Sexual Nuclear War Ch 03

Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 25, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.)

NIGHT TWO – THE MINOR ADJUSTMENTS

"No clothes again?" I was asked, in a tone not as sharp as the night before.

"No clothes again." I repeated softly as I snuggled to where I'd fallen asleep the evening before; with one exception, my fingertips went between the buttons of my husband's pajama top and began softly stroking his breastbone.

He took a deep sigh, but said nothing. My fingertips stopped stroking. I took his pulse. It was slower than the evening before. A small smile came to my face. I thought about my future period and where we were now. If I played this right I could pick up the lost day, possibly gain another; depending how far I could go without disturbing my husband's calm.

Two minutes later my spouse moved his folded arm from his stomach and rested its hand on the outside of my thigh; the same thigh I'd laid across his legs the evening before.

It wasn't much, but it was physical contact, contact initiated by him. For that I was happy. It showed his rage calming. The worst was over; he was starting to settle down. My mind drifted to how irate he was that early morning returning home with our crying daughter. That was early Sunday morning. It was now going on 10:30 Tuesday night. Two and a half days to break a tantrum; who says men aren't babies?

**********

But for me, it had been three and a half days. Friday night was the last time my husband and I engaged in sex. My daughter's disappearance cost me an evening in my spouse's arms as my mate became more and more perturbed, then concerned, then worried, then fearful. I wasn't the woman in his life for those few hours leading up to his race to our daughter's apartment. We hadn't even gotten as far as getting undressed.

Like all long-time married couples, our frequency of sex had dwindled over the years. We were no longer like rabbits, but we weren't the average long-time married American couple either, the couple that statistically has sex a mere once a week. In fact, I was proud of my husband, a man nearly twenty-two years older than myself who had the libido perfect for the statistical woman my age, twice weekly. But like all Jewish women, I pushed my man. His earning money was never a problem; my spouse was a psychiatrist. It was his penis I constantly urged.

"Are you playing golf tomorrow?" I asked him quietly.

"Do I ever miss a Wednesday?" was his smart-alecky answer.

"Keep answering me in with that tone, you're score won't be very good." I pushed back.

"Threatening not to relax me?" he sighed and gave me a cruel glance.

"Maybe." I answered.

"Then don't!" he was picking a fight.

"You just want me to beg to kiss your cock." I pouted, trying to defuse what had gone too far.

"Beg me before I shut you off, you dick addict!" he teased.

"Pleeezzzzzeeeeee!...MMMMMmmmmmmm!!" I told him as my hand pushed away the covers and began devouring.

It was what I did for my husband every Tuesday night to mentally prepare him for his nearly entire day at the links. Over the years I'd polished his many woods, licked him until he was hard as any single iron, made certain that he always went to the course with a relaxed putter, and made sure I'd kissed the balls in his bag for good luck. In wasn't a hurried time in our lovemaking. Ejaculation wasn't the goal, although it was rare when he didn't.

Many were the times I caused him to make a mess. My method was always strictly oral, relaxing him with just my face and mouth; making certain my hands never got involved. My wandering lips got to the spills eventually; and my mouth and tongue cleaned all he threw regardless on what surface his seed was sown, be it linen, his skin, or mine. That night it was my goal to have him make the biggest mess of his life.

Our small tiff I put out of my mind. It is difficult to accomplish an objective if one is perceived to be the cause of tension. There would be other times for us to fight the same battle when there was less at stake. I followed the old adage and postponed what should have been fought now to another day, increasing my chance of being victorious.

As my teeth gnawed playfully at an orb my spouse accused me of planning to bite him, severing a single ball from his body in retaliation for his tone. I stopped my adoration of his cock long enough to tell him that I would, but he'd probably enjoy it too much. Then I proceeded to carefully consume most of the spongy sphere, holding it within my mouth, delicately cleaning its protective sac with my hidden tongue by following the shape of the delicate globe.

The angle I chose to add luck to his game put my nostrils in contact with my husband's skin. Pheromones wafting from his organ fill my nostrils. My ardency increased as did the amount of cock affection my husband received. Within minutes my mouth was paying homage to his dick; more than making love to it, kissing the flexed man muscle becoming the reason for my existence. Hands lifted my hair away. I heard his heavy breathing and sensed being intently watched. A thrill shot through me, knowing somehow, someway, all the love I showed him was being recorded. The thought of it increased the passion of my affection. I love seeing myself on tape!

Thumbs pressed his member upright. Up and down the underneath of his shaft I licked. Soon my cheek and center of my face rubbed against the straight, solid, male pole before my lips slowly poured over his tip and down its length they rode.

It is not only the man that gets excited from fellatio. If the woman's like me, she does too. Feeling solidness rubbing against her lips can be as stimulating as the most sensuous of open-mouthed kisses. Seeing veins outlined in dim light, tracing those bulging blue channels with the tip of one's tongue can put her in a sexy mood. Securing an upper lip behind the thick ridge and twisting her head not only gives the man pleasure but her too; as the upper lip is tricked into believing it's being attacked by the tip of a sharp tongue. Add to the visual and tactile stimulation oozing leakage that tempts with its salty, fish-like flavor. Throw in recollections of other men just as intimately tasted. Fellatio can quickly become any woman's favorite act!

"Be my star!" my husband all but told me these moments were being memorialized.

My head twisted and bobbed upon my director's cue, riding the cock with zeal.

"Ready for your weekly 'cum' fix?!" my spouse rasped me a few minutes later.

My hand reached below my waist and sank into wetness as I nodded my answer while bobbing furiously, for the first time realizing that I'd failed in my battle, yet unable to put an end to my torment by making a hasty retreat.

**********

"OH FUCCKKKKKkkkkkkkk!!" I screamed those two words as my own hand brought me to ecstasy while I lay on my back.

All was over for my spouse. The stickiness on one side of my face, the remnants of seed trapped between my cheek and gum, told of his conquering my will to retain control. It was over for me too, in one way. My body finished responding for his video's next to last scene.

Back to my stomach I rolled; a defeated, submissive woman. My mouth worked at cleaning up the mess of runny goo. Hands lifted my hair while his hidden camera rolled, recording my homage paid to the semi-flaccid winner of the battle.

To be continued...