This Wednesday, while he was masturbating, and I had to run up and down the stairs, preparing mom’s room for a visit, I’ve stopped by to cheer him up – rather speed him up because I wished to bring mom downstairs – to offer her a short promenade before the doctor was about to come.
Asking him with a silent smile, he answered from his reverie. “Now we’re sixty-nine-ing… you on top… doggy… me on my back… tonguing… there’s an unknown guy pounding your pussy… hard… I lick your clit… touch his dick with my tongue… as he thrusts in you… and he comes! Inside you! Do you remember when was it? The last time I’ve come in you?”
“2009?” Say I, not exactly sure.
“Yes, six years ago. Until now, when this guy fills your pussy with his cum. Oh, oh. It’s dripping… I open my mouth… touching his cum with my tongue… right out of your pussy. Whoohaaa!”
(…) After hubby came. And after the doc came (literally), to visit mom and give us a better opinion than last time, we were talking casual matters. He mentioned his fantasy again, as an example to an example. I said, “have you even considered to ask for my consent?”
“That is not even a question to ask, my dear bunny. What consent if we’re not contemplating reality here. This is a fantasy from another dimension, another life, or others’ lives, not ours!”
“With me sandwiched between two dicks. With me the object…”
“See how easily you can turn a goddess into an object…”
“…Or the object into a goddess. Yes, permutations of the mind.”
“Slippery minds. But if you want it as a question, have you pondered the monumental medical challenges raised by a cuckold creampie?”
“No. I’ve never pondered a cuckold creampie in the first place.” Wished to add that that should be a men’s land of thinking but stopped short. Who can tell how, and when, my own mind would also slip, again.
“It took us glimpses to like each other,” speaks he, dreaming backwards like middle age men do to annoy the audience, “hours to really enjoy each other’s presence, days of separation allowing us to dream of each other, weeks to understand that we’ve fallen in love, a nightly moment for me to ask and for you to say YES, then months of preparation before you let me fuck your pussy, then years and years and years to blend our bodies together. And we were young…”
“We are young, stupid. Fifty young! The new thirty, remember?”
“How could I forget!”
“Okay, so you were talking about the medical challenges of a cuckold creampie and then, suddenly, about our college romance. Don’t get it.”
“It’s about touching, dear. A touch is many things to many people. Pervs in trams touching your butt with their trousers. Polite handshakes or handkisses. Affectionate hugs and kisses. Kissing the French way and making love up to watery climaxes. A touch can be stolen, shared, offered and craved for.”
“But the touch is the consequence not the cause.”
“In a civilized and consensual world.”
“Indeed. I’m not talking politics to you, am I?”
To cut his reasoning short, before any fantasized cuckold creampie could deploy above or below my wet pussy, we both (hubby and me) would have had to fall in love (literally) with ‘the unknown guy’ and process him throughout too many filters to count. Selective affinities are hard to begin with. Eating habits, lifestyles, mutual trust, etc. demand years over years to develop, or break apart.
Reality is nothing like fantasy.