Like a Virgin, or like an absolute whore

In case I haven’t said so enough times already, I’m getting married! Planning a wedding is stressful and almost boring – but planning the beginning of the marriage, the rest of our lives together, that is fun.

Especially since the first day of our marriage begins with good food and a party, and the first night begins with an awesome fuck.

The thing is, I need to decide on my persona. It is kind of ridiculous, because I have been with my fiancé for almost 6 years now, and living together for 2. It’s not like he doesn’t know me already; he knows exactly who my persona is.

But still – on our wedding night I need to show him, with hard-on evidence (pun intended), that he made the best decision of his life when saying “I do” before God, our family and the world. So at night, when we are in our outrageously expensive hotel room, and I excuse myself to go into the ladies’ room to powder my nose and slip into something more comfortable (which totally means I will pee for the last time and slip into something extremely uncomfortable), I have to decide who I will be that night.

Will I be a virgin? Or will I be a whore?

Will I wear a silky white lingerie dressy-thingy, with matching panties, which will be slowly removed with kisses and gentle caresses?

Or will I wear a see-through, boob-lifting, fat-hiding lacey hot pink tight little skimpy dress, with no panties for easier access?

Should I be a scared little girl who has no idea what to do, or should I be a fierce lioness who has seen and caught her prey and pretends to fuck its brains out?

Should I be a calm sweet woman who wants to make love, or should I be a kinky little bitch who wants it hard from behind?

Should I reclaim a virginity lost on 8 December 2001 and consume our relationship the old-fashioned way, or should I take 11 years of fucking experience to bed with us?

I don’t know. I guess I will buy different choices and decide that very night. Or, I could change during the night. I can start out as the virgin bride who wants to be gently explored and discovered – and then, after my third or fourth orgasm, I might want to become the whore that every woman has inside her, and ride him until the cows come home…

Shit, dude, who are we kidding: after the 9 hour party, plus the 4 hours of getting ready before the party, at 2 a.m. the day after the wedding I will be so tired that I will just open up and want to get it over with…

Related articles

• Wedding Night (oyiabrown.wordpress.com)

Open up

I like sex as much as the next woman – perhaps even a little bit more than the next woman. Unless “the next woman” is a freshly divorced cougar. In that case, I like sex as much as her. But seriously – I like it. I enjoy it. Not only the cumming, but the whole act accompanying it. And at the risk of sounding like a pathetic hopeless romantic, I like fucking the man I love. And I love knowing that I will be fucking the man I love for the rest of my life. Or his life. Whatever comes first. Or whoever cums first.

Having said that… there are a occasions in which in which I am seriously not in the mood. I just want to spread my legs open on my side of the bed and not have some dude trying to come inside me – much less trying to cum inside me. I like sleeping with my legs open and feeling the cool air caress my coochie. Like this:

fanning-my-vagina-glee.gif

Sometimes I like to cuddle, but I am very warm myself, and because it’s winter we use not one, not two but three thick covers, and always have the heater in max. And I hate sweating in my sleep. So I want my fiancé to kiss me good night and leave me the fuck alone.

But the jackass wants to fuck. Although his latest “catch phrase” is that he wants to make love to me. As if a simple play on words would make me get wetter. He begins by whispering romantic words in my ear, kissing it and my neck. He manages to get his hand in my pajamas (like I said, winter. Sleeping in the nude is just begging for a cold.) and find my stomach – my fat stomach. And the bastard caressed my fat! I, trying to maintain the family harmony, don’t say anything but fidget enough to make him move. Then he moves his hand to my boobs – men of the world, listen: when a girl is turned on, touching, grabbing, licking and biting her boobies is the most arousing thing ever. BUT, if said girl is not even mildly aroused, not even looking forward to being aroused, not even trying to pretend that she is aroused, it feels weird. Bad weird. Uncomfortable weird. So I fidget again, kiss him and bid him good night.

Then he acts out like a spoiled brat. He wants to fuck. And I never want to fuck, he says, never. This pisses me off, so I yank my pajama bottoms off, I yank my cotton panties off, and I open my legs for him. I tell him to go ahead, to get it over with quickly. He says no, all high up on his morality soapbox because he does not want to do me, he wants us both to do each other. And I place his hand on my desert-dry vagina and show him that I am seriously, seriously not in the mood. So he can slide on a condom, do me and get it over with, or he can count to 1,000 in his head until his dick falls.

He pretends to understand that, as a woman, I have varying cycles and that there is such a thing as not being in the mood. That maybe it was a long day, or maybe I am stressed out about something, or maybe I am sad or period-y or PMSing… so he sighs heavily and rolls over.

But then he can’t sleep. He can’t sleep because his dick is too hard and he can’t get it down. Again, I open my legs for him, unwillingly but also not in the mood to listen to him complain about his over-grown penis. He kisses me and says that I don’t need to do that, that he understands.

He rolls over to the left, I roll over the right. And as I am beginning to feel the sandman work on me, I get prodded in the back. It’s his dick, saying, “Open up, bitch.”

The good thing is, it only lasts 2 minutes… and I barely wake up.

Related articles

• Good times, bad times, BAAAAAD times… (theblogsicantpubliclypost.wordpress.com)
• We have a guest (theblogsicantpubliclypost.wordpress.com)

Good times, bad times, BAAAAAD times…

There are many bad times for a woman to be pregnant. If she is under-aged, it is bad. If she is single, it is bad. If she has no idea who the father might be, it is bad. If she is homeless, it is bad. If she is unemployed, it is bad. If she is in college, it is bad. If she is a drunkie or a junkie, it is bad. If she is on a good career path, it is bad. If she is in a good yet new relationship, it is bad.

There are very few good times for a woman to be pregnant. If she is married, of age, in a good relationship, with a lot of money and a job that will allow her to take many days off to spend with her child – yeah, get all those moments together and make them last 18 years… that is the ONLY good time for a woman to be pregnant.

If you look at the odds, it is NEVER a good moment for a woman to be pregnant.

I went to the doctor last week about a cough. We have a mould situation in our apartment, and I knew that is why my cough is bothering me. But We have already begun the de-moulding process, so I will get better eventually. But I still wanted some help with the coughing and the mucus and the crappy feeling. So I go there and she says that yes, in fact my cough is related to the mould, to take these pills and these drops and open the windows and other healthy-living crap. I thanked her, and as I was walking out the threshold of her office, she asks,

Excuse me, is it possible that you are pregnant?

The world stopped spinning. I could hear cars braking aggressively and people turning and looking at my pregnant self in awe. In bad awe. In very bad awe. Because this is one of those even fewer times when it is BAAAAAD to be pregnant.

It is BAAAAAAD to be pregnant right now.

I am in the middle of my masters, I am far away from home, I don’t speak the language entirely well, I am still in the “legal alien but still alien” status… and I am getting married soon. That means that my fucking dress won’t fit if I am pregnant now.

I stood there in the middle of the way – not anymore inside her office, but still not outside. I was there. In a limbo. Exactly like I felt in my life at the moment.

Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

This is not the time. This is seriously not the time.

I am in a serious relationship, yes. I am old enough that having a baby is no longer a tragedy but a wished-for miracle, yes. I have money, yes. Even better: WE have money, yes. I live in a country where they welcome babies and pay people to reproduce more and more and more. I am insured, very well insured. And what’s better: when I told my fiancé that I might be pregnant, his face lit up and a huge smiled filled his face, and he hugged me and congratulated us. He was giddy during the whole three minutes that it took me to pee on the stick and wait for the negative results.

Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

But this time my “fucks” were thankful fucks. Negative. YAY!

Or, did I really feel “yay”?

It would be a very very very baaaaad time to be pregnant.

But then again, would it?

We have a guest

We had a guest last week. He was here for a whole week. Which was OK and all, because he’s cool and fun and easy going, but it was an unplanned visit which fucked up my final exams week and my fiance’s working-extra-hours-to-get-money-to-pay-for-my-ring work schedule. Also, the town where we live is quaint (which is just a polite way of saying “tiny as shit with nothing to see”), and it’s fucking freezing this winter, which means we spend most of our time at home. Watching TV. Which can get pretty lame pretty quickly.

But, like I said, he’s a cool and fun and easy going guy, so it was not been so terrible.

Except for the sleeping arrangements.

We have a two-room apartment, which in this country means one bedroom (ours) and one living-dining-guest-room thingy. Since it’s not made to be a sleeping room, the door does not close very well. And of course, as our luck would have it, he’s a light sleeper.

He’s a light sleeper and I’m a horny, screaming bitch.

FYI, not a good combination.

He arrived on Friday night last week. We picked him up at the airport, went out for beers and came back home at about 3 a.m.

Friday/Saturday, my fiancé and I had post-beer sex. I was super quiet, and in order to avoid loud noises, I stayed under.

Saturday/Sunday, we had after-party sex. I stayed under again, but raised my legs in such a way that the covers fell off the bed and my fiance’s enormous dick found my G-spot and it took all my self-control to not scream. But I could not contain myself at the end, so I let out a weird groan thingy…

Monday, we had Monday-Night-Sex. We fucked from behind to see if I could stay quiet, but I like it hard from behind, which makes it sound like he’s hitting me. So in order to avoid such unpleasant and ambiguous sounds, he fucked me slowly. Which did nothing for me. Nothing.

Tuesday, we had Valentine’s Day Sex. I stripped, slowly and tempting, got on top, came three times and wanted more. I moved the bed a couple of centimeters away from the wall, but I held my breath the whole time, so there could not have been any noise. But I wanted to come more – man, those Valentine’s Day roses made me horny as hell. I wanted to cum more, but my poor fiancé was too close to cumming himself – which of course meant that he has doing cute little noises.

Wednesday, we had Post-Valentine’s-Day-Sex. It is a common tradition to celebrate the love by fucking the next day as well. I came quickly and noiselessly.

Thursday, we had I-had-no-class-today-sex. I had showered late in the evening and my coochie was extra shaved and clean and fresh (I should seriously consider putting a mint or an ice-cube in there, it might make for a good experience!), so my fiancé was more than willing to go down… and stay down… After I came three times, he fucked me hard and I came one last time. I made noises. A lot of them.

Friday night we had drinks at home (Bacardi Rum special, 2×1). We then proceeded to have a Post-Rum fuck. This time my fiancé was on top and came in like 5 minutes. Which was OK, because I was too tired and drunk and could have fallen asleep had he not hurried up.

Saturday night we drank the last of the rum, the Bailey’s, the Amaretto, the wine, the Glühwein, the shots, the orange and apple juice, and whatever other liquid we could get our hands on. I swear we tried to fuck, but our bodies were just not cooperating. I wasn’t wet and he wasn’t hard. It’s the type of thing you only understand when you love someone. And, to be honest, we were both happy to have one fuck-less day in the week.

On Sunday (yesterday) he left, which of course means we had We-No-Longer-Have-Guests-Sex, which brought about the most amazing orgasms, because I could let go and scream freely the whole time. I swear our neighbors are deaf.

The thing is – I was sure I had been extra quiet and extra careful and extra good… because I am loud. Very loud. Too loud. But on the way to the airport, our guest said, “Hey, I noticed that you have trouble sleeping, I recommend you drink [insert brand] tee. It really helps you to calm your nerves and sleep soundly.”

“Thanks, but… Why do you say that?”, I asked.

“Well,” he said, “I noticed that you move around a lot at night, and that you cannot fall asleep easily. I hear you rocking and rolling and tossing and turning and making weird noises and, well, I just wanted to help.”

*oops*

Do you think he knew we were fucking the whole week and just wanted to make me feel bad? Or do you believe that he seriously thinks I have a sleeping problem?

Related articles

• Someone broke something and now the fucking is fucked up (theblogsicantpubliclypost.wordpress.com)

Size DOES matter

You’d think that there would come a time when two people who have been fucking each other exclusively for years would stop being surprised. Seriously, how much can you really innovate after 5 years? It’s not that it gets boring – sex never gets boring – but it certainly does begin to seem routine. Even that which you thought was completely crazy and out of the ordinary begins to seem rehearsed.

Morning sex becomes, Oh, can’t I just PLEASE sleep five more minutes?

Midday sex becomes, Oh, come on, just let me finish reading this chapter and we’ll do it right away!

Evening sex becomes, Oh, look! CSI just came on! C’mon, let’s watch it!

Sex in the kitchen is no longer fun because, let’s be honest, it was never comfortable to begin with. Sex in the living room is just plain scary after I learned that I can be charged up to 3000€ for indecent exposure – because we have chosen not to buy blinds or curtains for that room. Sex in the bathroom is unpleasant because it is too small.

So I guess we’re left with sex in the bed. The good ol’ bed. And we do it before going to sleep. Which sucks, because he falls asleep immediately, and I left wide awake hearing him snore.

Still, though, it doesn’t get boring. We both want to do it, and we both enjoy it. The thing is, we have to find ways to make it, well, kinky and new and not routine.

I have discovered that my fiancé (I am still not used to calling him that) has an interesting super power? his dick gets bigger and wider and longer on specific dates (I will have to check a lunar calendar to see if I can find a pattern). So sometimes we will have good sex, but sometimes we will have the kind of sex that makes the down-stairs neighbor want to move to a different continent.

It is amazing. It is delicious. It is addictive.

He claims to see or feel no difference, but I see it. I feel it. I enjoy it. I mean, he’s already well-endowed to begin with. So on an average or bad day, I still can’t complain. But when he’s big, OMG. When he’s big, it’s big. When he’s big we can’t do doggie-style because it hurts. When he’s big I get on top and I have the big explosive minute-long-lasting orgasms that make my toes curl and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I wonder if it has to do with what he eats or drinks – I will have to check that out too.

In the meantime, I will publish this, close my laptop, and have routine sex, in the bed, before going to sleep, with the same man with whom I have had sex for the past 5 years, and with the same man with whom I will continue to have sex the rest of my life – and hopefully his dirty pecker will be as big as the Washington Memorial.

And hopefully the neighbors will have earplugs.

Related articles

• What She Really Wants in the Bedroom? (hesaidshesaidbykellydotcom.wordpress.com)
• Penis size vs. finger size (theevilicequeen.wordpress.com)

Rules of Engagement

I’m engaged now. Wow. Engaged. Engaged. Holy shit. I’m going to be someone’s wife.

I say it so much, and so often, and in as many tones and contexts as possible, to see if I can finally come to terms with the decision we’ve made. Or, well, at least with the decision I’ve made. He was the idiot who asked the question… and I was the idiot who said yes.

Neither of us has ever been engaged. Oh, well, I’m a girl, so I’ve had my fair share of “OMG I want to marry him” situations, but I have never had a big huge diamond on my ring finger, I have never changed my status on Facebook (and you know it’s not official until it’s on Facebook), I have never told my parents, or his parents… crap, I have never gone to my embassy or to the Foreigners’ Bureau to figure out what the fuck it is I need to do to get permission to marry someone!

So, right after it happened, we decided to sit down and come up with a list of Rules of Engagement. That is, what types of things engaged people do, and what kinds of things they don’t.

My list had over three THOUSAND points, but they all boiled down to this:

• I may use the word(s) “Engaged” and “I am engaged” as often as I can reasonably make them fit in the conversation
• I may use my ring every single day of my life, for every single moment, including cooking and showering
• I may randomly say I am doing something “for the first time as an ENGAGED person!” So, my first pee since being engaged was properly registered, as well as our first fuck as engaged people, and our first walk, and our first phone call…

His list had only one point. Men are so simple:

• I get to fuck you for the rest of our lives

It may not sound romantic to you, but it does sound romantic to me. We have both chosen each other as the only partners for the rest of our lives. And with my (good) luck and his (bad) luck, that will be a very, very, very long life.

I’m just happy that there is ONE idiot in the world who is willing to overlook all my faults, all of them, and there are many, and he still wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

And I am happier that this idiot, coincidentally, is the one idiot I love.

My New Year’s Resolutions

For some weird reason, the fact that yet another year has come to an end has not yet struck me. However many years I have, however many exciting and exotic new year’s celebrations I’ve had, this one just seems normal. Normal. Like nothing special. I guess that’s what happens when you finally have everything you’ve always wanted, then it is difficult to have something to look forward to – like, you no longer wish for anything, because you have it all. And I don’t mean to sound like a terrible pessimist, or like a boring pragmatist, but rather like a perfectly satisfied person. I am satisfied. I wake up next to the man I love every morning (too early on most mornings, but still, his morning kisses with morning breath are better than morning coffee), I am on the right career path (finally!), I live in a country where my greatest concern is OMG what shall I make for dinner tomorrow?!?!? I am insured, I am employed, I am in love. What more does on need?

So, since the universe has conspired in being so good to me, I will do my best to conspire to be good to the universe in return in 2012. Here are, thus, my 12 New Year’s Resolutions for 2012:

1. I will attempt to not get mad every single time my boyfriend tries to hug me and touch me post-coitus. I do hate it, though. And he does love it. Ugh.
2. I will give him at least one BJ per month. Probably no more than one… but at least one.
3. I will enjoy myself more when I take long evening baths. The shower-head on “strong” does feel good against my clit.
4. I will strip in a sexy fashion as often as possible, except that one-week-a-month where it is just more hygienic to be celibate.
5. I will sleep naked more often, even when it’s below zero outside. Heating on max, of course. And an extra blanket.
6. We will have more sex in the shower. And in the kitchen. And after I clean the floor, on the floor, too.
7. I will finally FINALLY really spread nutella on his dick and lick it until it’s clean. Then, depending on his behaviour, I may or may not let him cum in my mouth.
8. We will party more and drink more and have more drunken sex. With each other.
9. I will try to have more exciting sexual stories to share with you. And him.
10. We just might try watching porn together…
11. I will not let my work or my studies affect our sex life. Not that it ever has, but I just want to make sure that sex comes on the Number 2 Priority list. Number 1 is of course good food.
12. I will wear a bikini in summer. This summer. Hopefully that means I will have lost weight… but I’m not making that promise. I’m just saying, I will wear the fucking bikini.

I guess a new year is an open invitation to a new life, a new beginning. Let’s see what this new year brings along. I hope, at least, more followers. *wink wink*

Related articles

• New Year’s Resolutions. . .or just screw it! (misleadingtonowhere.wordpress.com)

My twisted idea of a christmas carol… or something like that

Christmas has come and gone – my boyfriend, who hates shopping and pretty much anything else related to spending money on crap, had to be bribed: I told him that if he came out shopping one day, just one day with me, and if he agreed to pay for everything within reason that I wanted, I would leave him alone for the whole 2012 (I only said that because the world is coming to an end. If it doesn’t end, I will nag him until he takes me shopping again!). And we did. He did. He was amazing! He said yes to everything. E-vry-thing! That’s the kind of boyfriend I want to have every day – but them we’d be broke.

The downside, though, was that he then got to request whatever he wanted. Ah, if he had only wanted a steak or fondue… No. Like every other man on the face of the planet, he wanted sex.

So this is what we did (try to sing along if you can):

On the first day of christmas my true love gave to me, sex under the christmas tree.

On the second day of christmas my true love gave to me, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the third day of christmas my true love gave to me, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the fourth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the fifth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the sixth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the seventh day of christmas my true love gave to me, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the eighth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a midnight orgasm, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the ninth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a sensual foot massage, a midnight orgasm, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the tenth day of christmas my true love gave to me, his chocolate-covered dick, a sensual foot massage, a midnight orgasm, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the eleventh day of christmas my true love gave to me, the most romantic kiss, his chocolate-covered dick, a sensual foot massage, a midnight orgasm, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

On the twelfth day of christmas my true love gave to me, a mind-blowing fuck, the most romantic kiss, his chocolate-covered dick, a sensual foot massage, a midnight orgasm, penis-shaped pasta, a skanky little dress, a see-through wonder-bra! A blowjob in the tub, a strip-tease in the kitchen, doggie-style sex, and sex under the christmas tree.

I hope you enjoyed singing along. I need to go put ice on my coochie because it’s sore after twelve days of this crap.

Making up for Monday’s Missing Mail with Masturbation

(I was attempting alliteration… I was hoping that some poetic license would make you forgive me for missing last Monday’s post. I have an excellent excuse though: I was on my period. That situation, although not allowing me to post, did allow for the following story.)

As I said, I was on my period. Shitty little thing. Unavoidable. Inevitable. Never fails. Thankfully.

But I got horny. Horny horny horny. So horny. Horny horny horny last night.

My boyfriend (after being dick-sick for a month) informed me that we should refrain from sexual intercourse two days before and two days after my menstruation. But, as I mentioned, I was horny. Horny horny horny. So horny. Horny horny horny last night.

(I hope you are old enough to get the song reference. Otherwise, get off my blog and go do your homework!)

So I stripped. I stood on the bed, right above him, and removed my clothing. I wasn’t wearing much anyway, so there is not too much to describe in that sense. I kneeled and took off his jeans, his winter-underpants, his socks and boxer shorts, and finally his T-Shirt. He was naked, I was naked. But he was resolute on not fucking me.

I gave him head for a bit, until he got horny enough to begin to consider doing me. He considered it alright, but he concluded that NO, there would be no penetration whatsoever.

Penetration, no.

Masturbation, yes.

So we both laid down and touch each other. I held his dick in my hand and moved up and down, up and down; he caressed my clit with his index finger and massaged my pussy with his remaining fingers. Every time he hit the right spot in the clit (which he does often, without much help or guidance) I would hold his dick harder and move my hands faster. We were kissing desperately, like two teenagers unsure as to what to do next.

He made me cum three times, three awesome times. He made me cum three times only with his index finger. Not many guys have that blessed finger-power. He made me cum three times and managed to wait his turn – his turn was in my mouth.

So, again, my apologies for missing the Monday post. I’ll try my best not to let that happen again. But if it does, rest assured that my sex life is going through NO rough-spots whatsoever.

That moment when it seems wonderful… but no.

Sometimes, when I’m not feeling particularly lusty and horny and hot, it takes me a long time to cum. In those cases (those very, very few cases), I just magnanimously allow my boyfriend to cum inside me. It doesn’t take him long once he has this permission. It feels like a King’s Pardon to him. And then he releases all his tension and I get him off of me. For a few minutes, at least. I swear the man is like a kid who just discovered how to use his dick.

But there are few times when he will do me just the right way, when he will enter just deep enough and touch me in the right places and say the good dirty words… then I’ll recall his permission and ride him like a Wild Lone Ranger until I cum.

Except that, yesterday, I may have recalled my permission a tad too late. He was doing all good, and he knew he had my unspoken permission – until he sat on his knees and fucked my while I was on my back. Oh. My. God. That felt SO good! So I told him not to cum – and he hated me for it. He needed a couple of seconds to think about the grocery list and about his test today…

I pushed him out of me, threw him on his back and climbed on top of him like an angry lion devouring her prey. And I knew mine would be a good orgasm. That kind of orgasm that begins like a whisper and then becomes a soft voice and then grows to be a full-blown operatic high note. That kind of orgasm that raises the hairs on the back of your neck and gives you goose-bumps. That kind of orgasm that makes every single hair stand on end.

The kind of orgasm that seriously takes more than a minute.

Which means that I have to continue riding him for over a minute, and he has to continue grabbing my boobies for over a minute, and not change his perpetual motion patterns, and I have to maintain the same course and velocity. For over one minute.

Well, on second 52 he says, “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t.” Well, on his behalf, it must be really, really hard for a man (who was already about to cum) to not get excited seeing a woman cumming FOR OVER ONE MINUTE on top of him. And so I yelled. I think I may have been a little out of line and a bit exaggerated, but I yelled. “Don’t you DARE ejaculate! I am almost done!” I wasn’t. But I also was not in a position to explain why I wasn’t.

I was experiencing the eclipse of orgasms, those that scarcely come, those that affect tides and magnetic centers. I had been orgasming for over one minute –

– and then came the final explosion.

But the explosion was his, and not mine.

So all that was left of my wonderful over-a-minute-orgasm was just the whisper and the soft voice, because the fat lady singing was his dick spitting inside of me.