We’ve spooned all night long. The pain in the heel, from yesterday and the day before, is no more.
Sensing the morning, I gently detach myself. Careful, not to wake him, I find my knickers, my socks, my pants. But where is my blouse? Ah, there you are!
My Naughty friend, riding her Friday bike, brings me the regular milk and some cottage. I invite her inside. And then outside, to my neighbor’s garden. Where I toy with so many greens. Especially the common hop. Naughty loves the delicate and fresh roots. Particularly this time of the year. She cooks them and eats them, along with her hubby, like they would be asparagus.
I dig her some. Handling the roots, our fingers touch. The pleasant voltage snaps to my brains, flooding my face in warm pink. I look at her. She looks back. Uncertain. Her finger (she just threw the roots into her bag) wants to caress the place on my cheek that has been snapped by the rake moments ago. Accidentally, I have stepped on it. Don’t ask!
Touched, again, willingly, spontaneously, I blush. And smile back.
We are fine, walking back to her bike, anchoring the bag, she waves. Till next week then. I’ll hear from her about the yummy common hop roots. Maybe I should try some in the while. Let me ask him.
Filled with energy, up the stairs, I take my blouse off. Getting out of my pants, my socks, my knickers… I notice them wet. Lounging next to him, trying to spoon myself in, I put his hand over my tummy. He touches me and the voltage – same pleasant voltage – rushes up through my neurons.
Not blushing, this time I’ve got an idea. So I turn to face my sleeping Teddy Bear. I shake him good until he makes eyes.
“Fuck me!” I say, fixing his smile with a stare.
Two seconds later, I am the one fixed.
Three seconds later, I scream.
Five, I tremble.
Ten later, my agony dies under the next fireworks.
Yes! He made it. Seven years later. Inside me.
Next to me.
My hands take care of that.
Sensing his kind and sleepy zephyr on my cheek (yes, the same cheek hit by the rake and caressed by Naughty), I detach. Careful, not to wake him, I find my knickers, my socks, my pants. But where is my blouse? Ah, there you are!
On the sidewalk, in front of her shop. I meet Susan. “Morning, Susan!” I hurry to help her with the keys. Our fingers touch. The keys fall. We bend together. After them. Our hands touch again. The keys. Our eyes meet as she talks to me about merchandise, shipments, timetables, clients.
Back upstairs, I pull the window blinds off, allowing the morning to surround him.
“You know, I had a dream. One of those wet dreams. Like when I was young.”
“Uh-huh… I fucked you fast and, in no less than ten seconds!, I filled your pussy with my warm gushing semen. Can you imagine? It was… well… unbelievable… Wow!”
“Twas no dream, darling.”
Staring dumb at me, his right hand moves under the sheets.
“Did I wet myself? Oh no…”
“You did not wet yourself, dear. You made love to me, swiftly, amazingly, passionately. You came in me. A fabulous moment!”
“In seconds? I can’t believe it.”
“Come and check. The proof is in the pudding.”
“Yes, you may.”
As he is (still) eating me, I write this blog for you.
It is all about touching.
The way of it.
The moments of it.
The voltage of it…
“And about the pudding,” mumbles he.
The taste of it.
‘Olive Oil’ is a healthy ingredient that works wonders way beyond the kitchen. Spreading fragrance oils on the skin is one, but when arriving at the labia, and in between, olive oil becomes the safest sticky thing at hand. This long-little home video is also about fingers getting busy to build, and rebuild, and tirelessly try again, my next orgasm. But it is only his tongue that will have the many build ups climax down into colorful fireworks.