Married Sex is a wonderful blessing. Sometimes, that blessing is as shiny and bright as you could ever dream. Other times, like this night four years into our marriage, you can’t help but laugh at yourself as that blessing is accompanied by embarrassment and mishaps. Hopefully, our antics remind you that not every night needs to be one for the memoirs, but all are a hot blessing.
We rise from the couch and traipse to the bedroom together. Falling to the mattress, we visit about our day and revel in each other’s nearness. There was nothing spectacular about today, but at least we get to spend tonight together.
As we talk, our legs twine together. He traces a nail along the back of my arm, and I quiver.
“Why do you do that to me?” I quiz.
“Because it makes you do this!” he laughs as I writhe against him.
I stare into his denim eyes and feel safe. I am home when I’m in his arms. My hand finds the bottom of his shirt, and I grind my palm against the skin covering the overworked muscles that run up his back. He leans into my touch, and I feel his tension melt as we connect.
His thumb begins to tickle the side of my breast.
“Do you have to do that there?” I squirm.
“You’re my wife; I’ll do you wherever I want!” He winks, his tone playful.
Taking the hint, I throw my leg over him in an attempt to place him flat on his back while I straddle his hips. Instead, we clamour for grip—my maneuver nearly threw us off the side of the bed.
We stifle our laughs as we recenter on the mattress, and I try again. “What was that about doing me wherever you want?” and I straddle his hips and bring his hands to my breasts. As he runs his fingers along the top of my cleavage, our mouths meet and we share moans, our tongues dancing. I pull back and attempt to unbutton my top, but I’m too excited and simply fumble.
Still sitting astride his reclined form, I look to him for help. As the shirt comes up, I hear, “I’m impressed my arms are long enough to do that!” but as the shirt tangles on my head and obstructs my view he concedes, “well not THAT long.” We laugh again as I throw the shirt to the side, and my giggles are replaced with gasps as he paws my breasts. I grind my damp panties against the hardness rising in his longjohns, and he takes the hint.
“Let’s get some more skin in the game,” he taunts, and I lie back, lifting my hips to remove my pants as he rises to remove the longjohns and his briefs. As he turns back to the bed, he witnesses me trapped with stretchy pants binding my ankles out of my reach as I flail on my back.
“Le stuck?” I mock my situation and he comes and frees me. The pants fly over my head to the floor behind, and the panties are supposed to follow close behind but fall short of the mark. Flailing to free my face from the fabric, I ask, “Is there a reason you can’t remove clothes tonight?” and he laughs, returning the question.
I move to straddle him again, and we gently grind and roll as we build the passions toward penetration. Then, tipping me down so my back rests on the mattress and my head teeters off the edge, he delicately mounts me and sinks his rod slowly into me.
“Mmmmm,” I moan, enjoying the slow depth. We take our time teasing each other, knowing we have all night to get crazy if we want. His hands grip my ankles, run up my legs, trace my thighs, then climb my stomach to the red, honeymoon lingerie I found in the drawer moments before he got home. He traces a finger along the lacey top, then plunges it down into the cup. I gasp—in pain rather than pleasure—as he unceremoniously pokes my nipple.
“Ow! Just take it off if you want access,” I scold him while rolling to the side, trying to reach the clasps myself. Apparently, he was deeper in me than I thought, because we both rolled to that doomed edge of the mattress again. As we laughingly steady ourselves, he reaches behind me and frees my breasts.
Pawing them, tracing circles, then tweaking nipples, he tends to them as he resumes rolling his cock into me. He feels so good in me; I raise my legs to get deeper penetration. His pace increases, and my moans syncopate with his. We’re beginning the climb together, when the unthinkable happens—
I press against him and try to carry on, begging him to resume. He’s not so easily convinced.
“Did you just toot on me?” He’s aghast, waiting for a response while I writhe trying to get him back into the rhythm of pounding me. “Did. You. Toot?”
I look at his face and burst out laughing, understanding the offence but unable to move past his tone paired with his vocab.
“I was hoping it was just a queef, but either way, you’re welcome to punish me!”
That’s all the convincing he needs. He grabs the pillow and commands, “Up!” I wrap my ankles around his neck, and he lifts me enough to place the padding below my raised hips. I go to remove my legs, but he anchors my ankles against his shoulders. I moan at how he holds me, so vulnerable, and submit to his control as he sinks balls-deep into my vagina. His rhythm is back and he begins to pound me, pushing my legs further and further toward my head with each thrust.
I gasp and writhe, muttering my loving profanities in time with his spear entering my sheath as he folds me into The Plow. With every penetration, I feel the electricity in my groin amp up. His dick pounds against my back wall and the vibrations and sensations are more than I can handle.
Biting down on my fist to muffle the cry, I shriek as the pleasure rolls through me. I feel his pulsing dick coat my insides, and I smile as he lowers me back to the mattress.
“Ah, my love, let’s do that again soon,” I purr, enlivened by how quickly he ravaged me and seeing new quickie potential.
He eagerly agrees, with one caveat: “No toots next time.”
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