoes came off, the smell of farts overpowered the food, and complaints about what I was cooking joined the fight as if everyone got the message loud and clear: Kill mom’s joy. Stress her out. We don’t want her to be happy.
Ironic, isn’t it. I’m doing something for them, for us, and they think nothing of me.
Once we sat down to eat, the boys commenced the table fighting that happens every night. Someone gets pushed out of their chair and onto the hard floor with half chewed food hanging out of his mouth. They are just playing, I know, but it’s a rambunctious fight none the less. It could be funny, but when it all feels like some type of manipulation aimed at not eating the food I lovingly made and delaying chores which leads to doing a shitty job at their chores so they can go to bed not too late. This starts my next two hours of stress.
I just want to eat dinner and enjoy thoughtful conversation about the day, but even my husband seems uninterested in being civil. He starts half of the scrimmages and loves cutting up along side the preteens.
Meanwhile, I’m aggravated, raising my voice in attempt to halt the chaos, “Stop doing that. Can we please just have a nice dinner? Can you please eat over your plate? Crumbs are everywhere!! The housekeeper was just here today and the house is already a wreck.”
After dinner the boys are supposed to clean up, load the dishwasher, wipe the table down, but generally they just keep the family wrestling match going until I finally blow up. “It’s 9:30 and the chores aren’t done and the kids need to get ready for bed!”
I feel like the chore police, the tidy police, and the time police. I feel like their fun is at my expense, and I have no control over the situation. I usually feel angry, but last night I realized I was addressing the problem all wrong.
“You know, I want to have fun too, I want to sing and dance and cut up and enjoy my evenings, but I feel like I can’t do it around any of you. I feel like I’m the only one worried about what gets done around here. Y’all refuse the take responsibility for your jobs. Someone has to take this seriously, and it seems all of that falls on me. I don’t want this job anymore.”
My son cocked his head at me and stared blankly like I was speaking a foreign language, like I was saying something he’d never considered. My husband sternly told the boys to hurry with their chores and came to sit down by me on the couch.
I turned the pandora station to Adele Radio and began to sing along with the song. I sighed relief as the feeling came together in my mind. Finally I said to my husband. “You know, why does my joy not matter around here? I was having a nice evening cooking your dinner while you were away having fun with the boys. Then my joy vanished just as soon as y’all arrived because not one of you concerns himself with obeying me. I sit here yelling for y’all to please stop wrestling at the dinner table, I am practically begging for you to act decently, and all of you just keep at it like it’s fucking funny! You’re the man of the home, the leader, and if you ignore my feelings and determine that it’s okay to stress me out, then why are the kids going to do any differently? Why, I demand to know, does my joy not matter?”
I’d never put this together. Like my mother, I guess I just assumed the role of doormat when it comes to how I’m treated by my kids as if my needs for peace and enjoyment are mere suggestions while their need to be careless assholes supersedes it. Enough. They are too old for this and my husband definitely is.
My husband looked at me like a child being punished yet again. He glanced at the time and got up, “Alright boys, you have two minutes. Finish this kitchen now.” He grabbed a rag himself and wiped down the stove top all the while looking like he’d seen a ghost. Empathy is a good character trait, one I don’t think boys have enough of.
“Thank you, darling,” I said to my husband as I kissed his cheek in bed. The boys were asleep and our bed felt warm and inviting again. “I appreciate you listening to me and taking dinner time seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” he shrugged pulling the comforter up to his eyes. “Seems like all you do is get mad at me now.”
“Well, I’m feeling much better. Sometimes you gotta shake things up, dust out the cob webs, reset the defaults,” I said turning out the lamp. “Wanna connect?”
“No. It’s late,” he said pulling the covers over his head completely. “Anyways, I didn’t realize how fragile our marriage was.”
“Like an atomic bomb went off, huh?” I laughed a little, but he didn’t. A moment passed, “So what did you learn?”
The comforter came down with force. “Oh you, with all of your analysis. What did I learn?” he raised his voice and shook his head. “Maybe all of this happened because you hadn’t orgasmed in a long time.”
I shrugged, “Yeah, maybe. I thought about that.”
He went on, “I learned I should probably start to like Mardi Gras.”
I laughed loudly. I wasn’t expecting that! “Well, it might help too!”
We both fell silent into the dark night.
“Good night, Stella, I love you.”
“I love you too, my king. I really wanted to connect tonight.”
“No. I need my beauty sleep,” he insisted. I let it go.
The night was still and quiet. Minutes passed. You could hear a train passing in the distance.
“You know, I’m not used to laying silently here in bed with you still awake. Generally, I fall asleep listening to your snoring.” I chuckle, but it’s true.
“Well, sex normally puts me to sleep. Guess I’m on my own tonight.”
“I said I wanted to connect, babe. That means we’ll talk for a few minutes and then fuck! But you keep turning me down.” I smirked back.
“Oh, is that what you meant by connect? I guess I don’t really know you, Stella, I thought I did.”
Profound. It was like music to my ears hearing him say that. A real master has the heart of a student. In order for my husband to really know me, he can’t think he already knows everything.
He mumbled on, “I don’t know what you mean by connect. I don’t know how to make your pussy cum. I don’t how to partner with you on Mardi Gras or keep the kids in line in the evenings. I have so much to learn.”
“Well, this is a good place to start.” I rolled over to his warm body, fingered his chest hairs with one hand and whispered into his ear, “So, let’s connect. Let me help you sleep, my love.”
He was stubborn at first, but I insisted.
“Do you want me to peel off my clothes and let you slide your dick between my legs? Or do you want me to catch your cum in my mouth? Your choice.” I teased.
He thought about it all, I could tell. In the dark room, his face had the slightest bit of light on it from the moon outside. He was handsome and guarded, but with each moment that I breathed my feminine light on him, he was opening up and letting me in.
“I want to lie here and have my dick sucked. I want your mouth to make me cum. You still owe me from the spray tan a few weeks back,” he snickered.
“Yes sir,” I saluted him and got out of bed.
I rummaged around the dark bathroom for my tools, the hair clip, the oil container, a little perfume and a quick pee break.
“What? Are you preparing for war over there, babe?” He laughed.
“Yes,” I laughed back returning to the bed and placing the oil container on his bed side table. I ripped my shirt off, exposing my ample breasts then dipped my hand in the oil, scooping up a handful of the good stuff “This is war!”
The seduction was in full effect. I cuddled up next to him placing my bare chest on the left side of his and rubbed oil all over his erect dick. He moaned a little.
“A few days ago you came in my mouth and I had cum all over my lips and cheeks. I loved that so much. You came in my pussy too.” I stared into his eyes lovingly, seductively. I love him and his cum, really I do. “That was sooo good.”
He likes it when I tell stories while I give him a good blow job, which I guess would mean that I’m really giving him a dramatic hand job. Either way, my husband fell in love all over again.
He whimpered several times and asked me follow up questions. His dick was raging hard in my slippery left hand. I squeezed it firmly and rocked up and down on the shaft with purpose. I was going to make him cum no matter what, I decided. He needed that.
I kept at it telling stories, jacking him off, jumping on top for a quick thrust of my clothed body, teasing him into wanting more. Desire is a dangerous weapon, indeed. He sighed and relaxed leaving all of the strength of his body concentrated in his dick.
Switching sides, I rubbed my breast in his face and rested them beautifully on the other side of his chest. He licked my nipples like a ravenous dog. The blow job continued with my right hand. I bent down and took all of him in my mouth, swallowing his dick until I felt the tip block my throat. He moaned and pushed my head down further. I usually gag, but this time I didn’t.
Pulling up, I replaced my mouth with my hand and stroked his dick for another few minutes telling stories about all of the guys who’s dicks I suck everyday.
“I drink so much cum,” my story continued. I tousled his hair with my left hand and brushed the skin on his manly face. He was in pure heaven and I was glad to give it to him. “Guys love squirting it in my mouth, for sure. I probably swallow at least four or five loads a day.” I licked my lips and pouted a little. Our eyes met and he caressed my breasts.
“I love a good whore, you know that?”
“Yes, you come here often,” I gave him the sexiest, most erotic look I’ve ever given. This is all new. I was in my element, a professional in the dim light of sex time, and my body was on fire. Ripe is how I felt, radiant and in control of my sexuality completely.
Just then I jerked him a few more good hard times before taking his dick fully into my mouth again. His hand returned to lock me in place, because he knew something I didn’t.
My lips were shut firmly around the base of his dick and I felt the massive pulses pushing on them. One, two, three, four. They were strong and unrelenting. I didn’t even taste his cum until the very end when he let up and I drew my lips to the tip of his and licked every last remnant.
“Oh My GOD, Stella,” he roared like a maniac. “You are so amazing, my queen. My pussy queen. Oh my GOD, I’ll do anything for you.”
“Glad you liked it, Mr….” I winked calling my husband by our last night. It made his dick grow back to its large size and he gave me those I’m not done eyes.
I mounted him, still dressed, and humped his dick like a stripper wanting some cash. It was sexy and flirty and fun. We kissed deeply, passionately and he then turned his attention back to my perky breasts.
“Fuck, you’re so fine, Stella, my fucking whore, Stella. I want you to swallow some more, Stella.”
“Yes, sir,” I climbed off of him nibbling on his left ear. I licked it a little and kissed sweetly up and down his neck.
He grabbed his huge dick and pumped it just a few times before pushing my face back down to his crotch. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”
He squirted more of his love juice into my mouth and sighed. I cleaned up the mess, kissed him on his lips and rolled over to my side of the bed. I felt victorious and amazing and sexy and perfect. Thank you, God, for hellish rapture and heavenly redemption.