For the past week or so we’ve tended to snuggle up on the sofa in the evening in front of the TV. Last night there was none of that. We were at different ends of the sofa. I can’t say why.
We watched Sherlock. We’re not usually the sort that watch crime drama, but Sherlock is somewhat more elevated intellectually than the likes of CSI and not as dark as the current slate of Scandinavian noir. Even so, it was a pretty dark episode, and I really did expect it to put Her in a positive state of mind.
I’m pleased to say my deductive skills were a long way behind Sherlock’s.
I was first in bed and She spooned up behind.
Her phone buzzed.
Who the **** was that texting at this time of night?
Ah yes. A teenager. The babysitter for later in the week.
Reply sent, She came back to bed and spooned up just as close. I honestly didn’t know whether She was after sex, or just a cuddle.
But a tentative stroke from a finger gave me the answer.
I leant back into Her and we were off.
If you’ve been around for more than a year, Dear Reader, you will know that for me, foreplay can be like picking my way through a minefield, blind folded, on a pogo stick. And so it was last night.
It only took a little while for my most cautious of hands to be doing something just a little wrong. Though as ever, it was nothing that wouldn’t flick the right switches on another occasion.
I backed off.
She rolled over, turning Her back on me, and pulled me closer.
The other day She had seemed to like me being behind Her, fondling Her tits and playing with Her pussy. Obviously, since She was not in the same place, I was wary not to blow this, but with a little care She seemed to get back on track.
My finger was getting just a little slick with Her juices when …
Her: I think it’s best if you’re really gentle with mug breasts and stay away from my clitoris. I don’t want to cum too quickly.
Had I been rough with Her tits? I didn’t think so.
Ah. No. It was just what She wanted.
That’s good. It’s great. It’s great. to know what She wants. And it’s great to know that She wants something. And it’s great that She feels able to tell me. Even so, I couldn’t help musing on Her words: breasts, clitoris. These are not words that say I’m comfortable with sex. She’d said I could put my fingers in Her pussy the other day, which is obviously better than you can put your fingers in my vagina, and now that She didn’t want to cum too quickly, which is better than She didn’t want to orgasm too quickly, but … oh, I don’t know. She’s obviously still not at ease with the language of sex.
So I was gentle with Her breasts, brushing, caressing, stroking, and even when I squeezed, I did so delicately.
And I stayed away from Her clitoris, starting with my hand on Her inner thigh, my thumb grazing against Her mound, fingers occasionally making excursions along the moist ripples of Her lips as they aimed for Her other thigh. There is a distinct difference between the way She bucks when She wants more and when my ministrations are misplaced. I can’t describe it, but as I now cupped Her sex, I was pleased to note the shift of Her disposition.
Whilst I stroked Her pussy, I couldn’t help but be curious. Although I dare not investigate too diligently, for want of Her loosing direction, nor for challenging something which is not the norm, I couldn’t help but notice what seemed to be stubble. Had She shaved Her bush? No. But had She even trimmed Her bikini line?
Many years ago, long before we were married, we had a holiday in France with a native friend. On one particular excursion we went to the beach where, topless sunbathing was the norm. This was most pleasingly for me, not least as I was in the company of three attractive women – my Girlfriend, our host, and another friend – all who bared their tits to the sun. I had to make an effort not to get a boner on the beach. Being the lascivious perv I am, my eyes also strayed to what remained of their bikinis. I wondered whether my Girlfriend knew Her pubes were sticking out the side. She was most certainly not a woman who ever depilated Her genitals.
Nor has She ever been.
If I now ast my mind back just a couple of weeks, I noticed a disposable (women’s) razor in the bathroom bin. An unusual sight, and not one of obvious significance, though I had mused at the time that I was most used to think of Her waxing Her legs (if not regularly these days). As I found a hint of stubble near Her snatch, I could not help but wonder. This would certainly be a pleasing development.
She was definitely in the mood now, and reached back for my cock. If it’s irrational to be pleased with an erection, I was. Sometimes my cock is hard. Occasionally it’s hard enough to do the job, but not much more. Once in a while it feels so pumped it’s on the limit of what my flesh can withstand. Tonight was such a night. I was pleased with it.
She broke away and retrieved a condom from the dresser. As I tore open the packet and pushed the duvet out of the way She helped uncover my loins. As I rolled the rubber on in the blue neon glow of the alarm clock’s display, She seemed to prop Herself up on Her elbow, as if to watch. Could it be She actually like to watch this? Is the sight of me stroking my erection actually pleading for Her? The sheath did not go on easily (it turned out that it was another of the diminutive Crown prophylactics) and despite the very real possibility that my ego was misguided, I took a little pleasure of making slightly more effort than I strictly needed, holding my turgid cock away from my body with one hand and laboriously stroking the rolled latex as far down my shaft as I could with the other. Just for effect, I gave it a few slow strokes with my fist … not that there was any need whatsoever.
Her: Where do you want to be? On top, or underneath?
It’s a question She’s asked before, yet rarely, if ever, unless She’s cum and us wanting to give me mine. It took me a little by surprise? She has elected to be on top for the overweening majority of the time, but I know it’s easier to make both of us cum when I’m on top. I rolled Her onto Her back, She wrapped Her legs around me and I slid my dick straight into Her.
Every once in a while Her breathing faltered – a clear sign that She was starting to cum. I hurried my dick in Her, as deep as I could, and stopped … pressing down against Her mound … then tiny movements, backwards and forewarned, just enough to not be still. Her climax rose … and as it waned, I started to fuck again. Until She started the whimper again. My response was the same, driving Her up Her hill three or four more times before She asked if we could stop. I asked if She wanted me to withdraw, but She declined. A couple of minutes later and I gently started to thrust again. Maybe I was indeed harder than usual, or maybe She was particularly tight, but Her cunt never seemed to yield as I slid in and out of Her. Each stroke seems to meet with clenched resistance. Even with a condom on I was pretty sure She’d drain my balls. I lifted up one leg around my waist and straddled the other, not quite may favourite position, but still allowing me to penetrate Her slightly deeper.
And still I had to force my way into Her snatch. Usually when She’s cum Her muscles relax, but not tonight – She was exquisitely tight and as I banged harder and faster and deeper until I felt my own orgasm rising. When it came it was a fierce, visceral, eruption of fire, and as my bucking slowed the heat just stayed and stayed and stayed. It doesn’t matter how good a wank is, it’s never this strong.
When I finally caught my breath, I rolled off Her, disposed of the condom, and cuddled up behind Her, and we stayed that way for maybe an hour or more. Eventually one of us stirred and disturbed the other, we turned away and slept.
In the morning She was still naked. I assume She had been sufficiently satisfied She never felt the need to retreat into Her nightdress. I was pleased.