7:45 am – I close the gate after the twins. Hurry back inside to acquire a little warmth from my cuddle bear. He’s sleeping on the sofa, downstairs. I sleep in the girls’ room, upstairs. This will end tomorrow, when girls (one of them for a starter) come back home for the holidays. Our bedroom is dedicated to mom. The doc visited her yesterday and assured us that she’ll make it into 2016. He also said that if I’d kept giving her tamoxifen (according to the specialist doc’s prescription), that would “kill her.” I never wanted to give this to her in the first place, but my little sister insisted (following doc’s orders). Anyway, she’s doing bit better this week, unlike the week before.
Back to midlife matters. Hubby welcomed me as I have expected: with a long caressing sofa ballet that eventually ended in copulation rock and roll. Love his tongue behind my ear, his lips playing with my earlobe, and earring. It clings in his teeth. Adore his pressure on my chest as his manhood slides in, making my flower blossom, having me drooling and dripping. I let it go, forgetting of myself.
8:30 am – I have to run upstairs to give mom some morning medication, associated with a meager breakfast (fluid). She struggles with every swallow. I left him on the sofa. Minutes later, I hear him around the house, trying to begin his day.
9:05 am – He comes downstairs from the bathroom. Nice dangling dick between his naked legs, contrasting with the oversized red wool winter socks and the sweater, black and white. He takes me from my laptop for a little waltzing on the music. Yes, that music inside our heads. Did you know what planet Earth celebrates today? 245 years from Beethoven’s birth!
Talking about symphonies, the fifth, I’ve got a little cute video for all melomaniacs out there. It’s a fetish that originally didn’t involve sex. Until you’ll see this video. But a friend has told me about ‘The Piano’ – an excellent movie about living life and making love on classical music. Fetishes are mental efforts trying to put passion in a bottle. Wondering why? Let me continue with my morning.
Half dressed, we danced just a little because the sofa was there, in the middle of the room. We hit it and crushed on it, re-copulating in no time. Our bodies were in desperate need to combat the chill, to share warmth, to make the best sense of each other.
I told him to make it short, so we can finish breakfast before ten. He said yes, short it will be. But our bodies didn’t listen to the stress harassing our minds. My missionary man went down (shortly) to explore the forests. His tongue started slapping my love button. I stared at him, holding his head in my hands, as he chewed my pubis, sipped the moist below my clitoris, bit my inner thighs to give me distractions. Only to surprise my pussy back. A game that I could not win. Sensing the tide, I asked for his hands. “Where?” – mumbled he. Out of words, I hurried my blouse up to the neck, grabbed his hands in mine and pressed his palms against my nipples. “Here!” – I moaned.
Minutes later, I don’t know how many symphonies collided in my brain. My body in tremors. My mouth ready to scream. But something (peeping from a corner of my consciousness) sealed my lips. I’m not allowed to scream my orgasms out loud.
His diligent tongue, and greedy lips, won’t let my clit go. Had to push back. He switched to tickling. Had to laugh or speak. So I spoke. “Don’t want to make sounds, you silly. I’m done. Your turn now. Come on me. Hurry! Make it short!”
He stared at me, mischievously, while his busy fingers tried to collect, without much success, the few hairs off his mouth. “If you gotta go, little bunny, just go. I can handle myself. No problem.”
I insisted. “What if I stay? Will you come faster?”
“On my tummy.”
Couple more minutes (and fantasies for future films) later, I have a puddle in my navel. The kind feeling of his sticky semen spilled up, left and right, on me is cut short by grunting sounds. “Shut up. You’re too loud.”
“Snort. Oomph… uhhh… rrrr…” Whatever… No way to get him back from the animal kingdom. “Can I clean you now?” Oh my! He’s talking!, articulating words. Progress!
“Sure. Grab some tissues. There, on the table.”
“No. No. I’ve got this.” And he licks and sucks my tummy clean. Navel included.
9:45 am – Breakfast time.
Fully energized, I can start my day. Again. It seems that, between 5 am and 10 am, I keep starting my days. Hours will change next week. Not sure how.
The good friend that has recommended ‘The Piano’ movie, wrote me that she’s getting in the Christmas mood. These days. I wish I could follow her example. Maybe next week.
Hours and days change. Same like situations, positions or contexts. Same like music. Or even silence. Things change. I’ve described to you a casual morning that happens to me twice or thrice a week. A way or another. A place or another. Looking at it with the eyes of a professional, many checks and controls went off already: fetish this, deviant that, genre this, niche that. The trained mind begs for compartments and categories. But the amateur mind (and body) just lives and lets live.
I’ve heard Dieter Bohlen on TV saying that “Amateurs have built the Arc of Noah while profis have built the Titanic.”