Lisa and I married thirty years ago and are now on the other side of fifty. As you might expect, our sex life no longer has newlywed frequency. So I often spend my Saturdays earning some appreciation, to set the mood for some bedroom reciprocity. This Saturday, things were going great!
Lisa volunteers at a community garden that provides fresh vegetables to an Assisted Living Center. The garden is a project of a church women’s group. But it isn’t the church we attend, so I don’t know this circle of women. And, at the work day they scheduled for this weekend, I was the only able-bodied man that showed up! Lucky me!
There were wheelbarrows full of materials that needed moving. All morning long, Lisa heard, “I am so glad your husband is here.” “Thanks so much!” “Lisa, can I borrow your husband for a minute to get a load of mulch for my plot?” “Your husband is so big and strong, nice, etc, etc, yada, yada, yada.”
By the time we left in the early afternoon, Lisa was very appreciative of my help. She was also mindful that she should not take her spouse for granted. I even ventured a guess – from her expression and the look in her eyes – that she may have felt a little horny.
When we got home, she said, “Why don’t you take the first shower and relax the rest of the day.”
Not willing to lose the momentum, I filled a bubble bath for her after I finished in the shower. I also ran the jets to make it nice and frothy. Then I went to the fridge, poured Lisa a glass of wine and said, “Your turn. Remember, it’s our turn to bring something to Sunday School tomorrow. While you take a bath, I’ll make a batch of Mom’s chocolate cinnamon rolls.”
“Well aren’t you just the Energizer bunny today?” she observed demurely.
“A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do,” I laughed. Baking cinnamon rolls was an odd reason to invoke that expression, I supposed. Probably not what John Wayne had in mind when he said it.
And I could swear I heard her say, “Do me,” as she turned away and went to the bathtub.
One long bath later, as I was putting rolls in a warm oven to rise and wiping counters, Lisa strolled into the kitchen and refilled her wine. Whereas I had put on shorts and a tee-shirt, she was wearing only her puffy white robe.
Lisa took a seat on a bar chair and crossed her legs outside of her robe. She purred, “Hey, baker man, is that a rolling pin in your pocket or are you just happy to see me.” Then she smiled and bounced her crossed leg.
I leaned on the island counter opposite her. “That’s not a rolling pin, and I am happy to see you. I take it you had a nice bath.”
“Pretty steamy, thank you. I guess you are expecting a payoff for all your hard work today,” she said. She got up and crossed the kitchen toward me, wine in hand.
“Well, I did work pretty hard.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of that work was for all those other women. I shouldn’t have to pay you for that…” She grabbed my shorts at the waist, unfastening them. Anticipating my likely retort, she quickly added, “Don’t say it! All your payment comes from me.
“Take it off,” she continued, pushing up my tee shirt. When I did and my shirt was over my head, she pulled down my underwear. She had me standing in the kitchen, naked in a puddle of clothes. Lisa pinched my nipple while moving to kiss me. When I tried to put my hand in her robe to return the attention, she asked, “What do you want from me?”
“Stuff,” I said, as she started stroking my manhood and playfully bit my erect nipple.
“Stuff,” she said. “What kind of stuff?” She gripped and stroked me more firmly.
“All the stuff,” I replied. Then, tired of being cute, I grabbed the lapels of her robe and kissed her firmly before letting her go to her knees.
She took me in her mouth and got started. “Mmmm,” she moaned, knowing that I like her little noises. She made her mouth go ‘pop’ as she pulled the head from her lips. “It smells nice down here,” she complimented.
“Cinnamon, cocoa, and butter from the rolls,” I replied. I tried to decide whether I could afford to focus on what she was doing or whether I need to think about something else.
“Mmhhmm,” she intoned with her mouth full again. “Mmhhmm.” Continuing to stroke, she popped me from her mouth again. She asked, “Would you like to move this to the bedroom for some lick and stick?” Opening her robe, Lisa put my cock between her breasts. Her uplifted eyes and voice pleaded, “I want you to go down on me, too…”
“No. Here.” I pulled her to her feet, picked her up and plopped her on the island. Her robe was still on but open and, gazing down her beautiful torso, I could see that she had shaved for me. I dove down.
Lisa had her ankles locked behind my head before I could support her thighs with my hands. She had perfumed herself and smelled beautiful. When I ran my tongue around her inner labia and pulled on her lips with mine, she tousled my hair.
“Ooh, so nice,” she encouraged. As my tongue flicked her clitoris, her hips responded in time. She bit her lower lip as my eyes traveled up her body to her face. But when she felt me push my tongue into her, she grabbed my hair and squealed. Soon she was saying “Stick me, baby! Stick me, baby!”
I was happy to oblige! It was at this moment in our 30+ year marriage that I discovered something new. If I stand on my toes, our kitchen island is the perfect height for our favorite activity. She calls it, “Lick and stick.” I gave her several strokes. Then, about the time she started to expect another stroke, I pulled out of her and dove back down for some more “lick.” After a little more of this, she was ready to orgasm – so I stood back up for some more “stick,” keeping her at the edge.
“Oh, you’re killin’ me,” she complained. At the next iteration, she grabbed my hair to hold me where she needed me. Her first orgasm hit and she slapped the countertop and writhed, but I continued licking and sticking.
After her second orgasm, she said, “Karl, it’s your turn. Let me drive.” Pushing me up off her, she said, “Sit down over there,” and pointed at the bar chairs. I sat down, after helping her off the island, at which point she finally let her robe drop to the floor. For my wife, this was a signal that her inhibitions were gone. She was, for the rest of this love-making session, a wanton woman. She climbed on my lap, aligning me into her, and started riding me at an easy pace.
“Feel good, Baby?” she asked, looking into my eyes.
“Oh, yeah. I love you.”
Without stopping, she took a drink of her wine. She held on to her glass even as she threw her head back.
“We live a sweet life, don’t we?” she commented, seeming to focus on the ceiling and the fact that I was deep inside her. She looked at me and put the wine glass to my lips. It was sloshing and she smiled as some spilled down my beard and onto my chest.
“Are you ready to cum in me?” She asked, head tilted, through gritted teeth and half-open eyes.
She put her wine down, grabbed me around my neck, and I grabbed her butt.
Her vigor, violence, and vocalization were the most passionate I have ever seen. She strained at our sex, pleading, “Cum in me, Karl! Cum in me!” repeating it as a mantra. It was not long before my grunting and tremors joined hers.
She was not disappointed.
Neither was I.
My marriage advice?
Buy sturdy furniture.