The Death of Tammy Janeway Pt. 04

This next move was a critical part of the process. I began to drift my free hand down his abdomen towards his dick. This move tickles and arouses. It's a deflection. I have no intention of touching his dick, you understand, but he thinks I am. I'm using my fingernails to titillate his skin as I drift southward. He's going to cum as soon as I touch his dick. Both of us know this. He's preparing for it, not really wanting to, but not being able to help it if and when I do. His dick is screaming for closure. It's bouncing happily off Donnie's bellybutton. I got right up next to the danger zone and...

...I skipped past his dick to caress his nuts. Donnie lurched upward. I calmed him with my eyes. We continued to kiss. I was taking him through his sexual progressions. Nuts are vastly less sensitive than dicks. An expressive nut caress is the next best thing to the eye gaze.

Donnie reached down to finger me again. This time I didn't guide his hand. When he drew his middle finger up to his nose I knew I had him. He was learning. I needed to reward him. To this end I moved upward from his nutsac and gave his penis a double tap. The mere touch of my hand caused Donnie to blast a steaming hot stream of white, sticky jism, a veritable fountain of goo, into the stratosphere. Some of his jism splattered my shoulder and the side of my tit. Embarrassed, he mumbled an apology. I shushed him. With my eyes I told him that this was the normal and proper function of a penis. With my fingers I dabbed some jism from his stomach and drew it up to my nose. Donnie's eyes widened. In JW parlance, this was an infamita. I shushed him again and tapped his jism to my tongue. Donnie bounced up out of bed and made a beeline to the bathroom. He washed the undripped pools of semen from his torso.

When my husband returned from the bathroom I was lying on the bed, two fingers deeply embedded in my pussy, one tit embedded in my mouth. I was ready to cum. I needed his dick to put me over the top. Or his tongue.

What guy doesn't dream of this scenario?

I'll tell you what guy: Brother Donnie Samuelson.

"Tammy, we gotta talk."

Are there any more dread words in the English language? "We gotta talk". The whole phrase is rife with danger. Those three words are always the prelude to "I'm not happy" or "You make me wanna vomit" or "I have syphilis" or "My mommy wants to come live with us". Nothing good follows the phrase "We gotta talk".

Donnie sat me down and explained the inappropriateness of my sexual behavior. ALL of it. The tongue kissing, the fingering, the Not-So-Filthy Sanchez, the dick tap, the jism dab, the titty suck. None of these things were sanctioned by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society. For now, he said, he was going to overlook my improper attempts to sabotage HIS marriage with degeneracy. He said he was tired now, and needed some sleep. In the morning, he said, we would return to our honeymoon sexual rituals. And this time he would mount me missionary as God intended. And then we would consummate our marriage in a manner more commensurate with our Judeo-Christian heritage.

The next thing I knew, he was asleep.