Sex Du Juor: Porn Games

He gulps and pants out irately, "Women! What the hell is in-error and even unsound with you creatures?"

Nonetheless, to chop-hack an extensive yarn short, he carries on to fuck and fuck and fuck me...which is what I exactly and precisely feel an intimate need for right now. Hours afterwards...

I myself, twiddling and spinning my eyes in fury and a fierce fit of temper. "Why have you quit fucking me, Stian?"

He snarls and shows his knackered, ready-to-drop teeth. "I am dead beat and zonked to near curtains, Ragnhild. I noticed and observed that you were so hushed and still, with your eyes shut and fastened close, and I was starting to hold out and believe that you were already in sleep and slumber."

I roll in the aisles momentarily. "I can never take a nap in the course of sex and not ever wake up, Stian. Now stick on to our trading. I am not yet filled and appeased. Keep up with the fucking and cum-pumping."

He laments, "I am so spent and done in, Ragnhild. I can't stick on with this. Please understand me."

I glare and frown at him. Loudly bellowing: "That is the most brain-dead and doltish thing that I have ever heard. Are you not more of a sterling, original, Herculean and stout man rather than being less of an ass jerk and nincompoop. Don't let me down, Stian. Don't fail me please."

He concurs reluctantly: "I will try, Ragnhild. But I am not pledging and avowing you anything. Not a word or any slight utterance whatsoever."

Minutes thereafter...

I myself, seeming very occupied and tireless with the love-making underneath the somewhat frosty blankets, can rarely feel the cold at all. Maybe it is because Stian's body is pressed on top of mine, balmy and yet shuddering from chills. I call smoothly nice, "Stian."

He replies straight away, "Yes, Ragnhild."

I tell him, "I want to 'fess up something. Would you not take offence at it?"

His tone is so sickly and effete. It is now mid-noon, I imagine, following a whole morning of fucking and screwing and hammering each other in our bed. "What is it?"

I spill the beans to him, "You primarily say that I have insomnia nowadays. It is not insomnia actually. I can't sleep until past midnight due to the function and work of some sleep-bereaving pills that I took a couple days ago. They cease to be in operation only after three full weeks have slipped by. Purporting that for at least an estimated twenty-one days, we will barely be sleep except for fucking and humping all the way through."

The screwing or sexual intercourse or going-to-bed intimacy or shag fucking that Stian presents and supplies and bestows unto me is just mind sweeping and buffeting and blasting all in all. He is the lord of fucking and screwing; the skipper or captain or overseer of any sex co-allied sport or game or recreation. He certainly and absolutely and positively and come hell or high water is. In my opinion and judgment and way of thinking, no one fucks or nails the pussy and cunt or humps and bonks and shags off far better than he does, or is there a different and variant baas and lord and governor and head of sex out there? Is there? I by fair means and with clean hands don't frankly and genuinely know...and I don't plainly and frankly believe and conceive that there is a most outstanding and cracking pussy and ass fucker than him—or is there verily? At any rate, don't take my word as the truthful and conscientious and virtuous credo and verity. Don't do so...please don't! I may be spot-on and authentically unerring; or I might be erroneous and inexact. That is just the way and style and manner it is.

Phew! This very same afternoon, after gobbling and polishing off and scoffing to completeness an in-fine-fettle and in-the-pink and blooming-as-a-fiddle solid and substantial and profuse meal that I cook up and prepare and dress on our bed on timber and planks composed trays, Stian falls asleep acutely and to the core slumbers and dozes and zizzes off. Yeah. As I cannot easily and without facing and suffering much can of worms drop off to sleep, I in silence and calmly eyeball and take a recce at him as he relishes and takes pleasure in his sleep.

The later day...

Stian Elberd has made tracks off to work hours back; but I long to see him anew and even ache for him like I have last caught a glimpse of him in centuries. Perchance I have; perhaps I have not. As I ensconce myself in the pale gray divan at our still and hushed home, with nothing more than to work out and bear on myself, I take hold of my cell that is lodged on a pint-sized slab counter adjacent to me, and snatch it leisurely and unhurriedly so that I can make use of it in forwarding and mailing the ensuing SMS to him.

My vagina is regretting the absence of your John Thomas. She cannot tolerate his absenteeism.

In just forty undeviating seconds, he echoes back.

John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy right now. He does not want to be interfered and pestered with. Sweetened, dearest Vagina better find something else to execute. You can practice self-abuse or onanism with her if you crave to.

I am so mystified and flummoxed I can't find any comfort or restfulness in myself.

What do you hint at by saying that John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy? Is he having fun with another Vagina Number Two right now?

Stian is edgy and cantankerous just as much as I am.

That is not what I had in mind, Ragnhild, when I composed my not-long-past text to you. John Thomas is engrossed deep into forty winks or beauty sleep in my Dolce and Gabana underclothing or underwear right now. Why do you want to rouse him from his zizz. Is that not what you purpose to do? Is that not it?

I chuckle and snigger to myself at poring over Stian's all-singing and latest text. Fuck him to hell!

I want John Thomas to bestir from his dormancy and snooze, you hear? Vagina is all pissed off and outcast and lonesome and companionless here. I connote that it is not reasonable and justly fair, or is it? You must school and coach John Thomas not to be sleepy and drowsy and work-shy, for the most part in broad sunlight like this. Daylight hours are for labor and sweat and night hours are for shuteye and repose. If John Thomas desires slumber, he can access and acquire it no more than in the night hours. Do you get that?

I am curious and nosy-parkering on what Stian's riposte to that will be. Like I do not forecast and think likely, I am unbearably and terribly awe-shocked and rude-awakened and blow-staggered by the mode and course-of-action that he utilizes to riposte back to me.

Excellent! You have triumphed and prevailed, Ragnhild. John Thomas is at long last roused from his sleep and bed. Now what do you have to pull off with him. What now?

Phew. At long last I have smash hit the jackpot and couped up the Sexually Whipping-up bonsela or trophy. Yuppie! Now the grand stroke and feat begins, must not it commence? I certainly and categorically surmise and presume so myself.

I want to suck and slurp and up and quaff him with my lips first. After that, I am going to grab the lollipop that I am gripping and clasping in my hands now, and after stroking and caressing it on John Thomas so that he slops out and tips over a great deal of scorching and scalding hot scum on it, I am going to chew and much the lollipop itself inside my merry and jubilant mouth until I am so sweltering and sultry even as your jissom itself is.

Stian is short-winded and out of breath all because of this. His feedback insinuates it. I suppose so.

Fabulous! That is amazingly brilliant cracking. My goodness...John Thomas is about to let out the aboil, piping hot jissom. Nab and capture it on your lollipop, will you, Ragnhild?

I take a deeply and heart felt breath, pivoting and gyrating and wheeling my eyes as I do so.

I am all set and in readiness, Stian. Notify that to John Thomas, will you please?

He blusters and spouts out back without hesitation.

HERE I COME, RAGNHILD! OOHHHH! TAKE ALL OF THIS JISSOM FROM JOHN THOMAS IF YOU CAN...NAB IT ALL, SWEETY!

And I work out just that...