It was Tuesday night, our hammock night between gym dates. He came over, freshly showered, after his solo workout and brought a chicken breast and vegetables and asked me to work my magic on them.
It was a pleasant scene: me in the kitchen bitching about cooking his vile meat (“I can’t stand the way chickens are treated and they taste like shit anyway!”) and him on a couch teaching himself a new coding language while my ever-embarrasing dirty little secret, The Only Way is Essex, honked away on the TV.
I’d had a stellar day with an old friend, a wonderful, connecting chat with a colleague, and a much-needed phone injection from my sweet pal, Noodle. The day had been filled with sunshine and love and as the stars rose above my roof my heart swelled amidst the domestic calm. And I was horny. As fuck.
My poor Hitachi croaked and died shortly after I moved in with a spark and a snap — it was quite dramatic! — and I have been reliant solely on my sweet TN for release ever since. But illness, stress, and exhaustion have collaborated to make those moments far less frequent so we had big plans for that innocuous Tuesday. We were gonna make bunny-fucking magic.
It began when I was on the phone with Noodle. His eyes lit up and he grinned like the Cheshire cat as he stroked himself and grew big enough to peek out of his underpants. He wagged his cock at me trying to break my concentration, but it didn’t work. I giggled and told her he was “waving his wiener at me!” but he had to admit defeat and tuck it back away until I was done.
Later, after dinner and a nice chat, he came and took my hand and pulled me into my room to cuddle and start our play. We said loving things and laughed and I stroked him till he was big again. I stood on my knees and grabbed his furry face and let his soft lips play on mine. I felt my readiness grow and I kissed him more deeply, giddy as a schoolgirl, ready for what was about to happen to me.
And it did. All the usual oohs and ahs, the moves, the plowing, the squirting, the great big, rolling g-spot orgasm. All the same, wonderful, boring stuff I am fortunate enough to call my own. But it was all me, all my orgasmic pleasure and none of his.
When this happens, I feel badly for him, though he assures me not to. His anorgasmia preceded my appearance in his life, took a brief hiatus when I first entered it, but has sadly reinstated itself. When this happens, I ask if he can cum on his own, with his meaty paw as I watch. Sometimes he says he can, other times he begs off with a kiss and a cuddle.
But lately I haven’t accepted his begging off and have — in my gentle, dominant way — insisted that he at least try, to not give up on himself so easily. And when he complies with his sweet, masculine trust, I nearly burst with pride of him.
That Tuesday night he said the words I love to hear, “I’ll try.”
He laid next to me in the candlelight and moved his hand on his shaft. I grabbed a teeny, tiny vibrator that he gave me a few weeks back. A little AA battery thing that is a sad little version of my powerful, but dead, Hitachi.
I spread my legs and moved my eyes over my lover’s hand and thick, muscular thighs, his taut chest, his reddish beard, and finally let them rest on his beautiful face, his icy blue eyes. He looked back at me and smiled, glanced at my jiggling breasts.
I closed my eyes and listened to the smacking of his leaking cock, the catch in his breath, and reopened them to the blur of his hand on the arc of his cock. My orgasm began to build — so much more quickly than I ever expected — and a moan escaped from first me, then him.
His hips began to lift just ever so and my orgasm leapt forward in bounds. And then it was there upon me and his was upon him and we were climaxing together, side-by-side, for each other and ourselves and as my back arched I managed to say amongst my Oh Fucks and Oh Shits, “Oh my God, that’s so hot!” as I watched him buck and spurt cum all over his abdomen.
We finished buried in giggles at my declaration and I snuggled into his nook, careful not to touch the cooling globs of semen. I couldn’t stop gushing about the hotness of that moment. That moment when he finally came with me, watching me watch him.
I asked if he could cum again and he said no, but that didn’t dissuade me from climbing between his legs and gently sucking him off again as a special finish. The giggles spilled unbidden as my hair got stuck in the splatters of jizz — oh jizz — and with mischief in my eyes I spread it through his chest hair and ran off.
He chased me down, wrapped his arms around mine and smeared me with cum, massaged it on my face and in my hair. We doubled over with laughter and headed to the shower, a sweet ending to a regular old Tuesday night. A magical innocuous, bunny-fucking Tuesday night.
Not surprisingly, I slept soundly that night. And Wednesday morning I woke up to even more magic: TN in my bed.