“Your cum is in my hair.”

Thanksgiving and the holiday rush has begun. Shopping, ordering, errands, and attending a Harvest Festival at my son’s school was on the list of things for me do this week on top of the normal stay-at-home-mother duties I have to fulfill. Notably absent from that list is sex.

There are two things that inevitably happens when the weather changes from cold to colder to coldest: Henri works more and I get hornier. For two weeks, I’ve been a brush fire of horny hormones that have so far caused me to burn dinner and fall asleep with a dildo still inside of me. To put it plainly, I am craving sex everywhere I turn, every day, ALL OF THE TIME. And unfortunately, despite having two of the best men the Universe can send my way, she also has a warped sense of humor to make them both unavailable in my time of need. Plus, next week is my vagina’s week off (if you get my drift) so penetration for the remainder of this month seems like it’s not going to happen. Along with the impending tide, like always, my breasts become intensely sensitive. It is the best time for them to be played with. However, only my hands have been touching them. I need strong, rough, hands. Unforgiving hands. That’s the shit I like.

Recently, I’ve been scouring the internet for videos of breast play. No sex needs to be performed; I just want to see some fine young fox of a woman with huge natural breasts get fondled. It is no secret about my love of breasts, even my own. There is nothing I enjoy more (and that gets me extremely wet) then having my nipples touched. I should have realized long ago that perhaps I do have a mammary fetish; but we grow, we learn new things, and enjoy those discoveries, right?

During this time, any small touch, rub—just about anything, causes a direct reaction of pleasure. As I write this now, they’ve hardened. Minds of their own I tell ya’. In occasions such as these I’m almost always masturbating to Henri just touching my breasts with his hands. But with him having to work so late this season, and Sir Dre also preoccupied, I’ve resorted to finding other ways to fulfill my sensory needs. So far, a cold wall has worked just fine against my breasts, but it is not enough. This is a sweet point, where when my nipples are pinched just right, I overflow. I become beast-like in my need for harder stimulation. I want them to hurt; to swell and bruise if necessary, and most definitely be able to feel the pain the next day. Because even then, I know the residual soreness will cause ripples throughout my skin, and my nipples will harden again, and the cycle of this pleasure won’t be broken until I don’t feel that pain anymore.

I know my Sir could deliver this need more than anything else. But facts are facts, and he just can’t right now. I went through a short moment of missing my old dalliances, especially Alejandro. He sends me messages from time to time about how he misses me, that he wishes me well, and that I had some amazing pussy. I tell him I know and thanks. Sir has made it very clear: I am to have sex only with Him and my Husband. After a conversation with him where this fact had been reinstated, he said: “You belong to your Husband, always. But remember, you are Mine. MINE. And I don’t like to share my treasures.” With His ownership reconfirmed (because I have not heard those words in a while), I did my best to hunker down and be patient.

However, I was lucky for once this week to get my desires met.

Henri’s work day ended at a good time and by 7 o’clock in the evening, he was home eating dinner. I thought he would go to the gym, but instead he stood home to rest. I gave him his room to do what he wanted, but I also let it be known that I could not go another night without intimacy. While he was browsing on his laptop, I made my point when I reached between his legs and began to rub his mound through his jeans, his best friend in the opposite sofa (who now lives with us) two feet away. If he saw us it would be a bonus for me; he would get the hint and hopefully leave the living room. Eventually, my massaging became very persuasive, and Henri thought it would be best to “relax in the bedroom.” He left his laptop behind.

It’s common for Henri to undress before bedtime; me not so much, but my shirt was flying over my head as soon as our door closed. I snuggled into him, giving him my best smoldering come hither look. Or an I’m really, really horny look. Whichever one it was, he smiled and pulled me in for a long kiss. I let my hands continue what I started in the living room, and with prior knowledge of my chesty sensitivity, Henri picked at my nipples like a loose thread.

More, more. My moans were answered with the hotness of his tongue, and the clamping of his teeth on my left nipple. I felt everything inside me surging; the deliquescent hotness emanating from within me soiled my new panties, and on this chilled November night all I felt was hot, hot, hot. More, more please. He tentatively slapped my right breast, a ripple of flesh that waved in slow motion like a hot summer’s day mirage. I heard the sound of my heart beating in my left ear and held onto to his member as a momentary staff to prevent me from falling over the edge of reason. I gasped, wanting to speak, to say something sexy or complimenting, but my thoughts were incoherent and I needed to focus, to become occupied.

My mouth clasps onto his cock, the last piece of this human chain of carnal enjoyment. Tonight wasn’t about penetration; we were not aiming for that. I wanted hands and lips; the use the most basic of body parts to get each other off. Plus, the way my breasts were being touched and tickled felt like everything. I stopped thinking or listening; once my mouth was full of Henri, I mimicked the currents of the ocean, moving forward, swaying this way and that, folding and washing over him like the tide, unrelenting. My hands worked diligently at his sack, molding it like clay between my fingers. Routinely, I would cup them and massage them like Chinese stress balls, his most preferred method of care. But that night, my hands moved on their own. I found myself plucking at the loose skin like an old Gibson, his ragged breathing the melody it played. I pause for a second when I noticed what I was doing, worried that I may be pulling too hard and hurting him. But his consonant breathing reassured me, and moments later his mellifluous honey soothed my wanton throat. I hung onto him and hoped to catch every drip that left his pliant sack, and I hummed with a mouthful of indulgence.

Still I was not done. I yearned even more for his hands. He needed this too, I just had to make him understand that.

“Maybe I should get into a better position to be played with,” I said, and nestled my head between his thighs, his relaxed but not yet flaccid manhood resting on my left shoulder. I giggled, settling in with my toy between my own thighs. The familiar buzz came on and Henri fondled my breasts accordingly. But, this time round I required more impact to reach my own climax.

Touch me.

Abuse them. Please Daddy, make them hurt!

I call him by his favorite nick name, hoping it would fuel him. When the first slap hits I smile, proud of the response I’ve enticed. Apparently, so is he. The smacks come one second after the other in a continuous rain, piercing a nipple between his fingers every so often. More, more…

Please hurt me!

You’ve have a bad week Daddy…

Use me to make yourself feel better…

My mind was ravaged with feeling and empty of thought. He reached over the length of my body and touched my sweetest spot under the orange glow of the vibrators’ light. Rapidly his finger burrows into me; I saw him smile in the dim light that escaped between the curtains at the squish-squish-squish sound this instrument made. And if we weren’t already one with each other in emotion and sensuality, I felt his member bob against my shoulder and harden again, worming its way into my hair. I felt a wetness drip onto me and smiled, a new wave of arousal heating through me.

“Your cum is in my hair,” I purred. He giggled coarsely. “No, no, I like. Very sexy,” and with those words spoken I felt more liquid fall. We were spilling bodily fluids on my clean, favorite emerald sheets (sorry Cynthia Rowley), and done only with our hands.

By now my nipples were deliciously tender. Every space between his touches, I could feel the ache; but I wanted more. And with a connection that only we understand, he kept one finger in my pussy and stretched the other into my other newfound sweet spot. My vibrator on the nub and the dripping of his liquid pleasure in my hair, I fell over the edge. I bucked like a valiant steed, accelerated by the very last slap he laid upon the same distressed nipple.

We cleaned up as best as we could, deciding to take a shower in the morning. He was too exhausted, and I was just wanted to have a go at it again. Which I did, masturbating once more before we chose to fall asleep in our newest, favorite position: a tangled mass of love, sex, and mess.

Because that’s just how we roll.


wickedwed I realized, after having started this entry, that this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is about nipples. I thought this appropriate to add to the list of other nipple entries for this week. xxx


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