He came in me not once but twice last night, and I was a ravage beast, fucking him like a whore in heat and begging for more, more more. The back massage worked and what I ended up with when we were laying down in bed was my old husband again, the horny one dying for pussy.
“I haven’t orgasmed in 36 hours,” he said wanting me to feel sorry for him.
“I haven’t orgasmed since Friday or Saturday or… I forget now,” I tease back, “It’s just been so fucking long.”
So I tried, Dear Reader, to rouse my husband from his pain induced coma last night, but to no avail. It’s not that he was that loopy or uninterested even, but rather that I felt uncomfortable with the situation and truly wasn’t that horny! We’re now up to a total of missed sex 6 days in our 2019 daily sex challenge.
He got out of bed in the evening to eat some dinner and hang upside down on his inversion table which helped take pressure off his back. I could see some relief in his labored walk. My husband also raided the sweet cabinet like a junk food junky needing a sugar fix. I think he ate an entire pint of ice cream, a handful of chocolate bars, and some Oreos. It was definitely not on his back pain diet, but at least he seemed to be coming out of his deep tension cocoon from hell.
I tinkered on yesterday’s blog post for more than 6 hours, and it left me feeling so high and steamy and sitting in pussy juice, and counting down the minutes until my husband would resurface at our home.
But when he did, I realized he and I weren’t on the same page anymore. He’d spent the day stressing about various work projects, shuffling between meetings and trips to buy material, and I spent my day thinking and writing about sex.
I’m not going to lie. I did not want to do my job last night, not one bit! And my job wasn’t as easy as simply opening my legs like it normally is. My job was to give my husband a mind-blowing, cum-extracting blow job. It’s his payment for bi-monthly spray tans he gives me, […]
My husband has got to be one of the sexiest men in the world. I think his masculinity is what does it. He’s rough and tumble with a hint of class. He’s always on a mission, making calls, building things, directing logistics, and buying materials. That’s what I saw out of the window Saturday morning.
I was sipping coffee and enjoying the fact that I’d slept in. My body was refreshed and soft like I’d been kissed by the youth fairies and could take my time starting the day. My husband was already in his weekend work attire of blue jeans, work boots, and a blue Hawaii t-shirt. I heard him through the glass tell his son something like, “When I move the truck, you need to watch this latch to make sure it doesn’t slip” and “I’ll meet you at the work site in 10.”
We made love for a solid hour last night. It was slow and meaningful the way unrushed kisses make you vulnerable, and he pried into my world, my inner most protection and shame through it. Sex last night was a trip down memory lane.
I think it was the whiskey that did it. My husband isn’t generally that gentle and prodding. We started with me on top talking about our wild sex from the day before. Two orgasms that day lessened my desire yesterday which factored in to the slowness of our pace.
He came home like a serpent yesterday afternoon, slithering in with a smile and a secret purpose. His arms tucked around me as he listened to the kids’ stories from school. He was alert and in the moment.
Something about his demeanor screamed we were about to be fuckin’, although I’m not sure exactly what it was. He kissed me sweetly and gently caressed my hand pulling me ever so slightly towards our bedroom, the goddess palace. I caved and walked with him.
Then the door locked behind me.
The test revealed that I am not only masculine, but very masculine, much more masculine than I care to tell. Maybe this explains why I’m on the path to ubber femininity, the journey to understanding my sexy body, my moody nature, and my dancing soul.
Was I born that way, more masculine that is? Or was I pushed in this direction by my family, my community, our society which in the 1980s prized women for being as man-like as possible?
I cried a river yesterday.
Court and I were not made for each other, that’s for sure. I’m way too emotional in an environment of the mind. My husband should have come with me, he should have been by my side. I didn’t think about it until it was too late and the attorneys were rattling off compromises like auctioneers. I was feeling alone and overwhelmed, not sure who to trust, not wanting to fuck my decision up, not wanting to ever come back again.
A few miles from the courthouse is a deep pile of rocks that line a point by the ocean. It’s secluded and peaceful because few people brave the climb down to find it. Barefoot is how I got down with my heels in my hand. I cried harder down there, engulfed in the late February wind, the loud haunting call of the seagulls, the overcast sadness on everything and the repeating words coming from within. You lost again. You always lose to him. Your ex always wins.
My husband was on his back when I joined him in bed last night. We talked like lovers do about our day, what we loved about dinner, and the sex we had the night before.
“Your face was buried in my pussy, sweetheart. It was terrific! I wrote all about it on my blog,” I said rubbing his chest up and down taking into account the length of the generally long hairs that cover his body. They are shorter now. He must have done a quick shave.
