My Favourite Life

January 9, 2008

Sexual Favours

Like many people, I have been too busy to write much lately. Mostly, work gets in the way. I did have a nice time on holiday. It started with a programme my wife and I saw on Comedy Central. Some WAY overweight comic went on about how men only want two things for gifts from their significant other:

  1. a blowjob
  2. to shut up

Well, I suppose in some ways this may be considered redundant; after all, it is impolite to talk with your mouth full.

Well, he was close. I have been telling my wife something similar for years on end. She always laughed it off. But coming from a disinterested third party, it struck home. She got it. Come Christmas, I got EXACTLY what I wanted. It started with a box: her box, wherever that term comes from. It helped that I reminded her several times about the fat bloke. It wasn’t quite ready in the morning. She was going to ensure it was freshly shorn, and that was only the beginning.

Our son got plenty to keep him occupied, so our afternoon was pretty smooth sailing. She prepared herself nicely, and I brought up one of my gifts—though it was admittedly more a gift to myself: the Sex Scratchers I have mentioned previously. There was a scratch card called “69 in a line.” I scratched off the second of four rows: 69! She scratched the remaining three rows: losers, every one. (She wanted to make sure the game wasn’t rigged.)

So, there isn’t much a better use for a shaven pussy than 69, I do have to admit—and it only continued to get better. One nice thing about 69 is that the foreplay is the sex—well, most of it. I was feeling adventurous, if not ecstatically luck, and I had an idea. I thought it just might work. Instead of our usual 69 position—if you can call something you do once or twice a year usual—, were she is on top and I am on the bottom, we traded places. I wasn’t sure how it would play out, but one of her complaints about 69 is holding her head up all the while. Her neck gets tired. She was fine with the idea.

I placed a pillow under her head, and she lay down and spread herself to give me perfect access to the prize. Before I went to town, I did engage in some foreplay—petting, fondling her breasts, kissing her nipples and mouth, and so on. But as often happens, it was time for the main course. I positioned myself on top of her and started kissing her bare pussy and get her more warmed up. Once I got her started, it was my time.

It was not the most comfortable position with me on top—sort of like patting my head and rubbing my tummy. I was equally focused on her and me, but it wasn’t quite coming together. Basically she was laying there, and I was doing all the work—but what work: eating her pussy and fucking her mouth.

Then I got the idea—truth be known, I had the idea but now I was going to execute it. I worked her up toward the headboard, so get the pillow under her neck instead of her head. Then, everything began to click. From this position—and feel free to try this at home, folks—I could fuck her throat. She caught on right away with no verbal cues. Of course, it helps that she knows how to deepthroat in the first place—a fact not lost on me as the events were unfolding. It was more comfortable for me because I didn’t feel like I had to hold myself up so much.

It was hard to concentrate. This is a standard problem when it comes to sixty-nine, but this exacerbated everything. Evidently, she was finding it difficult, too. So, I admit it: I came first. I just buried my pelvis into her face and released. The orgasm was average, but I felt like I came litres at a time—literally pouring out: more like a faucet than in waves, as is usually the case with my. The more I came the more deliberately I ate her. When I was through, she wanted to change positions: old school. I flopped over into a more typical pussy eating position and finished her off in a few minutes more. She had a good cum. She always seems to cum stronger when her pussy is freshly shaven. I remind her of this when I can.

The fat man was right: men want sex. Well, so, I’ll speak for myself. The quite might be nice, too.

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