Saturday morning was our usual sexy funtime I usually start looking forward to at about 3:26 on Wednesday afternoons. ‘Cept this time, unlike many of the recent occurrences, Belle let me out of the Steelheart beforehand.
It’s like firing a starting pistol at a dog race. As soon as the steel comes off, a nagging buzzing feeling starts whirring someplace right behind the penis. It knows. This feeling is totally different when I’m still locked up. How much of it is in my head and how much is in my crotch I can’t say, but that’s where I feel it.
Regardless, I know what getting unlocked under those circumstances means. It’s not for me that I get out. This is not Thumper time. She wants to be fucked. I, then, assume the role she desires. Sure, I want to fuck her, too, but there’s a particular kind of manly fucking she craves and when I get out on a Saturday for no apparent reason, that’s my job. No doubt I’m going to like it, but I need to keep myself from liking it so much that I can’t perform long enough.
On this particular Saturday morning, I gave her just enough foreplay to get the juices going (they already were, turns out) before mounting her like I own the joint. I think she really liked this based on the aforementioned juices, a compliment attitude, and the moaning. Oh man, the moaning. It’s what gets me every time. She wants to be vocal during sex and I absolutely love hearing her be that way, but it’s raw meat to the subby bunny’s alter ego. Once the moaning and groaning start, that nagging buzzing I talked about flares up into a breeding imperative I struggle to keep in check. Even the baseball distractions didn’t help (mostly because there’s no such thing as baseball right now).
I started to slow down and she said, “Why are you stopping?” as if it wasn’t perfectly clear why I was stopping so soldiered on. “BASEBALL,” is what I was trying to think but the lizard in my head was all, “I FUCKING LOVE THAT MOANING SHIT!” I tried so hard, but couldn’t keep it back. I came while I fucked and kept on fucking even through the intensity of the post-orgamsic nerve olympics. Her pussy went from nicely worked up and wet to ridiculously slippery and messy in about three squirts. I think because of that change in viscosity, she only came a little (which is kind of a female thing, right? Coming just a little?) while I was left panting and gasping and dealing with the fiery penile tissue. She finished herself off with Pink right after. So, I came, but didn’t really enjoy it. A few hours later, I was feeling really horny as if it never happened.
She didn’t have me relock myself after so I was free as a penis-shaped bird when, the next morning, things started to get going again. This time she told me straight up that I was going to get to come and enjoy it. Of course, first I had to get her off so I did.
There was zero angst about having another orgasm whatsoever. It is her choice when I come and she chose to let me. Period. I was able to enjoy it, the fucking that led up to it, all of it.
She told me before that I had to promise to stay in the right frame of mind and be a good bunny and all that so I did. I promised. I even meant it. Though later that day, when she told me it was time to go in, I waffled. And not a little. With whip cream and peach preserves and a side of bacon. She said fine, but Monday morning I had to be in with the key in her hand before she left for work. I pancaked, but she had none of it. So, as soon as the offspring were both off on their daily endeavors, I was handing her the key.
“You know this is what you want,” She said to me. No, I didn’t know that right in the moment, but yes, I do know that in the big picture I want it. Just…you know…not exactly then.
So that’s three orgasms in about six weeks. Far too many, she thinks. Says the next will be a while. “A long time,” is all I can get out of her. No idea what that means since she probably doesn’t either, but I’m thinking that’s it for 2014. As it should be, of course.