Thursday I said “Enough is enough! Gotta paint the kitchen.” Don provided the logistics, as always, and allowed me the roller and brush because, he says, it’s a woman’s job to paint the walls. Well, walls like walls but painting the ceiling went a bit cumbersome. This until I emptied the bucket but still had to finish the ceiling surface. So I stopped, it was evening anyway.
Friday morning I planned to paint the window in the kitchen and, yes, to finish that spot on the ceiling. We all hate having furniture displaced around the house. Don hates this even more than me. Yet he won’t allow me two painting days in a row. His perspective about physical work is different from the one about fitness. The latter must go day in, day out, the former about twice a decade, like painting walls, or at least twice a year, like major house and garden overhauls. Naturally that daily gardening is not classified as physical work (for me at least) but rather as a healthy and de-stressing relaxation.
Decisively ditching my continuing chore plans for Friday morning, Don offers me one of these WOW! sex sessions that I can’t forget easily. He commenced by cuddling me enough time to caress most of my skin, with his lips and hands. Telling me the same nice loving words that I know, but there’s a special way he puts them in new phrases that can’t bore me. And, just when I’m afraid to hear some repetition, he strongly slides in, with classical gentleness, where he takes his time. It is like we’re back home.
His dance goes round and round for as long as I allow him. It’s me calling the shots when we’re making love to each other. What he does is pleasing me, servicing me! Which sensual pleasure gradually grows to some waving thrills. I cannot call it a climax. Why? Because a climax is what marks a point, but having sex with hubby is like a symphony where I’m the violin — when I passively vibrate under his delicate and continuous pressure — or the piano — when I giggle of excitement at his fingers playing on my inner thighs — or the horn — when his tongue brings me up to rough and short screams — echoing the moans of our foreplay with my hands squeezing his tiny and firm buttocks. Yes, our foreplay is missionary while our play usually ends in the sixties… and nine.
The Melody of a 69-er
What he loves most in bed is servicing me. He can’t finish the job before making sure that I’m finished first. This is why he ends the foreplay when I tell him that I’m tired and ask him out. However, his habit is to spend a bit more time in there, never to exit at my first request. I know that and I can only tolerate him for a little while longer.
How can he do that? — one may ask. It seriously started, in his mind, after he left me pregnant with the twins. Four kids are more than four blessings, they’re also four challenges. So his thinking head decided to divert his precious pleasure-head in a natural and evasive way. Pills would have destroyed my hormonal system, that’s why he never allowed me to be on the pill.
What’s the secret for my ongoing orgasms with no other toy than my man?
It’s because the loaded gun remains straight as long as it is loaded. He’s scared (psychologically) to shoot in. No matter my years long menopause, the concern is buried there, deep in his mind. And after he finally comes (in my mouth, on my chest or belly), he turns down, obliging with yet another oral wave of spiking giggling pleasure, this one spirals me up into a roaring climax. And I’m done. Trembling…
He then invites me in his arms for another few moments of postcoital cuddling. But enough with laying lazy! I gotta run to the hairdresser. Our sex hour is over. My relaxing Friday goes on with bits of shopping, cooking, moving small things, gardening.
White Pink Bunny Ears
Saturday morning I take him shopping. Ran out of paint… And a new stainless kettle, among others. When exiting the super market, right before checking out, my eyes stumble upon two tiny pairs of bunny ears. One in white plush with cute inner pink silk, the other in light blue plush with white inner silk. Several meters away from me, Don pushes the two paint buckets heavy caddy. Probably scanning for some slim legs around the super market. As always, he didn’t notice the merchandise. But I did and immediately snatch the white bunny ears. Show them to him, asking if he won’t mind. Go figure, he stopped, grabbed them and thanked me with one of his most gracious and happy looks.
I tell him that “This is my present for you. I’ll wear them exactly as you’re gonna tell me to.”
“A pair of white socks and nothing else but these bunny ears.” He smiles back at me.
It will take some time before shooting new photos while wearing only my new sexy bunny ears(*). In this while, I got more inclined to permit Don the publishing of nude sketches that he made after photos he has shot during the past four years. What’s the reason for this further opening in my mind? Will tell you couple of them, reasons:
1. Because a tad beyond teasing in real pictures still annoys my prudish fears, Don had to work his way hard in refactoring my sexy silhouette, bit more explicit, photos into quick sketches.
2. Because I find that showing off in sexy sketches can be part of the anti-aging therapy. After all, you’re not watching a real photo of me, just a sketch.
*Don rants today:
And here ends Doris’ draft that she wrote one year ago (early April or so). She then turned shy when proof reading it and asked me to postpone the publishing. And the world went round. On the occasion of the first anniversary of this draft I did two major things:
2. Read her draft once again, did a tiny touch here and there. Shared with her the nostalgia of gone prude times when she was afraid to show off in real pictures. The sketchy times are not over however… But today we go for the real no panties pictures. My white shirt does the teasing, I guess…