How About My Intimate Desire to Swallow?

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Wednesday Afternoon

Near zero temperatures are here to stay and chill our mornings. I really hope that my little ones will become more time-aware before spring is expected to bring us back the milder mornings. Until then I remain the sole timekeeper in the house, having to make sure that they leave for school at least ten minutes before eight. Today they were in luck because I had hubby scheduled for his speedy shopping drive, after he dropped the twins in front of their school, of course.

One hour later (see how efficient he is?) he brings home a trunkload of pumpkins — eighty kilograms; then thirty kilograms of potatoes; other fruits and vegetables in smaller quantities; corn breads, honey and a heat-resistant glass tea-pot to replace the one I broke the other day (in the sink, don’t freak out πŸ˜€ ). After he unloaded the provisions, I asked if we can have our love-making before breakfast. But he wanted to eat first, to recharge for me. So we ate our Wednesday cups of minced flax seeds with olive oil and garlic, our red capia peppers, without avocado this time. And then we went to bed, to quench out reciprocal thirst.

On a cloudy November day, I find it’s the perfect time to get naked, under the sheets, together with your hubby, to talk nostalgia and little nothings, to have his pointy middle foot immersed in my honey pot and, while he’s at work again, to have my mouth continually gossip the trivia ghosts out of my mind.

Believe it or not, this excites him. Once, I wondered why my chatterbox turns him on. And he took his time, as always, to detail an answer to me. “There are women who sound like rap tunes. And there are women speaking in a sweet crystal voice; they don’t hurry up the words, not flooding your ears; they just talk, wanting to be heard — but not insisting on it. And there is you” — that’s me! — “bit spoiled, bit serious, a tad nuanced but inquiring enough, your voice sounds like classic music to me.”

“Is this also true when I yell at the children?” I sometimes think aloud, to which he says that he shares my suffering, storing it in his heart and trying to give me comfort a way or another. But let’s get back to our yesterday romancing morning — yes, I had no time to wrap up this article Wednesday afternoon, had to abandon it in favor of the piano lessons, home works, chore-works and a night to sleep on it.

Thursday Before Dawn

I wake up at 4am to prepare the commuting grown up kid. Now that she left, I take advantage of the time before waking up the twins. It’s nice to join hubby in bed, each of us typing on a separate laptop. Well, actually he’s not typing, just staring at some texts that I can’t grasp. But where were we?

Under the sheets, naked, bringing memories back in the room, embraced together, feeling his hard one gently thrusting with care through my moisty muff… Oh Lord, I love these moments. And then, all of a sudden, the phone rings, taking us down to planet earth. “Wait!” With this short command, he jumps out of me, and even out of the bed, to grab that noisy device and bring it to me without answering. “It’s your mom, you answer it!” True!

Sideways Phone Sex

“Hi mom. How are you?” And my voice departs his ears with my attention focusing on the phone talk. Between a phrase or two, I throw a glimpse over the quilt where I can’t see his head for the simple matter that he lives under, cramping himself around my legs, sniffing them, kissing my hips and trying to reach for my clit with his tongue. But I resist, he distracts me from talking to mom, it’s impolite!

Initially, he seems to respect my wishes, obeying my hand which is pushing his head away from my pubis. But, as the phone talk goes on and on, his patience runs out. Eventually, my tired hand gives in to his firm elbows distancing my legs to a wide spread, giving way to his avid tongue to continue her feast on my clit. Now I must control my mind, and my voice, while speaking to mom, because he has the potential of distracting me from the dialog — a HUGE potential, I can say… Gotta control my giggles, don’t want mom to understand what’s happening to me. I’m still shy towards her and I know that’s the way she likes to see me, so why shatter her world?

My Taco, His Dick, My Mouth

Almost half an hour later, mom concludes her call leaving me alone in bed, a perfect prey to hubby’s tongue! He climbs over my tits to offer a long and sensual French kiss, occasion for me to taste my own gine-gine. Not actually a true taste, rather a savor of love. I can interpret this papillary experience in many ways, or in no way. Not much time to consider flavors anyway because I feel how his even harder dick dives back into my hairy fluffy taco (I borrowed this “taco” slang from fan comments on my WW naked pics — the adjective “fluffy” being my personal addition to this newly acquired expression πŸ˜‰ ). His dick expresses a variable hardening while we make love. There’s no such thing as keeping the hardwood for an hour or two. Unless you give him some blue pills, which I don’t, but even that — as I’ve read — has a mind factor in the equation of resilience. In other words, according to him “it takes two heads, not just one, to keep it hard.”

I say to myself that NOW is the appropriate (hardest!) moment for me to seek for a ravaging vaginal orgasm. Could be that licking me while I was chatting with mom excited his exhibitionist side. Could be that he’s wagging of joy to have me back as an exclusive. Could be both, who cares, let the fluids flow! …

But hey, one minute please, what time is it? Gotta cook lunch, part of it is ready, I took care while he concluded breakfast — he’s much more into the slow food, slow masticating, maybe a too meticulous eating lifestyle. Good for him! And good for me too, because I calmed down from the kids’ come back noon panic. Reason to celebrate. And how else can I celebrate, with his boner in my “taco,” other than releasing a guttural orgasm.

I shortly have to beg him to fuck my mouth. His “partner” simply feels so perfect in the clench of my welcoming pussy that it won’t let go. But I desperately need to taste him, to feel his thrust caressing my tongue down to my throat. “Fuck me in my mouth, Don! Please!” He turns for a sixty-niner, but not as timely as I wished him to. Better later than never, no?

For a little while, I push his buttocks between my palms and my face, seeking to have his juicy head whiffing against my tonsils. But that didn’t happen. His hardness, that I felt in my vagina, was gone. I have two options: asking him why he’s not so hard anymore (not a good idea), or to get my hands on it and stroke with vigor. I take the latter. But this may take longer than expected, time is key. I remember to have an appointment at 1pm. I wish to be there. But I also wish to have him cumming in my mouth, maybe to jolt again under his tongue and, eventually, to cap our long slow morning sex with yet another chatter cuddling, this time on a very actual issue, about my cultural event that I wish to attend.

A Desire to Swallow

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“Don, I wish you stop licking me, come up on your knees and jack off in my mouth please.” Sweet sugary waving words will always have the wagger execute your desires on the spot.

As he saddles over my torso, I touch his inner thigh with my nostrils. It arouses me to sniff the skin of his scrotum while easily kissing the warmth of his inner thigh in a simulated reach for his perineum.

My arousal has a decisive effect over his mind. Measuring his excitement by the magnifying size of his penis (my submissive perspective adding to the personal impression), I begin to repeat the few magic words: “I wish to taste your sperm. I want you to cum in my mouth. I need to swallow all of your cum!”

Few repetitions, and couple of minutes later, he explodes with a white hot jet hitting my palate, shortly followed by some animalic roarings filling the room. My reasonable mind tries to pull my body out of this situation so I may focus on the cultural event. But my passionate desires chase reason away. My mouth feels salty from his load of sperm. I carefully use a finger to collect the few “tears” dropping from my lips and have them where they belong: in my mouth! He’s not yet done roaring, although much milder, more like groans now. And I’m not done sucking yet. It’s a wonderful instant of vulnerability when you’re allowed to suck your loved one dry, staring at his ecstatic echoes from below his belt.

“Share?” He returns from euphoria to me. I keep chewing and mixing his sperm with my saliva. “Share?” He asks me once more. I chew, suck and deny. Today I don’t wish to share with him, not even the smallest drop. My hormones have instructed my brain to assimilate all the manly hormones he has to offer. The wise thing to do is swallowing his load immediately, before he might decide to steal it with a kiss. Nevertheless, I prolong the moment of swallowing, can’t tell why, until he leans for the expected kiss. I swallow the bowl at once and laugh at him, empty mouthed, hah!

“Lick me, Don! It’s your turn.” As he reverts to our classical sixty-nine position, as he holds my butt cheeks in his strong palms, as his tongue slaps my clit and his lips pull it up or kiss my inner thighs way to the knees, and back at it again, I cannot help myself from sniffing on the pleasurable scent of his leg hair, from kissing his scrotum and from sucking in small bits of his consumed, tired, sleepy cock.


It’s almost a daily routine for me to enjoy a steamy orgasmic wave from Don’s tongue. I don’t allow his fingers inside me because I’m afraid of scratches — even if he’s more cautious now, I’m still not ready for that. And I don’t really find an inclination for his tongue-fucking exercises. What I desire is having his tongue play my clit, his hands hold my buttocks, his lips kiss my legs and labia all around. Again and again. Until I cum in a frenzy.

Yesterday morning, this final moment of our love-making was preceded by a rich minute history of romance: he drove the kids to school, he returned with a trunk full of pumpkins and other healthy goodies, he encouraged my spirit to face the ever-growing challenges with schooling our son, he enjoyed listening to my nostalgia, he brought the phone to me in bed when mom called, he toyed with my clit while I was on phone, he fucked me twice to pleasant fine orgasms, he fucked my mouth and I drank all his load. This almost four hours-long history had a say in my final orgasm of the day. The fireworks usually raise from the clit to my belly, throughout my breasts into my head where they sensationally explode. But the romantic history of yesterday morning had my mind hooked up on this orgasm in a way that happens once or twice a month. That’s when I get a super-orgasm, an absolute compared to the relative regular climaxes. A supreme excitement that I’m afraid to write about. Thus I stop here.

“Shall we cuddle a little bit?” I call him out from under the quilt. Hesitantly, he obeys, like not willing to depart from kissing and caressing the pink relaxing clit of mine.

Brides of the 18th Century

My cuddling session has more than one purpose. I need to clarify a dilemma. In one hour time, I’ll have to honor an invitation to a cultural event, patronized by the church, about the history of Germans colonizing the Danube. I dearly wish to attend, but will the pressing chores allow me to?; will he take care of the kids when returning home from school?; what he thinks about me going there in the middle of the week and leaving the house on him?

“If you really want to go, then go, bunny! I’ll take care of the rest.” So I went.

Among the moderately funny jokes sprinkled around his discourse, the priest mentioned how the rural brides had to wear a white dress and a black coat during the 18th century. And then, the next Sunday after the wedding, they’d come to church not in white but in black, like old ladies. White and black at the wedding, so that the bride will know what awaits her down the road of marriage. Among other difficulties associated with colonizing wild distant realms, one looming thought was that the groom, most often a soldier, might never return home.

This had me think and thank at the same time. It’s no little thing to live under an apparent social peace, near a husband that never leaves you, besides the aforementioned amusement he’s ready to offer you anytime you desire. The secret of happiness in life, and consequently in marriage, is to ALWAYS BE GRATEFUL for what you have.

Let not mention that I attended the gathering in my tight jeans and leather jacket that you’ve seen, in disparate casual poses, because I wear either of them. Unless I have to get out of my screen life and step into the real one. Beige and blue — that’s my jacket and my jeans.

Remember the brides of the 18th century? Black and white. Pray and be grateful for the colors, ladies!

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