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.
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.
He ate me out for an hour at least, licking my clit and fingering my pussy. I liked the short strokes pressing on the back side of my clit. My husband calls that the little dick guy. I don’t know exactly which of his fingers he was using, but it felt kinda like a thumb. […]
Our alarm went off and we assumed the puzzle piece position of our love. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Stella, my queen, my whore, my lover. I’m so in love with you.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day my king. I love you so much too.”
I ordered my own red, pink and white roses, and planned to make tacos for dinner. I hope he doesn’t buy chocolate hearts and dorky cards. He should know at this point I’m picky and only eat a few types of dark chocolate.
You know sometimes you just next to stay home, watch Netflix, and drink wine and let your usual yoga class slip by unattended. That was my night last night except that I also cooked dinner in my new InstaPot, red beans and rice with grass fed turkey sausage. It took a few glasses of wine before I could figure out how to use the darn thing without hurting myself.
While it heated up, I whipped up some mashed cauliflower with real mozzarella cheese. My husband loves that stuff but I accidentally ate it all between sips of my pinot. Oops. Not sure eating an entire head of cauliflower is healthy however you want to spin it. I believe that everything is good in moderation, which also means that everything is bad if taken to the extreme.
We had sex for two minutes this morning. It was two minutes longer than I desired.
It’s funny how you can be so attracted to someone and want to touch all over them constantly yet not feel an immediate pull to fuck. That’s what it feels like for me right now.
It’s a moving target, my daily horniness rating that is On my days it ranges from absolutely nothing to a twinge of interest followed by an extreme annoyance before landing on a momentary acceptance . Occasionally I’m dying to be smothered under my husband’s masculine body and aching with the impact of each progressively deeper thrust, but it’s not as often as I’d like it to be and no where near as much as he wants.
I tore my clothes off last night and pranced across the room to my side of the bed. My husband lowered his phone and watched with anticipation his eyes aglow. I think even a whistle fell from his lips.
When I reached the bed, he was already folding the cover down inviting me to join him in the cozy comforts of our well-worn love nest. I jumped in and on him planting kisses like a happy girl. He smelled like a clean man and his arms felt solid as he wrapped them around me and squeezed. Like puzzle pieces, we fit together so well, so perfectly. But my feet, they were cold like ice and he pushed them away.
It was date night last night. We drank and talked in our bedroom before dressing and heading out for dinner. Half naked, I reclined on my vintage white velvet sofa with red wine in my hand, and he relaxed in the matching wing chair sipping coke and whiskey. It had been quite an eventful day.
I laughed and laughed as he told me stories about each of the characters he ran into at the DMV. One of our sons was getting his driver’s license, so they chose Friday afternoon to take the test. It took three hours for their number to be called which left them people watching to kill time.
