[Regular readers and subscribers know that our stories are taken from our true lives. However, sometimes the most generous and beautiful expressions of true love don’t get told, because they seem uninteresting. Now my cold is gone and we’re back to our enjoyment of regular lovemaking, I remembered a particular demonstration of love by Angie during my wretchedness and I think it deserves recognition. So … here it is … for all the world to read. If you’d like to know more about us as people then read the back story. Images used are from the web and chosen to represent some aspect of the story.]
When I had the bad cold a week or two back, the biggest regret is the fact that we lose opportunities to make love. While sneezing during the act can add a certain je ne sais quoi, a racking cough can rather spoil the rhythm.
Of course, despite flu injections we still seem to get the odd cold and as it is normal for us to have colds at different times we can lose a fortnight of quality sex. Unfair. Life is too short already without missing the opportunity for another orgasm. However, we both know that, despite the sniffles, sneezes, coughs and snorting, sexual arousal is just beneath the horizon and we try to make each other’s misery a little less awful.
I remember a Sunday morning a couple of days into the worst of my cold. I awoke and the room was warm. Was it my temperature, perhaps? No, it definitely felt warm. I turned over and looked at the Dimplex, which we only ever use on the very coldest days and, even then, not for sleeping, but for making love.
I could see both lights were on meaning that it was on full blast. Yes. It was warm.
The door opened and my darling Angie, complete with a steaming mug of tea in each hand and a packet of chocolate chip cookies under one armpit, walked into the bedroom like the dream you often have, but never really happens. She was stark naked and beautiful.
God, she is so lovely. Five feet six inches tall with athletic poise; thirty-three inches of gorgeous inner legs, still so slim and shapely; her small but perfect breasts pert despite the effects of age and gravity; an alluring triangle of black, speckled with grey, pointing southward towards the apex of her absolutely gorgeous thighs and the location of the paradise of which I was so fond. I was instantly awake and sneezed violently.
She walked to her side of the bed and put her mug down, circled the bed and came to my side, lowering my mug to the side cabinet as I caressed the back of her left thigh up to her warm and cuddly bum which I squeezed firmly. She placed a couple of cookies on the cabinet from her box and turned to face the bottom of the bed. As she turned, my hand ran across her hip, her mons and then caressed down the front of her right thigh. As it passed her mons I curled my palm over her mound and pressed my fingers into the soft, squidgy apex beneath cupid’s teasing hairy arrowhead.
She walked down the side of the bed, allowing my hand to slip away. I couldn’t take my eyes off her nakedness as she circumnavigated the divan, coming back around to her side, took a single cookie and placed it beside her cup, pushed back the bedclothes and sat against the headboard, lifting her cup to her lips. I sneezed. Twice.
I watched all of this as if in a dream from which I hadn’t awoken, shuffled myself up the bed, leaned to the right and cupped her left breast in my hand. I felt her nipple almost instantly come to attention.
“Wow,” I said, emphasising my pleasure with another huge sneeze.
“Drink your tea while it’s hot,” she replied.
I caressed her breast again, ran my hand down her body and rested it on her hip.
She nibbled the cookie and sipped some more tea.
I reached further over and squeezed her mons tenderly. I sneezed again. Thank God it wasn’t an allergy. Imagine being allergic to sex. No. Don’t. Too awful to contemplate.
“Drink your tea,” she said.
I shuffled back and up the bed, leaned against the headboard, picked up my tea and dunked one of the cookies.
“Heathen,” she scolded.
Angie and I have always had this thing about dunking biscuits. She thinks it is common and impolite and I think it is the only way to enjoy a biscuit with a cup of tea. For sure, never the twain shall meet. I sneezed, only just managing to hold the cup still enough to prevent a spill.
I looked down the bed.
My penis lay to its natural left. Its movement during my sneezes gave it the appearance of a life it didn’t quite have in reality. It had obviously tried to become erect at the sight of and my touch of my goddess wife, but given up the ghost in the misery of my cold and flopped over into semi-retirement in a sort of not quite erect partial stiffness. The horrible head-cold plus the distraction of some mighty-fine dunked cookies and delicious, perfectly made tea, had lulled it into a false sense of security.
I think it had probably decided that although it would like to play, it wasn’t quite up to such a challenge today, although the Viagra was always in the bathroom cupboard if I could whip up the will to perform.
“Lovely tea, Ang,” I whispered.
“I see. I get totally nude, climb into bed with you and all you can comment upon is the tea!”
She finished her tea, placed the empty mug onto the side table turned onto her side and her right hand reached over and took my poor excuse for an erection into its grasp.
“Poor Zebedee,” she said, “Don’t think he wants to play today.”
I sneezed and sneezed again.
“Hmm, was that an orgasm?” she giggled, examining its tip.
She leaned over and suddenly my semi-erect member was ensconced in her mouth. Her lips pushed the foreskin down and I could do nothing but breathe in sharply at the adorable sensation.
She released me, “Hmm, Zebedee might not be quite as dead as he looked,” she said and I could do nothing but look down to where her lips were caressing the top of a rapidly developing erection.
What an amazing experience to feel so rotten with a cold and know the one you love, also loves you so much as to do this in your hour of least expectation, but, perhaps, greatest need.
I sneezed and she sucked. I sneezed and her tongue wrapped itself around my corona, licking forcefully across the widest part of my glans and then flicking over my fraenulum. How incredible. So lovely I just had to sneeze again.
I placed my cup on the side table and watched as the head of the girl I had loved for all of my life and lost for so much of it [explanation], turned and moved and rose and fell and thrilled me with the most beautiful and loving fellatio.
I reached down and ran my fingers through the hair which had once been jet-black and cascaded to her waist, caressed the shoulders which still radiated warmth from their smoothness and silkiness. All of the time her mouth was treating me to the most wonderful kisses and licks and sucks, while her hand held me tightly, squeezing and tenderly masturbating my lower shaft, occasionally releasing me and caressing my balls with gossamer touch before pushing hard into my perineum causing the most exciting and remarkable sexual aches deep within my entire length.
I knew what she was doing. This wonderful woman who loved me as much as I loved her, was well aware how miserable I felt and was trying to relieve some of that awfulness by treating me to the absolute ultimate sexual luxury – a totally non-contributory blow-job, for me alone in my wretchedness.
I adored making love to her, feeling my penis deep within her body, fulfilling my heart’s desire, but for the sheer fucking enjoyment from sex, a blow job was second to none. Especially a luxuriously, lazy, relaxing one like this. I didn’t need to move. She was looking after everything. I could just lie back and think of nothing but my sensations and our love.
Her lips rose and fell. My eyes closed and my breath began to increase its frequency. Her tongue performed acrobatics around my glans and under my corona. My heart rate had risen. Her hand gripped the bottom of my shaft tightly. My sneezing had stopped – was this an automatic reaction like a man being unable to urinate during arousal? Her squeezes set me afire. My nose had stopped running. She sucked. My whole body had forgotten the cold and stifled all of the symptoms as the heat in my shaft began to grow.
Not for one second did her hand stop its squeezes and more gentle caresses. Not for one second did her tongue still its wall of death around the most sensitive part of my body. Not for one second did those lips slow or change their rhythm as they moved just that single inch up and down the very tip of my penis.
Oh God, it was coming. How wonderful when pleasure morphs into impending bliss. I could feel the extraordinary ache in the base of my shaft and the heat at top and bottom was trying to join forces with it. My glans wanted to explode, a fire was rising from my body towards its only escape route. It was coming, it was close. Oh God, she knew. She slowed. She tortured me. She held tighter. I couldn’t stop it. She knew it was on the way. I felt myself grow, my erection wanting to lift itself higher into her, my glans on fire, the whole length of me now beyond any conscious control.
I cried, “Angie!”
Both my thighs jerked out, I could see my toes curling upwards, my feet lifting from the bed, muscles in my legs began to spasm and my climax arrived, kicking and thrusting and spurting and filling me with the most intensive and unforgettable feelings of love for my dear, dear, dear Ang.
I let out another two or three cries of sheer joy and emotion as I sensed her sucking and stroking and drawing the very last of my liquid love from my body into hers.
Tension flooded out of my thighs, my bum, my whole lower body as the extreme warmth and sexual elation released me from my orgasm and I collapsed helplessly on the bed from which I had, in fact, not actually moved. It is amazing how an orgasm can give you the illusion of having just finished a five-mile race!
She turned, crawled up my body, her lips met mine in a beautiful kiss. She deposited my semen back into me and held the kiss. I had no choice but to swallow. She licked the insides of my lips, lifted her head and looked down at me with her smile of sheer sexual devilment at having given me the unexpected snowball.
“Didn’t think you ought to give away your essence when you’re unwell and, anyway, I don’t want to catch your cold!” she laughed.
“Bastard,” I joined her laughter and we kissed again.
Our kissing, naked in the warmth of the room continued for, I don’t know, but guess at least twenty minutes before she broke off and sat cross-legged facing me. I could see her vulva. God, girls sitting cross-legged have always been a massive fetish of mine, clothed or naked. Her arousal was obvious. The delicate filigree of both labia, the long right one and the shorter left one, both projecting invitingly, more red than pink. The tangled hood at their summit stood proud as it protected its precious pearl. I knew it also concealed the sensitive conjunction of her secret lips. I could see she was aroused as much as I had been.
She leaned over, kissed me again then jumped up and walked towards the door.
“Come back, Ang. Your turn,” I protested.
She shook her head, smiled and said, “Nah, I don’t want to catch your cold,” then disappeared into the shower, leaving me with the most wonderful post-sex warmth of emotion and love for her.
This is what love is all about. I’d make it up to her another day.
Peter Stone, 30th November 2015