H.e.n.s and a Lamp

It all seemed to come down to her nipples.

Oh, it never started there, certainly. She hardly ever evinced what one would conventionally interpret as desire. She wasn’t given to frequent or overt displays of affection, even in private. And if she was ever horny, she was as reticent about it as a Vulcan would be about premature ejaculation. Indeed, getting her “started” was oftentimes akin to lighting a match at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.

But when she did get started, she could be pretty darned hot. And her nipples were usually the tip-off.

When you live with a woman long enough, even one as guarded as she was, you learn to recognize the signs that an invitation is being issued.

Being the eager beaver stuffer that he was, he thought of invitations as her slinking out in almost a teddy, dropping to her knees, yanking out his stiffening member, and trying to suck his asscheeks through his urethra.

But that’s just not the way she was. Instead, she left the light on in the bedroom.

The idea was that even if she dozed off, she was still available for loving should he be feeling the need for it - which, of course, he felt just about any time than he wasn’t projectile-vomiting.

One recent night she had “collapsed in bed” as she liked to put it, which she usually did before him, as like his dad, he was a night owl. He noticed the light on for an extended period of time. And that gave him all the encouragement he needed.

After making the rounds, he turned off the TV and lights, headed down the hall to the bedroom, just as the light from beneath the door winked out. Curses! He’d missed his window of opportunity!

Or had he? Mustering up his resolve and patience, he decided to, er, thrust ahead anyway.

Entering the darkened room, he quickly removed his clothing and climbed into his side of the bed. He snuggled up to her, noticing, as expected, that she still had her nightie on. He put his arms around her and…waited.

Recall that she was difficult to get “started.” Perhaps a better way to describe it is that she could be enticed, but it just took a while. It wasn’t like the fantasy world of porn scenes, where the woman comes slinking out in almost a teddy, dropping to her knees, yanking out the man’s stiffening member, and trying to give herself a semen enema from the opposite end. With her, the cuddling and holding and all that “afterglow” stuff had to come first.

Now he liked cuddling as much as anybody, but putting it at the opposite end of the encounter pit closeness against arousal. Which is a “literary” way of saying that sleeping on his stomach became an impossibility. So it wasn’t surprising that his hand started roaming around her anatomy like “Thing” from the Addams Family. And, as expected, it skittered up against the barrier of the arm she almost instinctively used to barricade the approaches to her breasts.

This was where patience and a little playfulness came in. Rather than getting frustrated or bored, his hand simply retreated – or, rather, advanced in the opposite direction – and went on a slow, forced finger march across her soft midriff toward her pussy.

Not directly onto or into it – she found that to be a huge turnoff early in foreplay, for some reason – but the general vicinity. A quick, teasing pass over her pubic hair, though, produced a twitch and a giggle and propelled his fingertips to her delectable, creamy thighs, which he found endlessly diverting, and which had the effect of inspiring her to roll over and kiss him.

Like her passion in general, her kissing was like an ocean liner – it started slow, but eventually gained an unstoppable momentum. Within minutes, soft lip contact grew to open mouths and then vigorous, torrid tongue intermingling, and her fingertips were on his nipples, eliciting uncontainable groans.

As if a transporter beam had removed it, her intruding arm was gone from her chest, and her breasts were accessible. Even through her nightie, he could tell that her nipples were standing at attention. Yes!

Drawing his hand down her perfect curves, he found the bottom of the obstructing fabric and began moving it Northward. Once over her hip he slipped his fingers beneath and found the warm, smooth skin he craved. Shortly “Thing” was on her breasts, and she shuddered.

Sitting up, they cooperated in removing the nightie, and once again her impossibly lovely body came into view. Even in the darkness it still took his breath away.

It was at moments like these that he never failed to be amazed at how such a temptress could be hidden beneath that iceberg exterior. It was much the same marveling as he devoted to her A-cup breasts, from which he derived his favorite mammarial adage that from up close, all boobs are big – and the smaller ones are a great deal more sensitive.

Rather unexpectedly, she rolled on top of him and proceeded to plunder his mouth. Thought became a nuisance as he allowed himself to submerge in the rising tide of sensation, as his hands roamed her back and found the soft flesh of her buttocks, which in his opinion was her best feature. “This is unbelievable,” he managed to think, as he always did when they were so mutually into each other. He didn’t have to say anything, as at moments like these their thoughts were so in tune that nothing beyond heavy breathing and soft grunts were necessary.

Rolling off, she did the thing that told him the night was going to be a home run: she turned on the lamp on the headboard and put it down on the floor so that she could see what she was going to have him do next. Yippee!

She climbed off the bed to stand beside it, and he eagerly followed. Standing behind her, his hands ravished her front, the right one alternately squeezing her breasts and teasing her nipples, while the left one was riding her labia up and down like an elevator, occasionally inserting a finger and finding her swelling clit. Meanwhile, her hands cradled and gently stroked his distended cock, deftly using the leaking pre-cum to moisten the head and make him grateful that the edge of the bed was present for him to partially lean against. Leaning her head back on his shoulder, her mouth and tongue again sought, and found, his.

Almost compulsively, she turned around and “mounted” his cock so that its length was parallel against her pussylips and began moving back and forth against it, and kissed him like he had stolen her uvula and she was trying to retrieve it. He instinctively cupped her asscheeks and pulled her solidly against him and joined the rocking motion. Her ragged breathing increased, and she actually began to moan.

Tumbling to the bed, they adapted the same position and motion for a little while longer, until she couldn’t take it any longer and extended a leg over his prone form, straddled him, took his more than ready penis, moved the head up and down in “paintbrush” fashion against her opening, and then took it slowly inside herself.

As it always did, it felt to him like he was dipping his schlong in liquid gold, and he let out a long, deep sign of satisfaction. They always had fit each other like a glove, and this time was no different. And right now she was enjoying her bellyful as much as he.

Her hands came down to his chest, both to brace herself so that she could move up and down on him, and to renew her assault on his nipples, which had his eyes rolling back in his head. Meanwhile he had her tits in his hands, squeezing them together and actually eliciting a rare “Oh, man!” from her O-shaped mouth. Without breaking rhythm, she moved his left hand down to her clit, almost causing her to lose her balance atop him.

The female superior position always enabled him to last longer, and that gave him the chance to appreciate the sight in front of him. Here was the woman who any casual observer during the workday would think was a flat-as-a-board, anhedonic, born librarian riding his cock like Willie Schumacher at Churchill Downs, and now leaning down so that he could suck on her nipples, which drove her wild.

Suddenly it was all too much for him. While still suckling and licking her breasts, he reached around, firmly grabbed her tush, and started ramming her up and down on himself.

The first time he had done that years ago he feared he’d gotten carried away and gone too far, gotten too rough. But her reaction had astounded him: that very act had sent her over the edge into a cataclysmic orgasm, and his wasn’t far behind.

True to form, he felt the cum rising through his plumbing, and as it boiled out of his cock in spurt after jolting spurt he groaned gutturally around a mouthful of boob, just a few strokes in advance of the orgasm that racked her and milked what felt like every last drop from his balls.

NOW was the time for that afterglow stuff. Or at least he thought so. But as usual, she vaulted off him like he was being attacked by flesh-eating bacteria, and padded down to the bathroom to “clean herself up.” After listening to the water running intermittently, he saw her return with a washcloth, with which she wiped up the stray droplet of love juice and primly laundered his diminishing wiener, taking her delicious scent with it. Disposing of the washcloth, she returned, redonned her nightie, replaced the lamp, turned it off, got under the covers, faced away from him, and was snoring within minutes. Almost as if her accustomed, sedate, standoffish “Dr. Jekyll” persona wanted to quickly distance itself from the “Mr. Hyde” midnight fantasy alter-ego of a few minutes before.

But he knew better – and it was a secret that was just for him.

Turning over, he chuckled, thinking that Tom Bodett had NOTHING on her.