This Tuesday, early in the morning, one of my kids slipped on the stairs. The stumbling sound made me jump out of bed, where I was napping few more bits on hubby’s chest. Nothing serious with her, but a bruise that I could notice later that evening. This kid of ours has a history of slipping on those stairs… and thus of tormenting my thoughts in stretches of desperation.
Two hours after the shock at dawn, immediately after managing to send the twins in time for their school (no snows, no car drive — walking is healthy!), I leave the key in the gate and, returning to the kitchen, I ask hubby, “We’re finally alone, what do you propose we begin with? Breakfast or the photo shooting?”
He gives me the expected answer, “Breakfast can wait. Plus, the photographer in me would be more appreciative of your flat and empty stomach, you bunny…” As he talks, I reach for the drawers with stockings and the wardrobe with casual clothing items, showing him this or that, asking for his opinion. We finally agree on my pink top with a fluffy collar, it’s not new, and the white pantyhose that he recently bought for me — I’ll wear them for the first time, in my very classical, and recently repaired, pair of black high heels, inaugurated at my college graduation ball, oh my!
Touching My Ass With His Tongue
Usually, when I’m posing naked in front of his camera, he has the “decency” to wear nothing below his belt (or nothing at all when it’s warm enough outside), but this Tuesday he politely excused himself out of this “tradition” of ours. “Because it’s too chilling for my balls,” he motivated. Having him naked in front of me, looking at his wagging dick as he squats or stretches for a better shooting position, laughing at his foolish monkey gestures and silly jokes, all of this brightens my attitude and gives me more courage and comfort, chasing the ever returning shadows of shyness away of my mind.
But this Tuesday, like in many cold days of winter, I had to be the only naked person in the house, for the entire photo session. Sensing my “loneliness,” he gathered more amusing words and compliments to cheer me up. This wasn’t the problem, actually. I stripped out of my pink top and white pantyhose on the stairs, in a quite dim lighting that his camera flash broke through at times. He made me smile. He tried making me laugh but with no success. Don’t know why. And then, while I had my pantyhose still on my legs, with my bare buttocks poking out against the camera, obeying his kind request to turn around and walk upstairs, then I felt the touch of the tip of his tongue right on my anus. Wow! I didn’t see that coming!
“What are you doing?” Said I, pleasantly outraged.
“Kissing you, my delicious bunny.” He replied, stretching for a second approach, not granted to him as I turned around and sat on the stairs, answering him back with another question.
“Wasn’t it your tongue that I felt in my ass, not your lips on my butts?”
“Then I French kissed your ass, how about that?”
“And how do I taste there?”
“Hum, let me find the proper comparison… Yes, your delectable ass feels and tastes like an appetizing lychee fruit. Soft and sweet, hiding a soapy pulp deep between your butt cheeks. Yum, yum…”
I don’t know what you would say to this kind of considerations about your own anus, especially if you’re not into anal at all. Having no idea about you, I had none about me as well, so I kept his words for me (sharing them with you here) and moved on with the business of posing for his flashing camera.
Touching My Clit Again
My initial plans for this week were less about posing and more about exercising and playing in home porn movie clips. And I nagged him quite some, the days before, with setting up the right backgrounds, which always involves a bit of furniture pushing on his part, a twist of family pictures and an extra laptop near the camera to produce the sound surround for my dancing. Filming is nothing like posing, it’s taxing and tiring. Maybe when boredom will fill the house and time will freeze, then I’d be more inclined to take it (the time, I mean) more seriously in playing for the camera. But until that day will arrive, looks like “we gotta improvise,” as he puts it to me. Find a spot and feel good in there for a couple of minutes, while he films you. The way I did in the shower movie. Although that implied some backstage arrangements (like bringing the laptop to play Mozart in the bathroom), it went seamlessly natural for me. I felt playful and enjoyed foaming and washing in front of the camera. That movie was quite a turn on for me!
But this Tuesday everything was different. Not a sunny day, not in my best mood for filming. And by the way, “doing what and where?” — I asked him. “Well, bunny, dress again” — I arrived to be naked after the striptease on the stairs — “and take a seat on this turning chair, right in front of the window, slightly backlit, where I wish you start playing with yourself and gradually fingering your pussy, then sliding into orgasmic masturbation, maybe some squirting…”
I contemplated him, what a dreamer! “Squirting, you say?”
He sensed my irony and came back to earth, “well, you can’t pretend to squirt but you may try with masturbating and moaning, I suppose…” I definitely could do that (not my first time), only if I’d wish to.
“So you’re pushing me again.”
“Yes. Tell me, what’s your ultimate fantasy?”
“You and me, making love in front of the camera.”
“We did that. You have a fair collection of movies with me and you.”
“Comes in handy when I need to jack off and you’re not available. But my fantasy now goes further. Wish to publish these movies, or film new ones. To share our love-making with distant watchers or, more practical for me: we make love in a studio with cameramen and directors taking care of all this technical stuff, lights, sound, production, etc.”
“You crazy man with your sick fantasies. That’s whoring stuff and I won’t do that!” With these words I hit him right in the middle of his forehead. Noticed his silence, waited for a reply, anything, be it an argument, a rebuke or an excuse, waiting for something to hear from him. But he said not a word. However, it took one or two flashes to wake me up: as I argued with him, my hands were softly parting my labia and my fingers did some playing and pulling on my clit.
One explanation for his silence was that he might have focused entirely on catching the moments in the memory box. Another that my words have hurt him. When I asked, after cooling down, he said that both accounts apply. He also put the reasoning hat back on his head and told me that it’s all up to me, starting with the masturbation movie, when I’ll feel ready to do that, then I’ll know where to address my concerns… As about his fantasies, I’m very well accustomed to them, it’s one of the many predictable parts of a man’s compulsive psyche. And I wonder: why do I act so defensively every time he repeats such fantasies? It’s nothing new that I hear from him. Could be that I feel a pressure, that an insecure voice inside me “shouts” a haunting litany of deaf thoughts dancing around the pole of fear: “what if, what if, what if?”
Yes, it could be that lack of security, compulsive in a woman’s mind. What if my kid had acquired more than a bruise that morning when slipping on the stairs? What if tomorrow will be not as great as today? What if yesterday I had done this or that thing differently? What if…
Tuesday, after completing the photo shooting, we had our oat meal — no!, not sex, just breakfast — and then he moved to the production desktop to prepare the pictures in galleries and I moved the vacuum cleaner around the house. It was only Tuesday evening, when I noticed the bruise on the kid who slipped on the stairs, remember?, that I realized what if (yes, what if?) this little accident could have caused my day down into the bitter realm of sour moods. But it was only Wednesday morning, after having back my roaring giggling orgasms from his dick and tongue, that I understood, that I saw in retrospect with a clear and analytical eye.
Hubby did nothing unusual to me, not when he French kissed my ass, not when he fantasized about me pleasing myself to squirting orgasms in his future movies, not when dreaming to fuck me in a porn studio full of strangers. He was just himself talking freely with his best friend: myself.
I did nothing unusual to him, not when stripping out of my pantyhose on the stairs, not when thinking that I’m exposing my naked body on the web (not just for him), not when falling prey to a mood or two, to the fears associated with leaving my zone of comfort, not when being wary about the well-being of my children, not when finding joy in his virile arms and drinking the cup of sexual pleasures to the bottom, together with him. If our lives have to deal with so many “what if” bitter moments, then let me tell you that there’s always another side of the coin: the “WHY NOT?”
To sum it up, about this week of December.
1. Too cold and too busy to carry the whole luggage of making movies, even the amateurish home erotica that we try to be good at.
2. Too stressed by kids’ personal problems, small or big, to allow my fantasies running beyond my man’s dreams.
3. Too intense the orgasms that I get from him to have me find much comfort in pleasing myself, with my own hands. Because, if I have a tongue to touch my ass, a dick to dig my pussy, a pair of hands to caress my skin, his arms to hold me, his mind and dreams to fly me, why would I think of masturbating the juices out of me? Don’t know, maybe to please him? So let it be, some other time, dunno when, on a sunny day of summer… How about this “why not” question entering my life?