During this busy weekend, on Saturday – to be more exact, I whisper to his ear: “Monday morning!” Then, staring at him, I wait for the customary second. His mind, enthralled by my subtext, smiles at me with bigger eyes as his lips wish to give me a kiss. But I vanish just in time, before the audience would notice anything.

Yesterday evening, I accept his invitation for a romantic promenade. By reflex, our conversation slips to midlife matters, such as grown-up kids that have somewhat left the nest, about teens that must assume chores and responsibilities which they don’t like (who does, actually?). It’s a hot subject since a cousin shared her despair with me. Perhaps this is why I give defensive responses, because I can feel the fear surrounding me. Again.

Telling me that we’re only talking possibilities and likelihoods, nothing more, he wants to cheer me up with a fashionable quote: “Oh, you bunnies, you’re so emotional.”

I lean my head against him, trying to think about Monday morning. To escape anxiety. Telepathy or not (I wonder), he tells me that “the only emotional moment I could think of right now is asking you to fuck me in the ass.”

Reset. Let’s sit on this bench and listen to the music band, shall we? Watching the passersby, I meditate. Or try to. Two weeks ago – or more? – he asked me the same question and I obliged. Not an actual pegging though (by urban definition: anal sex reversed; instead of the man sticking his penis up the woman’s butt, the woman wears a strap-on and sticks it up the mans butt.) More like dildoing with the new, thinner, thing. Because the first one (that came in the same box with the strap-on, a month ago) proved too thick for his virgin backdoor.

We come back home to watch the final. At half time I go to sleep. Portugal wins! He informs me early in the morning. Yes, Monday morning! At six.

We gulp our enzymes, make ourselves comfortable and lock the door to our bedroom – because we’re not home alone today. Silent orgasms are almost as good as any other orgasm. I try not to screech louder than the bed. Few minutes later, I’m happy and satiated. Time to nap a little. The problem with napping in sixty-nine appears when he falls asleep. You get crushed and wake up. Desperate to fill your lungs with air.

“Shall we go downstairs?” I ask. “It’s the only way. Yes.” He sounds a bit unsure. So I take the lead. After locking the door downstairs. Behind him.

He helps me with the strap-on. This time filling the front opening with the svelte dick. The one that his ass can afford.

Zipped up, I feel like wearing the pants now. A metaphor, of course. He kneels, then he bends, then moves to doggy as I kneel behind him, then he turns on his back as I bend over him.

“Does it hurt?” I ask. “Nope. Push it all the way in. Love feeling you inside me.”

Nothing like the big onion-eyes that I’ve seen on his face when I used the thick thing last month. Looking down, I can’t see this one. At all. It’s just my tummy pushing between his thighs. Above his balls. I grab his dick and stroke.

To be continued. Next post about this Monday morning: “Eclipsed Ejaculation.”


4 thoughts on “Butterflies

  1. Doris you are the sweetest butterfly in the flowers….lucky guy what beautiful goddess to submit to……So wonderful to feel the touch and control of such a beautiful caring sensual woman…..I know he so enjoys everything with you……waiting patiently to submit

  2. I love the way you used a lepidopteran image to bowdlerize your feminine kindness. (If you do not understand the reference, I will be happy to explain.) You are a true artist, my friend. Love you.

    1. Think I got the sense of your remark: Boorishly said, I used butteflies to sanitize the strap-on.
      This is true. Bear with me because I still am very new to this daring new world of reverse role playing.
      πŸ™‚ ❀ ❀ ❀

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