Some mornings you wake up ready to ride your husband until he has a heart attack. This was one of those mornings.
Some mornings you can just tell when you wake up that you overslept, but you’re never sure how much. This was one of those mornings.
Some mornings your husband wakes early, turns off your alarm, packs the kids’ lunches and puts them on a bus, makes coffee for when you wake, leaves a sweet note for you, and heads to work all before you wake up. This was one of those mornings.
I woke up horny to begin with, but combined with these acts of service, the fact that he wasn’t home tortured me. I rolled over across our queen bed and sniffed his sheets. He’s a before-bed shower type and always smells amazing in the morning—except for his breath, of course. No one’s morning breath is pleasant, but the mint gum in his nightstand covers a multitude of sins.
After procrastinating for at least five minutes, I finally checked the alarm clock to gauge the damage. 9:30 AM?! He really does love me. He also must hate me because he left me alone and horny at home—extremely horny. I even slept completely naked, and that’s our code for “wake me up with your tongue.” I threw on my comfiest robe. If the A/C were on, my nipples would get stiff and gently rub against the fabric as I moved. At this point, I was torturing myself.
I went down to the kitchen to fix breakfast and saw a full coffee pot and some waffles on a plate under foil. He didn’t wake me for waffles? He hates me. But the kitchen was spotless, every dish in the washer. He really does love me.
I spent the next 20 minutes answering emails, then essentially, my workday was over. I work as a controller at a lifestyle media company, and through the pandemic, the entire finance and accounting departments have been working from home. We’re supposed to be on-call during regular business hours, but with the systems we’ve implemented in the last few years and the wonder of 21st-century technology, we don’t actually have to do that much. Nobody tell the CFO, but we basically do nothing. Usually, it’s awesome, but some mornings you need a spreadsheet or two to take your mind off of the grand-canyon size emptiness you need filled by an insistent husband with a nuclear-powered libido. This was one of those mornings. I rattled off an email to my assistant controller, asking for some projects to review. I needed something as a distraction. We tell each other everything, and I was pretty sure she would catch my drift about needing a distraction. I hoped so, anyway.
Parker and I have been married for sixteen years, and it’s almost as if I feel more like a giddy schoolgirl every time I see him. Sometimes, the younger couples in church tell us how much they look up to us, and either Parker or I will bring out the old, “Don’t be too impressed by the surface! We’ve had our fair share of bumps in the road. You’ve got this!” The other of us will nod and smile, trying to imbue hope and inspiration. We have no idea what we’re talking about. It’s a borderline lie because I couldn’t think of any bumps if I sat down with a legal pad for the entire day. Maybe that’s what I should do to calm down my quivering pussy.
My mother always told me my sex drive would cap out somewhere in my early thirties, after ten years of marriage or so. I love my mother to death, but she was dead wrong.
My mind was going a million miles a minute; I had to distract myself. I turned on Netflix and went for coffee cup number two, but my hands kept wandering down and slipping underneath my robe and pressing up against my clit. I hadn’t bothered putting panties on because I would have had to change them by now. There was already a wet spot on the backside of my robe.
I decided if I were going to be miserably horny all day until he got home, he would too. I took a teenage-girl-in-front-of-a-bathroom-mirror’s worth of selfies ranging from G-rated to XXX. Then I deleted everything PG-13 and under (because who was I kidding), and then I bombed his phone for about 15 minutes. For our more saucy conversations, we use the telegram app instead of texting so that we never open the wrong text in the wrong place. He usually wouldn’t see them, much less open them, until he was alone or potentially not even until his lunch break. But I was feeling very, very naughty, and a naughty Jennifer is a risk-loving Jennifer. I sent them as regular text messages. I thought about adding super-dirty captions, but I was honestly too impatiently horny to take the time. Then I began to furiously rub my wanton pussy, thinking about the sweet revenge I’d be getting. He’d be just as horny as me, and it served him right for abandoning me in my morning glory.
I can’t say I’m an expert at achieving orgasm without Parker on-hand, but the excitement of my thoughts gave considerable bonus points to the equation, and I managed to push myself over the edge. The trouble with orgasms, at least for us girls, is that after your husband has shown you how many you can have in a row, getting yourself to one is just a tease. Only barely sated, I fell asleep on the couch and began to have shockingly naughty dreams.
But the last dream, in my opinion, took the cake. I heard the garage door open and shut, a car shut off, some faint, desperate fumbling of keys against the door into the house from the garage, and what may have been a belt hitting the ground somewhere in the kitchen and some shoes tumbling across the carpet. Then I felt warm hands parting my legs with gentle firmness, my robe slipping above my waist, and the most skilled tongue diving deep into my pussy. And then I woke up…
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