Sex Du Juor: Porn Games

It is so humorous and funny and side-splitting and waggish and jocose that sometimes I feel like mewling and howling and yowling my eyes out because of it, don't you? I have a peculiar and eccentric and porangi mania and phobia and hobbyhorse of Stian's underclothes and the alike unmentionables, don't you yourself? Occasionally and from time to time and every so often, I believe that I am foolhardy and idiotic and quixotic for it, don't you opinion and hold that too? The manner and style and fashion that his underwear or smalls embrace and twine round and brace on to his seductive, irresistible, and alluring bottom and thighs and impeccable light-like skin itself—it implodes and splits apart to nonexistence my senses and aura and smarts all in all. Doesn't it to you?

Yes. Stian and I are tonight going to fuck energetically and diligently and funk and turn tail with him dressed in his snazzy, stylish, dashing, and ritzy underwear. This is very good and cracking schmick, aren't you of the similar and alike view? I do so myself; yeah, I assuredly and for certain do. Accept it or not. Hmnnn. Stian's underclothing are the most jazzy and schmick and flashy and attractive kind that I have ever seen. Ever—I mean it.

I am peering and monitoring him as he stands vertical and upright and on his feet not a mile or great distance away from where I am slumped and lolled and drooped on our monstrous, mountainous, and behemoth bedstead or couch bunk. Yeah. He is frocked and garmented in nothing but his sensual and voluptuous and come-hither and beddable underclothes or men's lingerie. Certainly! If you did not have knowledge of it, men have their own sort and type and brand of lingerie and their own frillies or smalls too. Sure. That is just the fashion and way and style that it is! Yup!

I am spellbound and entranced. In what respect and custom and manner, you may puzzle and cudgel your brains? I don't exactly know; I am just in awe and fascination and stupefaction and wonderment. Exactly! That approach and technique and mode that you can only baffle and bemuse and faze at. Or cannot you do that?

As Stian nestles and perches and locates himself—still erect and standing up on his two busy and energetic and bustlingly strenuous feet—in a standpoint and viewpoint where he is capable and qualified to place and set and lay his hands on the expensive, wide, and large window of our spacious and voluminous bedroom itself, he tones and voices out to me behind, "Does my Spartan and unfussy white shirt and raven-shaded underwear every time and unfailingly hold you spellbound and gripped and enthralled at me? Does it, Ragnhild?"

I am overcome and staggered and struck dumb as if hit by a ton bricks that I specifically and particularly have no knowledge or the slight hint or clue of what to respond back to him. What is it that I must cluelessly say to him? What literally? I don't know at all...or do you?

"Why are you day in, day out—on every occasion and aye—fond of putting on black underwear and nothing latest and ultramodern?" As I ask him this, and note him swinging and swerving round his head back to me, I make sure and certain and positive that I switch and wheel round my head to fly the coop and skedaddle from coming face to face and eye to eye with him. And boy, do I triumph and prevail in doing this? Doubtlessly and beyond the trace of any scanty misgiving!

With my head fixated upward toward the towering and elevated ceiling above and my eyes made fast and stuck sideways in a route and track and bearing opposing and adverse Stian, I gulp and slurp saliva down my throat, thinking and questioning myself on what his feedback and counterblast to that will be. What truly and precisely? What veraciously?

"Is not my underwear and underclothing habitually and on every occasion very sensuous and kissable and beddable? We were of the same mind and opinion that things should be this way...after all, this is what you have always wished and desired for customarily, or isn't it thus? I clothing myself in assuredly and positively erotic and bedroom-arousing underwear and smalls. And I in turn get you to wear those flirtatious and titillating and naughty bras and underpants that I very much and without exception want to see you frocked and geared in. Tell me, Ragnhild. Is my raven underwear not arousing and come-hither enough to you for you to ask me that?"

I feel shabby and tattered and scruffy and frayed with myself. Damn it! Why is Stian querying and posing all of this to me? Why?

"I didn't say that, Stian," I retort and counter to him slickly and awkwardly. Of course; what better thing and deed than doing this? What else, huh? I add on, "All I made a comment on is that you are amorous and doting on putting on dark-colored underwear. Why are you so affectionate and indulgent of the color black so much, huh? Why, Stian?"

He scrapes or scratches and claws at his whiskers or mustachio at that. Goodness! What riposte and comeback am I going to receive from him? What exactly? I wonder...I am only curious and conjecturing. Dammit!

"I will respond to that only after we over and done with fucking and banging each other this betimes morning, Ragnhild. Do you understand?"

"Yes, overlord," I reply feebly and effetely. To be decent and veracious with you, I am not truly and in fact ready for this...another course and round and series of morning fuck episodes and acts...but it turns out that I have no selection and preference and pick of my own, or do I? Seemingly and apparently not so!

Who-oo-ooh! I sigh in and out, shifting and transposing about my position on the giant, bulky, and ponderous bed. Yeah. I canst not now have knowledge of how I am going to be fucked and spanked heartlessly and cruelly, or do I? Nay—I don't.

"How are we going to fuck this time around, mister?" I query and interrogate Stian whilst whirling and spinning and twirling myself smoothly and softly. I am nude and stripped starkers even right now; fully undraped and in my birthday suit. Yeah. If it were not for these coverlet rugs and bed sheets and coatings concealing and screening a great lot deal of my golden and fine-complexioned body, Stian would be by now entirely and effusively feasting his eyes and getting a load of my entire buck-naked self, don't you agree with me?

He strides and wanders toward me from the window where he is taking his stand at inchmeal pace and leisurely unhurried and sluggish; and while still tramping and stepping toward me, he notifies and briefs me, "Peel and take off those sheets away from you, Ragnhild. I wish and do definitely fancy as a matter of fact to gaze at my wife in her birthday suit and nothing else than that."

I do like I am told to; submissively and dutifully. As Stian takes a seat and perches himself next to me on the bed, still inspecting and looking over me, he stirs his hand to my vagina and pets and fingers it for a split second. In this split second, my eyes drift and roam up, my body crooning and trilling and warbling in delight and satisfaction. Yeah. Stian is lord and chief and captain at just giving me that ideal delectation and gladness and contentment and bliss that I long and pine for the most. He is so...amazing and gee-whizz and connoisseur and jaw-dropping at this.

"Shall I provide you with more of this atmosphere and feel?" He questions me while he glances and stares at me in that very sensual and erotic way and fashion. I cannot battle against not giving or surrendering in to this lechery and lust and lasciviousness that is fast bearing down and jam-squeezing itself against me. Yes. The air is all lusty and richly and flourishing and overflowing with sensuality and wantonness and thirst and appetence; and canst I do anything 'bout it? Nay!

"Yes," I murmur and speak in hushed tones to him. "Yes, Stian. Present and furnish and bestow me with more and more of this. Please do it, my love."

"Great," he says sotto voice and utters under this his breath to me. I have a weakness for his sugary, flavorsome, and lip-smacking voice. I have a preference for its well-heeled and plenteous pitch and tonality. I am obsessed and preyed on in my mind and thrown uppermost deep in my thoughts with its modulation and low-pitched volume and intonation. Aren't you as well?

I wait and pause and tarry and look forward to...the forthcoming and at hand moment when he is going to place and prop and stow his fingers into my vagina and rub and pet it what's more. Yes. I crave and long for him to do this so very much. And boy, does he accomplish and transact it? Nay—to my shock and turn-up from the books and bombshell! What is he waiting for, huh? What strictly?

He slithers and creeps onto our bed where he writhes and drags himself on all fours until he has his face stationed in the route of my clitoris and his knees and feet and arched and warped and tortuous back farther away from me. Yeah. It seems that he is going to scoff and gobble and munch and polish off my pussy and vulva and cunt with his very own mouth and tongue, or will not he?

"Stian," I wheeze and gasp out his name, getting up and making ready myself for what is to come. Tongue sex and taste sex and more of stroking sex. Will it be too nice and pleasing and lekker? Just like before? I am not absolutely sure...and so are you not certain and convinced about it, I fathom.

Arghhhh...His tongue is entombed and sepulchered deep into my vagina, brooming and sweep brushing about, flicking and stroking inside. My goodness! This is just too awe-inspiring and impressively intimidating, is not it? Why is it that he perpetually and consistently singles out and cherry-picks tickling and amusing and titillating gently my pussy-cunt with his all-too touchy and ticklish and delicate teeth? Why? I idolize and think the world of it too, I must come clean out of the closet.

As he lolls and reclines down on my bed while brushing and vacuuming and scrubbing his tongue inside my vagina, I shove and thrust myself upward-like, wholly and effusively and truly delighted and given tickle-turning-pink pleasure and bliss and contentment. What else could be better than all this? What scrupulously and unerringly?

My goodness! He is licking and lapping and clobbering me faster and too faster, grazing and stroking and fondling my rocklike, stony-akin nipples as he does so. I like the way his hands and fingers are making a move and brushing my pimples and gigantic and extensive boobies themselves. It is all too amusing and gratifying and to my liking, isn't it? It assuredly and without fail is!

"Stian," I weep and sob and wail out, all too pleased and satisfied and contented and over the moon.

"You are the sweetest thing ever that I have come to taste and relish and smack in my life," he takes a break and enjoys a breather just for a little while so he can state and assert this to me. Holy fuck! This is bliss and happiness and delectation indeed on my part and portion. If I will not croak and give up the ghost all because of it, then I by all fair means and with clean hands don't know what it is that is precisely going to take place and ensue on to me, or do you?

Who-ow-wie! In a surely dove-like and benign and mild way, Stian keeps on at beating and belting and slapping and bashing his tongue into my clitoris, initiating and whipping up in me these too sweetened and treacly feelings and sentiments and spirits that I cannot without much trouble put into words, neither can I explicate and throw light to you on what exactly and indubitably they are composed of. My body warbles and blows the sing-song and toneless whistle noiselessly and softly. I cannot breathe in or out for an instant. No, I cannot.

As Stian's hands touch and graze and brush and skim my breasts all the more faster and rapidly and hurriedly and briskly, I icen up and harden and become solid and glaciated for a while, likely and perhaps and in all probability flown and soared off my way into more superior and desirable and design and style and version of an unblemished and impeccable heaven. Yes. This is it. I am in Valhalla; I am in the Happy Valley; I am in the Elysium or Elysian fields; have you jetted and winged your way here too with me? Have you?

I seek to breathe; I make an effort at accomplishing this so very much hard and laborious; in fact, I break my neck and knock myself out over it. I can't breathe. No—I cannot! Which is an excellent and dope emblem and ensign of going through and submitting myself to that world-class and GR8 sphere and caste of orgasm. Whenever I unclose and gape wide ajar my mouth to yell and shriek that out, I find and detect no willpower and doggedness in me with which to hollo and holler this out.

The world around me blurs and becomes smoky and foggy like. Through torrenting and flash flooding tears, I catch a decrepit and effete glimpse of Stian as he slaps and wallops and bashes his tongue in and out of me, feeling and stroking and grazing my bosoms and boobies and tits with his hands the hell lot faster and quicker as he does the earlier and aforesaid. This is the greatest and most long form of big O or orgasm that I have undergone and encountered in my whole life. Ever, I mean. Holy goodness! When will it quickly and speedily resolve and dissolve back to nonbeing and nonexistence? When precisely? Of course...I cannot oppose or hold out against it anymore.

Whoops. At final last...the tongue-taste brushing and lapping thing or case is finished and ended with. It sure and without lack of conviction and irresolution is. At least for now it is. Stian has me sprawl and couch and recumbent down on our bed atop an extensive and bulky and stellar pillow, and with my hands hurled and cast and lobbed away from each other, he hurls and tosses and tilts himself on top of me, and the instant that his body comes into adjoining and within-sniffing-distance span and width from mine, I seize and nab and capture his buttocks behind which are draped and garbed and dolled up in so fleecy and velvety like a baby's bottom underwear and under-gear. I orgasm fleetingly and sigh and gasp in deeply and gravely from just that. Yes. It is so lovely and nice and lekker indeed. Don't you opinion so?

Having made a rip or slash or lance on the front or facet of his underwear either with a knife or whatever sharp razor or cutting thing it may be, Stian draws and hauls his titanic, jumbo dick and schlong, and having stretched and unbent and extended it so as to jerk and wrench and tweak and shake it about satisfactorily and hurriedly and in silence so that it topples and tips out semen and male gamete on my legs and clitoris and thighs, he points and sites the head of John Thomas on my vulnerable but keen-as-mustard Vagina who can't help but turn into a ball and chunk of sugar and honey the minute that ensues—Orgasm Number Three if I am not incorrect and in error, is it not it? Yeah; it certainly and positively and without question must be so! That is what I esteem and anticipate myself. Assuredly!

Huh! Gradually and steadily, and taking his time by leisurely degrees, Stian climaxes or ejaculates inside and outside of me, at a snail's pace and in his own good time. Whenever he sneaks and ghosts his Mr. Goliath-alike dong into me, I pant and blow my breath in, slanting and tilting down on the jumbo and yet feathery cushiony pillow underneath me. Each time that he ejects or boots out his unbendable erect penis out of me, I wheeze and heave out, getting up and straightening myself up from the pillow beneath me. Sex is way far too fantastic and five-star, don't you believe so as well?

"You are saccharine and honeyed, Ragnhild," Stian murmurs and mumbles under his breath to me, pleasantly and harmoniously and beautifully even. I do not answer him. I am dazzled; I am spellbound; I am enraptured and so beguiled that I cannot rack my brains or weigh up anything in my mind at all. "You are sweet, Ragnhild." He iterates and recapitulates this time around again, mumbling and sotto voicing more rowdily and ear-splittingly and clamorously. "You are more sweet and sugary than honey or sugar itself, my love."

Oh no! Has it come to this now? Has it?

He builds up and snowballs speed as he carries on with the fucking, pressing forward and toppling out abundantly semen into me, delighting and gratifying and tickling me pink all over. I catch and grasp and latch on toward myself all the more tighter and firmer his burly and bulky and pretty and winning and velvety and silky like bottom and arse. Arghhhh! I love and cherish and bow down to this so very much. I unquestionably and indubitably revel and delight in all this. Don't you?

Stian...Stian...Stian...my beloved, my angel, my sweetheart, my dear one, my inamorata. It is all that I can get myself ponder and cerebrate and brood on. All I can handle and preside to cogitate and rack my brains on.

Stian's buns and haunches and hindquarters shake and jiggle and wag and wiggle behind at too extensive a pace and tempo and velocity. Yeah...yah...I only and powerlessly and vulnerably prance and swing and jig and frolic and cavort and bob up and down to their tune and song and theme and music. What can frustrate and hold me back from so doing? What precisely? What can even repress and hinder and bar us from fucking and romping up each other right now? Call and name it loud and boomingly enough if you can.

Sex...is...smash...cracking...and...sensational...indeed...

At length last, Stian comes to a halt and standstill. He certainly and come what may and inevitably does. I pant; I catch my breath; I gulp; and I fight for my usual and typical and routine form of breathing. Before he makes a furthermore and into-the-bargain stir, I slap and tap and stroke his stellar, bulky, fleecy and feathery like a baby's bottom and inviting and sexy butts which are enshroud and hooded with all too pleasant and pleasurable to touch and brush underwear and underclothing.

Whilst we set foot and make an entrance into our succeeding and next round and phase of sex, Stian and I have tête-à-tête or discourse...call it chatty or colloquial or conversational reproduction if you have a preference for that...

First, he grumbles and bitches out vociferously, "These rugs or coverlets that you call blankets are bleak and chilly and biting, Ragnhild. Can you please bend over backwards so that you can reorganize and restyle and swap them for something better and more lekker and delectable?"

I heatedly and furiously fling back at him, "Why must you day in, day out kick up a fuss whenever we are having sex, Stian?"

He twitters and giggles, "I belly-aching whenever we are having sex. That is nuts and not-the-full-shilling, Ragnhild. Now do like I have commanded you!"

I grimace and knit my brows. "Sorry, overlord. But I am not making a move out of this blanket; positively not so!"

Stian gets uptight and raving with me for that, "How dare you have the balls to refute me of my officialdom and government over you, you charm and symmetry of a woman? Good. I will pull of that myself. You believe I am bedridden and incapacitated to not be qualified to do anything, right. Well, if this is what is going on in your mind, then you are absolutely and unquestionably misled and wide-off-the-mark touching me."

I contend back, wrenching him more closer and intensely tighter to myself. "You are not scaling or clambering away from me, do you hear that? You will carry that out only by means of theurgy and black art spells."

He rolls and twirls his eyes, rustling and sighing out raucously at the same time. "What would you give your eyeteeth for just for me to do, woman?"

I spin and revolve my eyes back at him, ridiculing him as I wheeze out stridently too. "Just keep on fucking me. You are not going anywhere until you wrap up to conclusion what you have started here. In fact, I won't license and flash you the green light to do whatever it is that you feel like until you have rounded off and brought to a definite conclusion this crucial, no-laughing-matter commerce and merchandising of ours."