A new record

And no, I’m not talking about a “speed record”, where River and I try to have our fastest fuck possible, maybe 30 or 40 seconds.  Sounds crazy but it’s crazy good.  No, this is an entirely different sort of record.  In a way it’s fun, but in another way it’s frustrating.  You see, we’ve now fucked five times in a row without me coming.

A brief aside here.  Modern usage is “cumming”.  However, I came of age (or is that “cummed” of age?) in the 80s, and had been reading Penthouse forum letters since the mid-70s, and in those impressionable years it was definitely “coming”.  Although “cum” was cumming onto the scene.  “Cum” (both verb and noun), “cumming”, “cummed” — they all seem so vulgar.  By way of comparison, “fuck” is a perfectly lovely word, and I’m obviously quite happy to be using it for what River and I do.

How did we end up in this situation, with five fucks and no proper finish?  Most of the blame I lay squarely on this SSRI I’m on.  When I started it I had no idea that one of its common side effects was making it hard to orgasm.   But it took less than a month to figure it out.  My desire and arousal were still there (thankfully, since antidepressants tend to wreak havoc with that stuff, and sex is truly the best antidepressant for me) but my response was completely off.  River and I could fuck  for half an hour and I’d never get anywhere near coming.  Usually by that time I would have had to hold off several times.

And one time I intentionally didn’t come because we were having such an amazing fuck that coming might have seemed, well, an anti-climax, and the fuck had been so great I just didn’t need to come.

Another time it was a morning fuck.  Finishing with morning wood can often be problematic for me.  It’s like fucking on viagra, where I’m hard but not really properly aroused.  So usually for a morning fuck I’ll wait to go soft if I’ve woken up hard, then get hard again for “the right reasons”, and things will be fine.  And that’s what I did.  But still, we fucked with no end in sight until we eventually had to leave off and get up.  That was the SSRI’s doing.

Not coming can have its advantages.  For one thing, River doesn’t have to drip all day.  For another, it can be really mind-blowing when I finally come a day or two or three later and the pressure in my balls is suddenly and emphatically relieved.  And I like the emotional and physical feelings of what we call “being in the middle of a fuck”, where we’ve started one day but I don’t finish until later.  Finally, River doesn’t come very often, maybe once a month or so, and I can now appreciate her take on sex, that it doesn’t need an orgasm to be great, or to make for a good bond between us.

But after five times with no orgasm it’s getting a little old.  River is thinking I’m going to shoot an epic load when I finally come, but there’s only so much the body can save up.  Still, maybe I’ll pull out and come on her instead of in her, porno style, just so we can find out.  It’s been years since I’ve done that, so past time for a little variety.

This post feels a little unfinished, too.  I guess I’ll just be in the middle of a post for a while, until I finally have that earth-shattering come.

Everlasting gobstopper

There’s one thing that bothers me about our tremendous fuck yesterday morning. It’s a thought that’s occurred to me time and again for a while now. And no, it’s not the minimal foreplay, or complete lack thereof. That’s just the way we like it. I’ve brought it up with River indirectly, but now I have to go there straight on.

“When we’re fucking, I change things up a lot. With rhythm and depth and where my hands are and everything else. Do you ever wish I’d just stick with something especially good for a long time?”

There are two related things I’m thinking about here. The first is that even after all these years with River, when she and I are fucking I’m like a kid in a candy store. I want a taste of everything. She’s a very well-stocked candy store and I like being in her. But maybe she just wants the everlasting gobstopper.

And there’s the issue of when we’re really banging away, literally banging, fast and hard, which River has always liked, even though it seems out of character for her to submit to that sexual energy . . . anyway, it seems like the longer we do that, the more she likes it. But the more she likes it the harder it is for me to keep from popping my wad, so I’ll often shift gears right at the “good part of the good part” because I want more. Maybe she’d rather have me keep going, instead of all the stop and start and slow down and watch for pedestrians.

So I ask my question straight up. And she answers straight up. “I like your style.” Says she knows I’m doing what I enjoy at the time, and we know that what hits the spot for one of us is usually working for the the other, too. She likes the variety. Says there’s no need to keep chugging away just because she’s liking something.

I knew she’d say that. Partly because she doesn’t get her orgasms from the ol’ in-out so when I mix things up I’m not disrupting her crescendo and leaving her hanging. But I feel better for asking. It’s great having a sweetie I can talk with. She likes my style.

I look up “everlasting gobstopper” and I’m reminded that, just like me, they change colors and flavors as you go along. But they never get smaller.

A well-prepared pussy

I get back in bed in the morning. Warm myself up on my sweetie furnace. Which seems to be going full blast. She’s really putting out the heat.

River shrieks and pulls back when I put a cold hand on her boob. Again on her stomach. I have to warm it up somewhere.  I slide my hand along her leg. She puts it between them, my palm on her mons, my fingers curving down to cover her labia. That’s unusual. Unexpected. But not unwelcome. I feel quite welcome. Her legs squeeze around my hand. “Cooch.” “What?” “That’s just what it feels like this way. Cooch.” “Coochy coo.”

I don’t want to overstay my welcome between her legs. I suspect she saw that as the least evil spot I could put my cold hand. Nothing more. This can’t be a come-on. We just fucked last night. A long and creative fuck, with two new positions. One I’ll call Flip Flop, where we each had an impressive view of the the other’s butthole. The other one . . . no idea what to call it. Picture us doing spoons on our left sides, then me rolling face down and putting my right leg on her left shoulder. More silly than functional. Let me know if you can name it.

And she does feel so . . . coochy down there, with her bush against my palm and my fingers nestled among her flaps and folds. I give her nice warm cooch some admiring squeezes, slide my fingers left, right, up, down, over the flaps, through the folds, across and around her clit, pulling and squeezing her lips between my fingers.

“Your hand should be getting warm.” “Yes.” “And wet.” The edges of her lips are surprisingly moist and slippery as I slide them past each other. But I haven’t checked between them yet. I fan my fingers, push a little deeper . . . and she’s sopping. “What have you been dreaming about?” “Work.” Doesn’t seem likely. I’ve never been successful at getting her to come into the stairway with me at her work. Maybe someone else has?

Long story short, and I do mean long story, we have a tremendous fuck. River’s pussy is exquisite, sensation-al I call it, from the tickling frill of her opening to the surprise party of her cervix. But her pussy is only the icing on the cake. She’s really into it. We’re squeezing together harder than ever, rocking side to side, grinding everything we’ve got until we’ve ground each other down so far we’ve got another inch of penetration. We especially like it when I sit up and push and pull her, holding still while jacking myself off with her pussy, with her whole body. When I keep up her favorite pounding rhythm she’s liking it so much and making so much noise I can only keep it up for so long without coming.

“I don’t even want to come.” “It’s up to you.” “I feel like it would be an anticlimax, after what we’ve been doing.” “You usually have a really good one after not finishing.” Last night, that is. “There’s always next time.” I can’t believe I said that. That’s her line.  I’m always about this time.

My cock flips up and thwacks me when I pull out. I like that.

“I should tell you. I had a dream and woke up with an orgasm. Then had a few more. That was a well-prepared pussy you were fucking.”

Gang aft agley

“I don’t know how you knew my period was going to start today.”  I didn’t.  How could I?  I can’t see the future.  No one can.  All we can see is the past.  And in the past, even my best laid plans gang aft agley.  That’s how I knew.

She turned me down last night.  She knows the best way to turn me down is to suggest we do it in the morning instead.  Which works well.  Gives me something to look forward to.  An extra reason to snuggle on her as we fall asleep.  Maybe I’ll have some good dreams.

When she falls asleep in her usual three minutes, I’m reminded of why she turned me down.  She’s tired.  I don’t get tired like she gets tired.  Not too tired to fuck.  But she does.

And suggesting the next morning works well.  Unless it’s one of those mornings when she has to get up insanely early, which is fully half of them.  When I can, I drag myself out of bed on those mornings and make her coffee.  Naked.  I can’t stand coffee.  I avert my nose while dumping it into the French press.  I must love that girl.  But no sex.  I guess I am too tired to fuck sometimes.

So after she turns me down last night, she suggests the next morning.  I’m glad she remembered.  She doesn’t always.  I put the not remembering down to her being tired and don’t take it personally.  But this time she’s remembered.  And I’ve got a reason for not waiting.  “Your period will probably start by then.”  And she has a reason for waiting.  “I don’t mind.”  I’ve never minded.  And she doesn’t mind anymore.  How could I mind my woman at her womanliest?

She comes into the living room in the morning, where I’m already sitting around doing whatever it is that I do.  In this case, writing.

“I don’t know how you knew my period was going to start today.”  Simple.  Because I can see the past.  And see that even my best laid plans gang aft agley.

Good thing we didn’t mind.

Four days

I rarely write posts directly in the squinky little wordpress editing rectangle.  I write them somewhere more comfortable, then cut and paste the whole thing.  But this is a quickie so I’m making an exception.  At least it’s meant to be a quickie, but it might not be.  Kind of like fucking.

River has turned me down the past three nights.  “It hasn’t been three nights.”  “Yes it has.”  I manage to convince her, which is not usually so easy, and usually involves more counting on my fingers.  Sometimes I think she can only count to one.

Just kidding.  She can count to two.

Ok, still kidding.  See, this is already not quite the quickie I had in mind.  I can’t help it.  I’m having fun.  Kind of like fucking.

And now I have to explain to new readers that I reach a peak of horniness on the third day.  Kind of like Jesus did.

And now I’m counting on my fingers (not so easy when I’m also typing with them) and see that if she’s turned me down three nights, then this is the fourth day.  Ouch.  At least I’ve never run out of fingers since our restart in what was it, 2008?  So many fucks ago.  Every one different.

Now I have to work hard if I want to make this a quickie.  Have to make everything count.  No wasted effort.

How quick is a quickie anyway?  For one couple I know it’s 30 minutes, but he has delayed ejaculation, which is what my SSRI often gives me.  Sometimes delayed for a couple days in my case.  But worth waiting for.  For us a quickie is 5 to 10 minutes.  We can do it faster, maybe a minute, SSRI permitting, but those are speed record fucks, not mere quickies.  Kind of fun in a strange way.

Now I can feel the end of this post coming on.  That’s a good sign. Gotta make it happen now.  River is sitting right over there while I’m writing this.  She probably thinks I’m emailing or something.

River is in the shower.  I sit on the edge of the tub.  Watching.  Watching her breasts lift and perk as she washes her hair.  Watching the shampoo rinse in a line down her back and meander over her the crack of her ass.  Watching her soap up her bush, then slip a hand down to wash her parts.  I’ve got a front row seat for the River show.  Best seat in the house.

“You’re nice to look at.”  “Thank you.  My poor abused body.”  Now she’s kidding.  I don’t abuse her body.  Or her mind.  Neither does she.  Except maybe for that half-marathon she ran.

As she dries off I’m thinking.  I gotta bang her tonight.  “Bang” is the word I’ve used the past three nights, and it’s the word I’m going to keep using until she says “yes”.  Now, how to tell her what I’m thinking . . . something tactful, assertive but not aggressive.  Something that makes it seem like she’s in control.  Something comically sexy.  Something a little self-referential, perhaps.  “There’s something that looking at you makes me want to do.  But I should ask first.  Could I bang you tonight?”  “I thought that was the plan.”  Huh.  We’ve had some good emotional warm up today, but I don’t remember anything about a plan.  I’m so out of the loop.

Times up.  Where’s a good premature ejaculation when I need one?