Clarity in the night

Before we went to bed, my husband was irritating me. Wandering around, "trying to clean up," moving my papers and documents, eventually moving something pretty important and more or less forcing me to find a new place for it. 

My brain knew the old place for it just fine. All this moving around of objects disturbs my own order and I'm an old dog; new tricks don't come so easily to me. I was randomly irritated. Exhaustion and having my things suddenly reorganized led to a generally huffy, unhappy feeling. 

So when we did go to bed, I crawled on top of the blankets to sleep while he was under them. It wasn't really intentional, but I did it and I was too worn out to get up again to cover myself, despite the slight chill in the room.  I fell asleep almost immediately. I guess that happens when you're too worn out even to cover yourself. 

Hours later I woke up to visit the bathroom, and when I returned I climbed under the blankets next to my husband. He stirred, draped his arm over my waist, pulled my body tight into his, and whispered into my ear "You belong to me," before he drifted back off to sleep. 

Just like that, no more irritation.

If only everything was solved that easily. 

The monster

"Aren't you afraid that you're turning me into a monster?" my sweet, sweet husband asked as he rose up over me, preparing to use his fingers on me after intense, hot, sweaty sex despite my extreme exhaustion. He'd been slapping my nipples sharply not five minutes earlier as he rocked his body into mine from behind, his hand covering my face, his finger filling my mouth, his words of ownership rasping in my ear.

I laughed, hugging his head to me even as his fingers slid inside me. "No," I whispered, kissing the top of his head, giggling and moaning at the same time, my hips arching up to his touch. "Are you?"

"Maybe a little."

Perhaps his fear of the monster is what keeps mine at bay.

All I know is he makes me so, so happy - even when I'm exhausted. There isn't even the tiniest bit of worry in me that he is becoming a monster; though sometimes he makes a truly excellent one.

How I learned Spider-Man is a human trafficker

Our little boy was tying the both of us up at lunchtime on our bed, still dressed in the Spider-Man pajamas that we haven't been able to convince him to take off for longer than the time it takes to run them through the wash cycle.

Yes, rope is his favorite toy, don't look at me. When a four year old looks at you with puppy eyes while holding a 10-foot length of rope in the hardware store and says "This one's so cute, Mommy, will you buy it for me?" you just drop the .79 and get the kid the rope.

He's getting pretty good with rope and making crazy knots that he can undo in just a moment.

There we were, all tied up and to each other with his "webbing," when he said "Now, you can't get away. And now I can sell you."

After my initial gasp, you could have heard a pin drop on our carpeted floor in the silence that followed that moment. I looked at my husband, and he at me, both our faces masks of amused disbelief, and I said "I don't know!"

Our little person was still tugging at and pulling on various ends of the rope he had tied us with while we sorted through this bizarre parenting moment.

"Where did you get the idea to sell us?" we eventually managed to ask him.

"Spider-Man! He captures the bad guys with his webs and then takes them to the store to sell them!" he told us, a huge grin splitting his face, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Spider-Man's a white slaver?" I murmured, dumbfounded.

"He does what now?" my husband asked. "Doesn't he just capture them and give them to the police?"

"We-ell, sometimes he takes them to the police, and sometimes he sells them."

My husband and I shared another glance of weirdness. "Maybe he shouldn't watch Spider-Man anymore," I mouthed.

"Maybe we should watch this Spider-Man," my husband suggested.

"We-ell," said the four-year-old, "this Spider-Man doesn't really exist. I just made it up." He laughed, and his sparkling eyes and enormous grin kept whacking us in the face and making us laugh with him.

"And... how did you come up with the idea to make it up?" I asked.

"I just did!" he giggled.

---

Now there's a lesson in there somewhere. Be happy with the things that make you grin, and don't examine them too hard? Yeah, I'll go with that one.

But I should probably check out this Spider-Man stuff anyway.

Best friends

We're going to go on vacation soon, and we had tickets to a show.

Our car was due for servicing, and it would have needed it anyway, since it will be an awesome road trip of a vacation. It's been way too long since we went wandering in our car.

So we had an evening out to ourselves. It was awesome. I picked him up from work and we took the car for servicing, taking a walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner while we waited. The food was amazing, and while we talk so much during the day that we didn't have that much to say, the company was fantastic too.

After we picked up the car, we parked in the middle of downtown and walked arm-in-arm to the theatre, which turned out to be beautiful, an old grand lady, recently restored to her former splendor. 

We couldn't help but notice how we were pretty much the youngest people there, which is kind of nice when you're noticing more grey in the mirror every week. We have a lot of life left in us yet.

The show was spectacular, and a lot of fun. If only I'd worn longer pants, I could have enjoyed it even more. My calves and shins were freezing the whole time. I pressed my left leg to his right one while they both bounced to the music, for the warmth it could provide. It helped a lot, actually. We held hands, our fingertips stroking each other during the softer songs - we relinquished our grip on each other to clap to the rhythm or to express our appreciation.

The night was brisk - but after the chilly theatre it felt warm. We walked back to the parking lot, my arm around his waist, his arm around my shoulder. We chatted easily, and he made some comment about liking the song "Johnny B. Goode" for 'obvious' reasons.

"Ahh," I said, knowing exactly why. "Back to the Future, right?"

"Yep!" He nodded, pleased.

"It's good being married to a geek, isn't it?" I asked him playfully.

"It is!" he agreed.

I squeezed myself closer to him as we walked. "It must be awfully hard to be married to a non-geek."

"That must be when you go to geek events alone."

"You're my best friend," I said, leaning my head into his shoulder. "What's the point of being life-bonded to someone who isn't your best friend anyway?"

"I guess different people get married for different reasons, and so the world goes around." He was waxing philosophic on me. We chattered on about sleeping in your office and beer advertisements and then we were at our car. 

Later, once we'd crawled into bed together, all the various end of day tasks complete, he snuggled up to me, pulling me close to him. "You're my best friend," he said, kissing my neck softly, "with the best benefits."

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.

Like you want it

We'd had a terrific afternoon and evening, but after being with a couple dozen people for a few hours, my head was pounding horribly. He cradled me in his arms as we talked about the evening, and it felt good. Stupid head. It was bound to keep me from fully enjoying my Saturday night.

"Kiss me," he told me.

I delivered him a perfunctory peck.

"Like you want it!" he insisted.

I collapsed into giggles at my husband's insistence I kiss him like I wanted it, my amused lips curved against his rather than pressed longingly.

"Not like you're tickled," he managed to say, more or less sternly, through his own laughter, "like you want it!"

Little person

Last night, our child tied one end of a ribbon (a favorite 'toy' due to its extreme versatility) around the handle of our vacuum cleaner, then tied the other end around my husband's wrist.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm tying Daddy to the vacuum cleaner."

"Why are you doing that?"

"Because I like him tied here."

My husband and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows.

So much smut, so little time

I do have smut on the brain a lot. Anyway.

We are huge fans of the musical "Wicked," and in it there is a song called "For Good" - one of the best songs in the show, really. Yes, this is relevant. If you're not familiar with it you should totally listen to it.



Last night, my husband picked up a ruler and playfully whacked me on the ass with it.

"You're evil." I told him, laughing.

"I am what I am today because I met you," he said. I laughed, and he laughed too, and continued on "Who can say if I've been changed for the better..... I guess YOU can!"

I love this man.