Thumb Times Two

A Hopefully Humorous Study in Synonyms with Abundant Alliteration and Catty Commentary [In Brackets]

© 2019 by Victor Cabana

The poem [Can a limerick qualify as poetry? Is "good limerick" oxymoronic?], as he delivered it.

I know you're not feeling so sexy,
Not even when I go all flexy.
But still I crave you,
And so want to screw.
I can't help but get all erectsy.

So what, might I ask, should I do,
When your choice is sex to eschew?
I could stroke my thing,
All juice from it wring,
Remembering hot times with you.

Or you could relieve my distress,
A quickie or penile caress.
With YOU sex is best,
It adds so much zest,
When my cock you wholly possess.

But I'd rather not be a jerk,
Demanding from you handiwork.
So please let me know,
Which way I should go.
My query I hope doesn't irk.

***

At bedtime she was torn, in the throes of a dilemma.

Sure, she loved him. They'd been married seventeen years, he was a good man, a great father, a considerate lover, and the little poem he'd written that day was amusing. Totally him. Also, she had to admit that his contention that it was her mood that determined the extent of their amorous activity -- if and when sex occurred -- was actually accurate. And that they really hadn't had a sex life lately. However, the basic message was that if she was not into sex at the moment and he was, she should just get him off. He'd tried to say it cutely, but...

Really?

What was he thinking? Or rather, what part [We all know what part, don't we?] of him was doing the thinking?

First, he should have known by now that she did not appreciate being told what to do. By anyone. About anything. He also had evidently totally forgotten she was a feminist. How could it not occur to him that suggesting that she just "service" him might be at least a trifle offensive, might raise her hackles? And then, in essence, to state that if she didn't "do" him, he'd just jerk off. She'd been tempted to tell the jerk off! But another thought came to her, right at bedtime, decision time for her. He had preceded her to bed and was reading, obviously, pathetically, hopeful. Her idea became a plan.

When she got under the covers beside him and didn't read or do her usual crossword puzzle (they WERE a middle aged married couple, after all), instead just turned off the light, he quickly -- oh God, how transparent! -- did the same with his. She lay there a moment on her back while her plan took final form. Images of tables turning, flipping mid-air, flitted through her mind. She slid over and lay on her side facing him. Oh-so-predictably he turned towards her.

Her left hand reached out, pulled down the covers, traced down his stomach, and found his...

Well, what term to use? Member [A word with so many meanings] would work if we want to be coy, but in this case it would more accurately be described as his noodle [Not a top tier term]. That was surprising -- though he was purportedly horribly horny and earnestly eager (thus the limerick) -- he didn't even have an erection [Pretty clinical].

Well, she took care of that. She knew his buttons and pushed a few. After a minute or so of facile fondling, his pole [Not bad] was standing up, tall and taut.

She continued her penile [Hmm. One wonders if a cock cage is a penile institution?] massage and frankly enjoyed how he [Interesting: equating his penis with him. Do we suppose he ever does that?] grew stiffer and more engorged in her hand as she stroked him. Her fingers wrapped around his woody [Good one, but watch out for splinters.], keeping it in place, while she started running her thumb up and down the underside of his rod [Another good one. Was it a hotrod?] just where the shaft [Remember the movie? Samuel L. Jackson was so hot...] met the head.

From previous experience she knew that he was most sensitive there and she was soon getting the reaction she had anticipated. She relished how just that very gentle, short and light movement of her thumb began to cause him to catch his breath and brought little drops of clear fluid to the tip of his thing [Generic, but effective]. She savored how his Johnson [Bring on the names!] would jerk in her hand as his little catches continued. All from the action of her talented little thumb. How easy he was!

She was amused, and not at all displeased, when his breath catches became little gasps. And the small pulsations of his cock [Oh yeah, bring on the loaded words!] became actual throbs, where she could feel his tool [Nice; perhaps there might be a toolbox?] repeatedly get sudden injections of blood and engorge further in her fingers. She made sure to keep her thumb strokes light, regular, and unhurried, though.

From his rapid, shallow breathing she knew he was getting close. Still, she did not speed up her motions, increase their length, or intensify the pressure. He'd wanted this, he'd asked for it, but she was going to do it her way, according to her plan. Nor did she alter her strokes in the slightest when he began to emit little moans and his hips and buttocks began to tighten rhythmically, thrusting his manhood [Really?] forward, in essence trying to fuck her thumb. Imagine: trying to fuck her cute little thumb!

His moaning, jerking, twitching and thrusting became more and more intense, obviously well beyond his meager control. He was completely in her sway, dare I say under her thumb?

Then with a gasp his body tensed and jerked, and he [When a man thinks with his cock, IS he his cock?] began shooting out his stuff. She could feel the contractions in his manroot [I've read this often; is it even a word?] as the fluid was rhythmically ejected. Still she did not alter her pace and felt his schlong [Yiddish? Why not?] surrender to her rhythm, to try to distend and ejaculate anew each time her thumb passed over his spot. How many times did it shoot? Who was counting? Maybe he was, after all, this is what he wanted, wasn't it?

But now it was time for the second part of her plan. When his gasps became just sharp inhalations, and his prick [We've been waiting for this one, haven't we?] went back to just twitching with each thumbing, she quickly removed her hand. He probably thought they were done for the night. Silly boy.

She scooped up a dram of his fluid off the sheet -- he seemed to have spilled quite a bit -- and spread it all over the head of his phallus [Oooooh! Nice; hearkens back to ancient Greece.]. Then she wrapped her fingers around him and began her slow, easy thrumming, thumbing him once again, using his cum as lube.

She heard his sigh. She knew that, based on the entirety of their past sex life, he felt he was done, at least for quite a time, entering the so-called refractory period. The chemicals just released in his brain by his orgasm told him sex was now uninteresting, that it was time to sleep. Her plan was to experiment, to test whether chemistry was destiny. In the past after coming he'd soon lost his tumescence [Very nice]. Did he have to? Well, she'd find out, wouldn't she?

For a time she worried that maybe he was right, that he would soon become flaccid as always before. But she kept at her task, making slow, light, steady strokes across his hypersensitive locus. He'd wanted this, so she was giving it to him. In spades. She smiled smugly when she noticed that he began wincing just a bit as the ball of her thumb slid smoothly [I do like alliteration, in case you haven't noticed.] over his spot. He'd once said that his penis [How clinical!] was very sensitive after coming. She was counting on it.

His joystick [The worst!] didn't noodle [Fun! How many of these words can be both nouns and verbs?], though, as her thumb drive continued. His pecker [Not my favorite; seems avian.], stayed firm and full in her hand and soon grew more rigid. She just kept up the small, unhurried stroking of his boner [A pre-teen term, but quite descriptive].

Before too long he began following the same progression as before: breath catches and pulsations; little gasps and surges; shallow, rapid breathing accompanied by fucking action in his hips; then finally major gasping and pulsations as his meaty man missile [What can I say? Alliteration is always good.] ejaculated, again and again, obeying her digit's directives [Given the opportunity, always alliterate.] and shooting each time she thumbed its trigger.

As she continued milking him, stroking his stiffy [There are worse terms], draining his dingus [Questionable, but nice alliterations], she felt his head lie down on her shoulder, his mind blown by what he had never imagined possible. He surrendered to her, just as his dick [Another name] had succumbed to her thumb.

It soon seemed as though his weapon [Well, she did pull its trigger repeatedly] was just shooting blanks. When her thumb dictated that it should ejaculate again, his prong [Rhymes with dong, doesn't it?] would tighten, distend, and spasm, but nothing would be ejected. There was no more semen left in his balls. His head remained tucked into her shoulder as his middle leg [Really? Why not another name -- Peter, or Roger?] wilted in her grasp, when he finally had no more cum to eject. She assumed that his love torpedo [Scraping the bottom of the barrel now] would be drained for days (certainly that was her intention, the essence of her plan), and that his obsession with sex would abate enough that she could have a day or two of peace. Time would tell.

As it turned out what she had done made such an impression that he lay awake for hours listening to her breathing, in wonder, his purple-helmeted manflesh [I'm a trifle ashamed of this one. No, actually I'm not.], erect, throbbing, tingling [Can alliteration be only visual?], and eager for more.

When his hose [Not bad; another noun -- verb possibility] lay limp [Alliteration alert!] in her fingers she gave it a final little squeeze, and he jerked and caught his breath again, the sweetie. Then she released it [Maybe once thoroughly drained it is no longer him?], kissed his forehead where it was still tucked into her shoulder, then lay back.

As she drifted off to blissful slumber she congratulated herself on her decision to roll over to him before starting. The mess he'd made was on his side of the bed, not hers. She dropped off to sleep with a sly, satisfied smile [Alert! Alert!] on her lips. While he lay wide awake, his tingling Priapus [Did I save the best for last?] magically once again erect and throbbing, remembering, missing her thumb. Times two.