Early this morning, I feel the poke, that unmistakable behind poke. My husband, his morning glory, poking against my butt cheeks, then between them.
Turning on my back, still in the waking process, I allow my right hand to search for his morning, to find it, to grab it and– and then to let my mouth exclaim: “Uhm, mhmm, Have you taken that Prelox pill from Life Extension yesterday?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s huge! Stronger, stiffer, wider than yesterday, and the day before yesterday. With every morning it gets bigger. Tell me!”
“I keep the Prelox for the filming only. Remember the guy with the down coat request?”
“Mhmm, no– ah, yes. Gotta wear that in August… but… wait!” My lips stick as much saliva I can gather on my left palm, which I hurry down to wet. “First come over me and stick it in. A shame to waste such a moment.”
That’s the signal! The command that my donkey knows best. He executes the turn, the jump, the insertion, before I can finish my phrase.
There’s no dildo, no plastic, no silicone and no glass, to match this morning meat. I wake up. Totally!!
Grabbing his ass with both my hands, I pull him in, like I’d wish more of it. Not thinking that all of it is already in. Nevertheless, I don’t give up pulling. And moaning. Silently, not to wake the twins (still sleeping in their rooms).
I don’t exactly know how to put this pleasure in words, in writing. The metal wood wandering through-in (if not a word then I’ll invent it now; here: THROUGHIN) my vagina. His abdomen pressing against mine, then up to release the pressure so I can breathe. His hands, resting on his elbows and taking turns to caress my neck. Like a mild massage. His tongue licking under my earlobe. His lips sucking on my earring. Then switching sides.
I think that daily exercise helps me ahead for these moments. Because I feel so elastic, so open, so eager to welcome and keep him tight in between my muscles. Throbbing, circling, pressing, pushing, aggressively and gently, pausing or moving, yet all the time stiff as stone.
I contract, but it’s not a muscle cramp. I try to relax, but I can’t. So I contract, inside. I gotta pee. Yeah, sure, forgot about the morning pee, never crossed my mind, this morning. When exactly?
Should I tell him? Let me contract a bit deeper, a bit upper, a bit lower. My spine and my legs are electrified. I think I’ll cum… now– But I gotta pee!!
What if? Uhm, well, who’s gonna change the sheets then?, who’s gonna dry the mattress?, and when?, because the kids are about to wake up soon and start their day. No, no, no. I gotta tell him.
“It’s not pee, dear. It’s you squirting. Feels like pee. Just different. And so tasty. Remember–”
“Don! Last time I peed was yesterday evening. Whatever fountain you’re talking about, add a full bladder of pee to it. I’m not gonna make a mess out of our bed. Let me go pee, will ya?”
Exiting, he leaves a huge, and I mean yooge, void in me. But I am right, and he’s got it: must pee now.
“Be back in a minute. Keep it up!”
When back, I can see, and sense, that the new ‘up’ is somehow softer than the old wooden velvety glass. A horde of orgasms has been spreading all around my body. That pee-pause had it stopped from reaching my brains. It’s all in me. Tense. Eager to explode throughout the fireworks in my brains. Which I wait, and wait, but they refuse to ignite.
“Go down on me. Now!”
Mute, he executes the sixty-nine turn. I grab his dick and suck on it. Yumm, feels like me. And the perfect combination of soft and hard, enough to give me the connection, but short of bruising my palate.
His chin and his tongue press and slap against my mount and my clit. Not enough. I move my hands down, to help dilate my pussy. What am I talking here?, to pull my lips to sides, to move his hands up on my inner thighs where I need the caress, the persistent massage, to release my muscles, to complete my orgasms. Because they keep piling up, adding up, tensing in, just in. And I want OUT! Out and up to my brains, out and down through my juices, out of me. Out and away.
No way, so far.
“Turn around. Fuck me! Harder!”
“Harder? You kiddin’ me? You went to pee, then all went sof–”
“Shut up!! Fuck me!!! Hard!” No answer, in silence, he executes.
At a certain point, I get the feeling that my muscles are at least as hard as his dick. Time to swap the menu.
“You go first. Wank and cum on me. Now!” The masturbation duel commences, his dick against my pussy. I play with myself to hasten him up. So I say, but I really need to touch myself. He cums, over me, over him, over the sheets. Like a mini sprinkler.
“Turn back to sixty-nine! Grab my thighs with your hands and knead them. Slap and suck my clit. Only the upper part. Don’t descend!” As I command, as he complies, I move my hands to spread my pussy wider, to give him access. More access. He slurped his sperm off of my belly. His tongue feels smoother, stickier, to my clit.
This is it. This is… don’t stop. Keep it going.
I don’t speak, it’s all running in my mind. Don’t want anyone to hear through the door.
When the wave hits me, all over my body. Bang! I’m done. The music fulfills with a bang. I shake a few more breaths away.
Two more mornings to September. The month I love most. Loving most also means that I am most willing to get laid in September. Or is it another factor, like the school year opening. I am super excited that, thirty Septembers after attending my senior year and graduating law school, this Monday I’ll start my junior year in linguistics. Another epoch, another beginning, same emotions.
They say that your early fifties are the new eighteens. I kinda feel like it. And I shouldn’t feel guilty for offering myself this rare pleasure.
Realizing that not many women can do whatever they wish to, contemplating that I’ve been doing whatever I wished to about all the time, I hand him a tissue, and then another one, and I stand up, looking for my panties.
What an amazing morning sex session! I feel fabulously fucked! Hormones tickling like a gentle breeze. Energized for today, my mind already slips to the next morning. Should I wake up before him and go pee? Before his wood begins to poke against my butt?
“Are you giving me extra macca?” I find myself asking.
“Nah, actually I’ve reduced your dosage. From three pills, as written on the bottle, down to two.”
Yes, we can hardly afford all those supplements, so we’re stretching them.
Very well then, let me sum it up: he didn’t take that Prelox pill for almost a month, he says, and I can remember that we haven’t filmed any ejaculation this August; and I’m down at 2/3 of my macca-based ‘Advanced Sex for Women 50+’ dosage. Which means that his metal morning woods and my feline sex appetite are not pill induced.
They call it LOVE, dear. Loving each other, loving summers, loving September, loving to live and to love.
Downstairs, fixing the kitchen (yes, he does that, because I’m already on my laptop booking courses), he tells me something about dick-metrics. I don’t understand. Only one thing: 17. Seventeen. He keeps mentioning this digit in his calculus elucubrations.
Seventeen what? Seventeen again? That’s what he wants to tell me?, about that lovely movie? Yes, I’ve watched it numerous times, and I’d watch it again.
No? Not about that movie, then?–