His hand pushes on the back of my head, forcing it forward and away from him, exposing the back of my neck to him. He rubs the soft bristles of his beard against me there, a thousand tiny points of sensation, and I gasp loudly.
"You like that, girl?" he asks, pushing harder on my head, rubbing his beard against me while I feel myself melting. He moves his chin over to the tender curve between my neck and shoulder, and I inhale sharply as sensation overtakes me. I can't say which thing I love more - the hand pressing possessively yet almost dismissively against my head, or the sensations his beard is awakening across my body. Goosebumps rise up all over me and I moan.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Making the girl blush
We get up to some awfully intense things in the bedroom, but my husband rarely speaks aloud of them outside the bedroom door.
The other night, I was feeling horrible. Overstimulation from constantly caring for our child, bills, cleaning, and a lack of sex for several days had contributed to me generally feeling withdrawn and angry on a broad, not-directed-at-anyone scale.
He followed me around and when I wound up in bed, he forced himself on me despite my protests.
"But you're not going to stop me, are you girl? I wonder why you're not going to stop me, girl," he said as he performed all sorts of things upon my person. I didn't resist. I only answered his questions when he made me, though.
But later, when it was all said and done and a large chunk of the evening was gone, I mentioned how late it was as we sat on the sofa together and talked about what to do next.
"Where did the time go?" he asked, a little startled as it was 10:30 at night by now.
"You munched it up," I answered. This is common in the language of our marriage, we speak of time being munched a lot. It's not out of the ordinary. His response, though, was.
"Oh, so it was between your legs, then?"
I couldn't even respond. I gave him a look of incredulity as the blood rushed to my face.
You'd think that making me blush would be harder than this by now, but nope, it really, really isn't.
What makes you blush?
The other night, I was feeling horrible. Overstimulation from constantly caring for our child, bills, cleaning, and a lack of sex for several days had contributed to me generally feeling withdrawn and angry on a broad, not-directed-at-anyone scale.
He followed me around and when I wound up in bed, he forced himself on me despite my protests.
"But you're not going to stop me, are you girl? I wonder why you're not going to stop me, girl," he said as he performed all sorts of things upon my person. I didn't resist. I only answered his questions when he made me, though.
But later, when it was all said and done and a large chunk of the evening was gone, I mentioned how late it was as we sat on the sofa together and talked about what to do next.
"Where did the time go?" he asked, a little startled as it was 10:30 at night by now.
"You munched it up," I answered. This is common in the language of our marriage, we speak of time being munched a lot. It's not out of the ordinary. His response, though, was.
"Oh, so it was between your legs, then?"
I couldn't even respond. I gave him a look of incredulity as the blood rushed to my face.
You'd think that making me blush would be harder than this by now, but nope, it really, really isn't.
What makes you blush?
Friday, January 17, 2014
Advice from my husband
"My nipples were really, really sensitive today," I whispered against his chest as he held me in his arms in bed. He'd abused them pretty terribly the night before and every time I moved, all day, I was reminded of that fact.
"Maybe you should stop hanging out with a nipple sadist," he replied into my hair.
As if.
"Maybe you should stop hanging out with a nipple sadist," he replied into my hair.
As if.
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