He called me what?

I have a secret. I like sex an awful lot.

You knew that already? Oh.

Another secret? I hate bedtime being shoved back to an hour when I'm already tired. "Oh, I'm tired, let's go to bed now," does not sit well with me. It stirs rebellion in my heart to be relegated to a post-tiredness afterthought. I don't want it. I want joy and delight and I want to have sex in the middle of the afternoon when I'm fully functioning and can really think about and experience it.

Middle of the afternoon isn't going to happen for a while - that's the choice we made when we decided to have a child and move across the country. So bedtime it is, but so often I just want to go to bed very, very early.

---

My husband was gently stroking my breasts as I lay on my back next to him, and I was starting to drift off when I felt his already hard cock humping into the back of my hand. I turned my hand to stroke it, squeezing, tugging gently on the foreskin, and then let my other hand join the first one, forming a sheath of them and sliding them up and down the length of his hardness.

"You seem to like that cock an awful lot," he mused, after some time.

"Oh, is there something else I should be touching?" I asked, sitting up, running my hands over his belly, his thighs. "I can touch you in lots of other places." I sat all the way up next to his leg, resting my chin on his raised knee, and ran my fingers over his calves, his shins, his ankles and feet. My other hand wandered over his chest and belly, occasionally brushing his cock, cupping his balls and lifting them.

I turned our fan away from us - he can't stand it blowing on him without cover, and I wanted to see him. I returned to my previous position, stroking his legs and body, zoning out a little and turning my head to rest my cheek on his knee.

His cock bobbed, mostly lacking attention. He groaned softly each time I touched him there, before my flirting fingertips flitted away again.

"It'd be awfully nice of you if you'd suck my cock," he ventured.

"It would be, wouldn't it?" I asked him, continuing what I was doing, wrapping my fingers around his shaft and squeezing.

"It would. You're very good at it," he said.

I thought about it while I kept stroking him for a few minutes longer. I was tired. He felt good to my fingers. It wouldn't be very nice of me to just tease him until I fell asleep.

I pushed his legs down flat and climbed over him on all fours, my knees on each side of his legs, my hands on each side of his hips. I breathed out against his cock, then let my tongue snake out and touch it lightly, a tiny taste of a lick. I moved my head all over, kissing his cock lightly and letting my tongue flick out for a little taste now and then. Each time my tongue slipped against him he moaned softly with approval. I licked the head and he tried to push it into my face. I pulled away until he settled back down.

I started licking his cock, long licks from base to tip and back down again, covering his erection slowly with my tongue. He was making more noise now, really enjoying himself. At the top of one of my licks, I suddenly sucked his cock in all the way to the back of my throat, sucking on it hard and fast once there. He groaned really loudly. "Fuck, yeah, suck that cock."

I bobbed my head on him, fucking my own face, but after a moment, I slid my mouth off of him and continued the long licking and the kisses to his shaft. I did it again, a long leadup of licks and kisses and a sudden hard fast sucking him in, unrelenting pressure suddenly overwhelming him. He had the same response. I liked it. I kept doing it, over and over, releasing him from my mouth, teasing him with licks and sucking kisses, then devouring him whole. 

My arms were getting tired and I rolled to my side, pulling him with me. His hands went to my head, seeming to sense the change in position meant I was ceding the control I had seized so violently. His leg was over my shoulder like it was fitted to me and he was thrusting into my face hard, I was moaning and he was talking to me, very close to his orgasm.

And then it happened: "Good fuckface," he moaned as he tugged on my hair and gagged me with his cock.

He called me fuckface. And I, with my mouth full of his cock, screamed. It aroused me, sending tingles through all the right places, and yet my head rebelled. "He called me what now? Fuckface. He's fucking my face. I'm fuckface." I kept sucking, he kept thrusting, and I was getting more aroused as my brain dealt with the term. It wasn't an insult; he was clearly thoroughly enjoying himself. My legs kicked, he tugged on my hair and he talked to me more. I was stuck on that word, though. It rolled around in my head and I could hear nothing else.

He erupted in my mouth with a series of loud cries  and I was thinking, "I am fuckface," as I swallowed his seed. I was rendered mute afterward, with all these thoughts rumbling through my head, and my throat and lips feeling particularly overused.

It was hot and I turned our fan back toward us, returning to his leg back over my shoulder, his hands in my hair. He had a lot to say. "You make me a very happy man," he started. I purred.

"You're so fucking good to me. Why are you so good to me?" I just squeezed his ass and his arm in response. "Love?" he asked. I nodded, whether he could feel it or not I don't know.

We fell asleep like that. He whispered more words of how awesome I was, and we fell asleep with his leg over my neck.

---

I dreamed of heat so intense it melted the plastic off our refrigerator magnets, turned them into dripping pools of clear waxy substance. I woke up sick, sweaty, shoving him off of me. He is a furnace and it was already hot in the room. This has often been an issue with us in the summer time.

"You're made of fire, my love," I whined as I pushed him away from me. He turned his back to me to try to get the bulk of his heat away from me, but his ass touched me and I cried out at the intense heat.

"That's my hot ass," he said, making me laugh. "Would it be better if I put something on?"

"Probably," I whimpered, miserable. He got off the bed to find something to wear and I shoved the sheet off of my body to let the fan get to my skin. In moments like that the fan is my most intimate lover; the slow steady caress of its breeze across my skin as it oscillated soothed me and I moaned. 

"Is that from relief at having me away from you?" he asked, as my moans were very clearly ones of pleasure.

Of course not. He returned to me, but kept his limbs off of me.

---

These moments all juxtaposed give a portrait of my marriage that thrills me. I love him so much.

Even if he doesn't want to go to bed early.