River has been running around without a bra all day. I like that. She knows I like that. “Someone’s gaze is fixating on my boobs.” Well I like the way they look, with the nipply bits poking through her t-shirt. “They’re nice little boobs.” “That they are. These titties will never give me a backache.”
I slide a hand over her thinly veiled breasts as a I walk past her in the kitchen. A nipple slides under my palm. “I don’t let just anybody do that.” “I know. You’re weird that way.”
“Tomorrow morning.” That was a change of subject. Unless you consider my body language to have started the conversation, which it may have. Nice full-length side-by-side snuggles, me sneaking under River’s leg. Or was that River’s leg sneaking over me? More like a duet than a conversation.
Tomorrow morning. You know what I’m talking about. And so does River. “Ok.”
I make her coffee in the morning and come back to bed. She gets up to pee. While she’s gone I work on getting hard. Any wood I may have had this morning is gone. Making coffee will do that to a guy. But I should be able to get something going. Even though I don’t like it that ever since my vasectomy I have to get hard instead of just being hard. You’ve heard that before, and you’ll hear it again. Sorry. See? I believe in apologies. Unlike the guy who left me this way.
And yes, I get hard. Not as hard as I used to be, but hard enough to fuck, for sure. Even though it’s not hard enough to feel quite right. Not hard enough for a decisive stick-in. But I’ve fucked with worse. It usually perks up once we get going.
River comes back. I pull the covers aside. Show her what I’ve got. “Well!” Our conversations are short sometimes, huh? Good thing we have body language. I love seeing her poised over me. The small breasts, the girly triangle of brownish bush, her sweet face. I’m still holding my cock upright as she lines up and descends onto it. Sometimes she’ll go all the way down in one go, but this time she eases on, some up and down, some in and out, working the juices around until she gets full penetration. And we fuck.
It’s always a treat when she fucks me. She sits up and I watch my cock appearing and disappearing in the gap between her legs. Feel the tips of her nipples rubbing over my palms. Grab her, push her hips back, grind her onto me. She leans forward, I wrap my arms around her, we hug as she rolls her hips, working her cunt up and down my cock. Fucking me.
“Turn around.” I’m thinking reverse cowgirl. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her ass bobbing up and down with my cock under it. She starts to turn, keeping me inside. “No. Partway. What did we used to call that?” Too many things have been a while. I’m getting rusty. But I make my brain do the math. “One thirty five.” She spins 135 degrees to her right, one leg coming to rest between mine. It’s just like I remember. A powerful fuck. Physically. Visually. I’m sure I’ve used this expression before: my cock arcing into her. A strong thick arc. One hand on her ass. Her leg brushing my balls on the down stroke. My balls liking that.
You know how this ends as surely as I do. No wait, you don’t. And neither do I. Will I finish, or won’t I? Even though I’m rather enjoying the fuck, especially with all the River-on-top action (we did eventually move into reverse cowgirl), I don’t feel that distant glow of impending orgasm on the horizon. But I do feel a bit bad for River doing all the work up there, so we flip up and I slide my cock into her from behind for doggy , with all its accompanying queefage. No sooner does River squeeze some air out when I hear more go in. That just mean we’re doing something right. Or maybe we need more practice? I’m always up for more practice.
Two things are notable about our doggy session. First, we usually do doggy with River’s legs together and mine on the outside, but this time River’s legs are spread. Second, I keep leaning on her shoulders, hoping she’ll drop her head down to the bed and leave her ass sticking up. I don’t want to just ask her to do it. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to set her up like a porno or something.
Eventually I feel the glow, in no small part because River sounds like she’s enjoying it. She’s said she can’t fake that, even though I’ve said many times that if she wants to make me come and get it over with all she has to do is fake an orgasm. But it’s one of those glows where I have to chase after it a bit and take what I can get, not one where I can just ride the edge of orgasm until the inevitable happens. Not so much a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow as a few small coins. But I take it, and quietly unload into her (“unload”, that’s funny, huh?).
When I finally pull out and let it dangle, River has some unloading of her own to do. A big sharp queef. I’m surprised my face isn’t splattered with my own jizz. Maybe I’ll ask for it next time. That’s something you don’t see every day in pornos. I think.
[This post was inspired by the “white bikini” over on The Big Ugly. Thanks for making the words rattle!]
Way back when, when I was a kid, long before the day I was shocked to find myself older than the naked ladies who frequented the pages of Playboy and Penthouse (the latter preferred—the women were more real, and I count Bob Guccione as a notable influence on my photography), I’d be leafing through the magazines, or more often using the table of contents because that’s the kind of kid I was, and seeing lots of women with tan lines (it was the 70s). And I remember trying to sort out my thoughts and feelings on tan lines and the women who did or didn’t have them.
On the one hand, there were the women who were a single shade of goldy brown which pretty much meant they were nude sunbathers (it was the 70s). And I thought that was pretty cool. I’m a closet exhibitionist myself and a fan of (tasteful) nudity in general, so the thought of the women out in the wild in their altogether turned me on.
On the other hand, there were the tan line women. The sweet pale skin of their ass, pubes, and titties often made the rest of them look darker by comparison, and always made their bush (it was the 70s) and nipples all the more enticing. Furthermore, these women were showing us their secrets, things that not just anybody who happened to be wandering by on the beach or whatever wild place that day could see.
And that, the sharing of secrets, turned me on even more. And still does.
Jennifer Welch, Penthouse, January 1975
But these days I’m more a fan of the pale healthy look. It’s the 2010s.
I noticed some things about that last post.
From what I said, it seems like I was doing most of the work. Most of the fucking. Not so. I enjoyed looking down periodically (while the light was still on) to watch River’s ass bumping and grinding into me. I like to watch. It really enhances the experience. I would have liked to have mentioned that, but I can only hold so much in my head at a time any more. Even with the light out it’s easy to tell she’s giving me a good ride in her bumpy grindy way. I’m not just fucking a blow-up doll. One that I’d have to hose out later. So sorry, River, for not giving you proper credit.
Then there’s the issue of how many OCD-style posts like that I want to do any more. It’s been three years so it was a bit of a surprise that I could still do it at all. Old habits die hard. Just get in the zone and let the words spill out and stir them into some semblance of organization. Then look up and notice how many hours have gone by and wonder what else I could have been doing.
Because for me it’s always been about more than the fucking, at least it quickly became that way, and “Unplugged” is supposed to have more context and be chattier and friendlier than my original blog. So lapsing into the OCD is not something I want to do very often if I can help it. And not just because everything that goes into writing them makes me horny.
The “Valentine’s/Somebody told me” post was largely inspired by the delicious change in sensations following our shift to “raunchy position”—River on her stomach with legs spread. That seemed worth sharing.
Never tried raunchy position? Do it and you’ll see why we call it that. It’s the visuals before you get going. We need to throw some bondage into the mix . . .
So I don’t know. What else is new.
That song is stuck in my head all night. “Well somebody told me, that you had a boyfriend, who looked like a girlfriend . . .” Don’t know it? Sure you do. I’m just not singing it very well. Here’s what I’m talking about.
Why is it in my head? I’ll get to that. First things first.
I’m coming to bed. I haven’t showered for a while. There was supposed to be hot water left for me this evening but there isn’t any. Not even warm. And I don’t smell particularly good. I can smell myself, which means I probably smell ten times worse to other people. This might snuff the carefully laid plans I told you about last time. I can’t believe this is happening. The timing is terrible. Welcome to my life. “You’re going to have a stinky sweetie in your bed.” “I don’t mind.” Wow. The “I can’t believe it” factor just worked in my favor. “But you could use a washcloth on your pits.” Is that all? I can do that.
When I come to bed I’m not too bad. At least, I can’t smell myself. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve had all day to get used to how I smell.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Valentine.” “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
River’s body language seems receptive. But I’ve got to check in on something. “Remember what I warned you about yesterday?” She thinks. I know she knows but I say it anyway. So she doesn’t have to. And because saying it turns me on. “A nice Valentine’s Day fuck.” “Mmm hmm.” “I know you’ve been dreading it all day long.” “I don’t mind.” “What would you like for a warm up?” I know what she’s going to get for a warm up if she can’t come up with something: a back rub. “Some back rub.” “That’s what I was thinking.” We’re so compatible. In most ways. The important ways.
She reaches for the oil. I straddle her and let my cock come to rest on her ass crack. We look good together. Male and female. Female and male. Boy and girl. Girl and boy.
And there it is. In my head. “Well somebody told me, that I had a girlfriend, who looks like a girlfriend . . .” I’m liking the way my girlfriend looks, me sitting behind her ass, spreading just the right amount of oil onto the vee of her back, her shoulder blades, down her sides, up her neck, onto her arms, her slender waist, around her hips, across the tan line where she got a bit too much sun in her bikini a few weeks ago . . . I could do this forever, watching the light and shadows play across her back as my fingers dimple the skin with their strokes, feeling her flesh flow under my hands, having my way with her body. Sometimes I wish she would just fall asleep while I’m doing this. Sometimes she does.
I’d love to just sit here and get hard as my balls nuzzle against her ass and pull the skin of my cock ever so slightly downwards, then slip it in and feel our connection. But it’s not happening. I can help. One hand plays more oil over her ass, kneading the right cheek, grabbing the left cheek, while the other goes to my cock, the thumb stroking up the top side with residual oil. Not too much oil. The sweet friction of River juice is all I want tonight. My cock hardens nicely as I finally allow a thumb to slip down her ass and between her legs, brushing the fur, pushing for her secret darkness.
“You have the right spot.” River wiggles back against me and I feel her lips give way as my thumb is on the verge of plunging in but lingers at her opening, circling the wetness I can feel . . . and hear. I get harder to the wet smacky sounds of her pussy, until I fit my cock to her entrance and slide forward, as deep as I can go, my balls rubbing up her legs, my body pushing against her ass. And we fuck.
She feels exquisite today. Some good River juice. Just the way I like it. Not too wet, not too dry. The built-in squeeze of this position strokes the length of my shaft nicely as I slide in and out of her, the head feeling everything from the soft wetness of her depths to the frictiony frill of her opening, and back.
I lay on top of her, my hand on her shoulder pulling us together. She’s called this “the deep position” before, and I’m going deep, staying deep, deeper, feeling the twinge of her cervix, fucking in and out of her, exquisite, our breath moaning and gasping. I lean over her, my legs spread astride her, my back arched, hips up, my cock dropping into her at a steep angle then making the sucky sounds as I barely fuck her with just the tip.
Right about the time I’ve run out of bed and put my foot on the floor for extra leverage we hear somebody tromping past the bedroom door, which is propped partway open, and into the bathroom next door. So what. River switches off her reading light and we fuck by braille. I’ve got a girlfriend, who feels like a girlfriend.
My left leg slips between her legs, then my right leg, my knees inside hers pushing her legs apart. The change in her pussy with her legs spread is incredible. Just what I needed. From the tight deep squeeze to a lush, bottomless wetness. A rain forest. An Amazon rain forest. I want more. I push my knees out, spread our legs wider. This position can be strenuous but not tonight. I push up on my hands, freeing my hips to hit every angle, my cock feeling every nuance of her, and now I feel the caress of her pussy making me want to come as I rock from side to side inside her tropical sweet spot.
But I don’t come. Yet. Too often these days I have to take whatever I can get (thanks, antidepressant). That’s why I don’t always finish lately: I don’t always like what I can get, and I’m pretty sure I can get better if I wait a day or two to finish. But this is my day to finish. I can tell it will work out for me to hold off now; it will just make it better when I do finish. And I will finish tonight. The feeling is right. So I grind into her, pushing right up to the edge, River pushing back, rocking from side to side until I’ve coasted over the urgency and back down to the plateau where we can fuck some more.
Our fuck has been long and sweet and intense. I especially like how she wiggles it back into place when I slip out. “I’m close.” River is probably like it’s about time. I’m sure she knows I held off back there. I’m greedy that way. But I know it will be a good ending. “Slow.” Slow endings are crazy, creeping slowly up to an orgasm, barely moving, sometimes not moving at all when I’m so close to the edge that the head of my cock is super-sensitive and just the pressure of River’s pussy and the angle of my cock is enough to make me come, I just wait, feel it build, feel my balls tighten, feel River beneath me, then finally feel my cock lurch, feel the first spurt empty into her, flooding her, flowing around my cock, River pushing back, the second spurt has even more volume, sounding a chord in my cock, in her pussy, a deep harmony, a crescendo, overflowing with the major third, deeper, louder. Gasping. Panting. Crazy.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Well somebody told me, that I’ve got a girlfriend . . .
Today is Valentine’s Day! I feel bad because I haven’t gotten anything for River, but I have some things in mind. Brook always likes to go out and get chocolate with me, because she knows she can ask for (and get) some because she’s such a good helper. And I’d like to do a reprise of the card I made for River some years ago when I was in a particularly creative period of my life, around the time I started my first blog. I hope I can pull that off.
And, I know we’ll be having a nice fuck today! How do I know? Because I warned River last night. Two nights ago we had a really sweet fuck, all huggy and kissy and clean skin. I like dirty skin just fine but the clean skin was really working for us.
Anyway, I didn’t finish. Meaning, no orgasm for me. We ended up spooning as River drifted off to sleep and I slowly went soft inside her. It was really satisfying and I had a glowy feeling all the next day (which was yesterday) so I told River I’d give her the night off which she appreciated. All day she’d probably been dreading coming home to her super-horny sweetie and having to capitulate to his (completely reasonable) demands and put up with him (me) fucking her (River). But you know River is never thinking what I think she’s thinking, and she’s never, ever, thinking about sex. So it’s a good thing I think about it enough for both of us. More then enough.
Of course I was nice enough to say she didn’t have to have the night off if she didn’t want it, but of course she did.
But I’m devious. Sometimes I have to be if I want any action at all. I have to plan ahead. Like I just said, I think about sex. So River doesn’t have to. It can be hard to make plans that include somebody who’s never thinking what I’m thinking. They have a way of not working out, as you know. At least I know she’s not thinking what I think she’s not thinking.
What I was thinking, in my devious way, is that Valentine’s Day is coming up, and traditionally it’s a nice day for us. Not necessarily sex-wise, although there’s probably a lot of good Valentine’s Day action in my archives. But definitely emotionally-wise, and sweetie-wise. And furtherly devious I was thinking that I didn’t finish one night and she’s often fairly receptive to having me finish the next night (even though I get to have an explosive orgasm and she just gets to drip all the next day) but then I gave her the night off instead (actually I offered her the night off but I knew she’d take it, otherwise my plans would have been sunk because Valentine’s Day would have been three days in a row which is borderline impossible—that’s me thinking one move ahead!) and the next night (tonight) is Valentine’s and she has the next day off work so she can stay up late and we can fuck! Perfect. Perfectly devious. Deviously perfect. Yes I overthink this stuff sometimes but shut up.
So just to make things even more perfect I warned her last night (like I told you) about my plans for tonight so she could gird her loins. Whatever that means. Is that “gird” as in “girder”? I’ll have a girder for her to use. Is it “gird” as in “girdle”? Is that why whenever I hear the phrase “gird one’s loins” the picture that comes to mind is someone yoinking their underwear up to chin level and giving themselves a wedgie?
I was going to write about our really sweet snuggly huggy kissy fuck two nights ago but now I can’t find a good place to squeeze it into this post. Oops. Got carried away with talking about how I have to think ahead and plan or I won’t have anything to write about at all. Oh wait, I was going to put in a couple paragraphs right before the word “anyway” back there. Yet another mislaid plan. Get it? Mislaid? Sorry . . .
I really hope my plans work out tonight. But even my best laid plans for getting laid gang aft agley, as River likes to say.
And then she says “It’s for Brook. She loves cucumbers.”
River comes in. “I had to swing by the grocery store and grab some meat.” I’m about to say it, when she pulls something out of the bag. It’s big. It’s green. It’s got some serious girth. It’s like a double-dong. Or a horse dick. “And a giant cucumber!” “Uh, I was going to say—” “Something rude?” “No, I was going to say you could grab my meat. But I can’t compete with that.” I can’t compete with it, but it’s giving me all kinds of ideas. “You need somebody to share that with. And I’m not . . . the right kind of person.” For one thing, I can’t stand cucumber.
Women don’t get hotel sex. At least River doesn’t. But I’ve heard she’s not the only woman who doesn’t get it. For some reason, being in a hotel room with River makes me want to have sex with her. Right there right now. Maybe it’s a territorial thing: I’m expanding my territory, or marking it somehow. That fits with hotel sex being (mostly?) a man thing.
River does say “variety is good”. But I guess that doesn’t include variety of location. Like after living here all these years we still haven’t done it in the laundry room. But to be fair we’ve done it everywhere else. Except the kids’ rooms. And the laundry chute. Even the back yard (River’s idea) and the front balcony (mine) say “Reed and River were here”. But she doesn’t get that sexual boost, thrill, jolt, whatever that I get from a hotel room. Or any place away from home.
We’re in San Juan, Puerto Rico. First time for either of us. I’ve never been anywhere in the Caribbean. We’re staying with our kids in the Acacia Boutique Hotel. Something a little special. The rooms she booked have us in a separate room from the kids. We’re just staying here overnight on our way to and from Anguilla. Bookends for our real trip. You’ll be hearing plenty about that.
River says being in San Juan is romantic. So far so good, with the room and the romance. I’m glad she’s getting a romantic vibe from San Juan, even if I’m not. I like a romantic vibe, it helps me a lot, makes me want to fuck, but really all I need is a hotel room. Or some other kind of variety. Or River.
All day long I’ve been staring at the boobs in her sun dress. Her boobs. “Are you wearing a different bra?” “No. Just the hot pink one.” Always a good day when she’s not wearing beige. Beige is the worst bra color ever. Probably the worst color ever. One of those non-colors. “It’s rather . . . effective.” I want to add “if you know what I mean”, but she knows what I mean. And so do you. Suddenly she has cleavage. Not the kind that looks like a butt crack, but the kind where it looks like she has boobs. Which she does. Really small ones. I like them that way. I’m always staring at chicks with small boobs. Like the tall black woman waitressing at E’s Oven while I stared at her. Leaves something to the imagination. Mmm, imagination.
So here we are. We walked a few blocks from our boutique hotel to a place recommended by both the taxi driver and the guy at the desk, and had some delicious Puerto Rican food in a really busy (and loud) place. Walked back. The kids have been sorted into their rooms, and we’ve done our bed-time reading with Brook. Boutique hotel plus separate rooms plus romantic San Juan plus yummy dinner is adding up to some good rumpus. Maybe some sweet rumpus, maybe some raunchy rumpus, but definitely some good rumpus.
So why is River coming to bed with panties on?
She only does that for two reasons. And it always means not tonight. The first is shark week. The second is when the kids are having a sleepover at our house and she’s afraid she’ll have to get up in the middle of the night for some reason. She’s always afraid of that, but it never happens. Does that make her crazy? Probably. She does have to get up to pee at night (having kids does that) but the bathroom is right nearby so getting there and back naked should be a non-issue. And she has a robe.
So WTF with the panties? “I just don’t want to sleep naked here.” We’ve been sleeping naked together a long time. I converted her. There’s just something about snuggling with a naked sweetie. Every time I think about it, wondering what that something is, I come to the same conclusion: she’s naked. That says it all.
But I realize we’ve been sleeping naked together so long I’m not remembering the thrill of feeling her through her panties, my hand floating over the fluff of bush pushing the fabric above her skin, slipping my finger through the leg and into her wetness, then sliding them down at the proper time while River lifts her ass off the bed to help. Or I would do it. Tonight.
But I don’t. We’re not only passing up hotel sex, this is a whole new country for us to fuck in. To expand my territory. And we’re not doing it. Why not?
It comes down to three things. I must be tired. She’s been an exceptionally good girl on our vacation. And my sentimental streak kicks in: it’s strangely satisfying to leave Anguilla in a class by itself. The only island in the Caribbean that we’ve fucked on.
You’ll be hearing more about that.
Reed and River Unplugged 