The morning after the party night drunk sex episode, where I first ate my cum out of my wife's pussy, we didn't really speak much about anything at all. There was no morning follow-up blowjob, or any of that fake 'I still got the urge' bullshit in the morning. We were both tired, and hung over. We slept late, we loafed in the morning, all drag-assed, and then in the afternoon pretended like we were getting things done. But we kind of avoided each other, doing nothing separately, so as to avoid talking and pretending it didn't happen.
I don't know about her; in the past she sometimes claims that she doesn't remember what she does in bed when she's really drunk. She remembers every conversation she has with her girlfriends, though, so I think she hides behind the 'I don't remember' story. She's just afraid to admit it, embarrassed that she's such a loose lush.
Me, I remembered. I carried it around with me all that day, and for about a week after. I waffled back and forth, trying to convince myself that I wasn't gay if I eat my own cum, that it's okay to like it, telling myself it's sexy, it's wild, it's wanton. When it got the better of me, I'd pretend I was just satisfying her; that I went with the moment, had no choice. Then at quiet moments of truth I'd admit that I liked it, really liked it, sucking out that sloppy fucking mess from her cunt, making her cum with my tongue, slobbering up my own semen.
And at some time or another in those few minutes, all those things were true. I did it because she sat on my face, I went with it, it was hot and wild, and in the end, I loved it. After a week I started wondering if it would ever happen again.
Our sex life returned to normal, every couple of days, a good screwing, hot and healthy and vigorous. We got back into our routine, working, coming home, chatting about the day, some TV, maybe some sex. I started resigning myself to the idea that it was a one-time thing.
A couple of weeks later she went out with her friends; it was someone's birthday, I forget who. It was a Friday night, and I'd kind of been hoping for some sex that night, but she texted me at work to say she'd be home later, to not wait up. Said she'd be home around eleven.
I figured I could wait till eleven, and watched some TV, so I was still awake when the cell phone announced another text. It was poorly spelled and written, like a drunk would write, saying they were still out, sorry, she'd be home later. I figured I might go to bed, but then thought, hey, if she's drunk, maybe she'll come home horny and wild. Well, once the thought formed, it wouldn't leave. I tried to resist it, knowing that if it didn't happen I'd have built myself up for a letdown, but it just nagged at me, and I finally figured what the hell, if she's too drunk I'll just go jerk off with some porn in the den.
Around two I got another text, saying she was on her way, not driving, would be dropped off. Again, mis-spelled words and poor thumb controls. Immediately another one came in. "hpnrt" it said. What the fuck was that?
