An adult stories – Friday Night Pt. 02 by KevinTheEngineer,KevinTheEngineer This is put together from extracts from my diary and a cut-and-paste from Facebook. Don’t expect it to make too much sense timeline-wise; if I wrote that something happened yesterday, it could have been three years ago.
A stiff dose of reality
If you believed and liked everything my wannabe cucky husband wrote in his diary, you probably won’t like this, so it’s best you just naff off now!
Firstly, I don’t have a small army of lovers with huge cocks pumping gallons of cum into me every Friday night. Nor are there any with small cocks. In fact, boring bitch that I am, I have never had a cock other than my sick puppy husband in me! He took my cherry before we were married, and he remains my only lover.
Lover is a relative term these days. I haven’t had a good fucking for three years. I’m sorry to say it’s getting less and less. It’s my own fault to a certain extent; I allowed his sick fantasies to become our norm.
My inaccurately reported raunchy Friday nights out were spent in the main hall of what used to be the miners welfare club in our village. I don’t even get to dance; Friday night is bingo night with the old, well-past-it girls and a few shagged-out men who haven’t succumbed to black lung yet.
I’ve decided that tonight all that shit ends; it’s Friday, and my sick in the head man is taking me out. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming, he is going to see what a crushingly boring five or six hours he puts me through every Friday night.
In the future, I don’t mind what we do as long as it doesn’t involve cornflour felt-tipped pens and two little fucking ducks. Personally, I’d prefer to stay in and shag, then we can go out on Saturday instead. In the same place, every Saturday there is a live band and a DJ who both play 50s to 80s music. Both fill the dance floor. Tonight, though, the bastard is going to suffer an awful fate for a man. Much worse than castration with a blunt spoon: miners’ welfare bingo. If you have no experience with this, I can promise you, it’s dire.
I’ve told him if he needs me to be his Dome, I’ll happily spank him. I actually enjoy that as long as Fanny gets a good stiff poking after. I’ll very happily wear the kind of clothes he goes on about in his sick fantasies. All he needs to do is get his very short arms to the bottoms of his very deep pockets and buy me some. He is a tight-fisted bastard.
If he leaves a thick, sticky deposit in my love slit, he can eat that if he wants to. I’ll even pretend I enjoy it. The cost to him per night is a few dances, a bag of crisps, and ten quid’s worth of Gin and Tonic. You have to admit, I’m a cheap fuck, and everyone says I look good for my age!
I’d leave the idiot but for one very important consideration. I love the twisted fucker to bits; I always have and always will. He floats my boat; he took my cherry on the roof of the bike sheds when we were in our last year at school. Actually, I dragged him up there and gave it to him on a stick for his sixteenth birthday.
He claimed he had fucked hundreds, but that was all bollocks. He was just as clueless as me. He was hot, though, sadly, at school I was not. I just didn’t have tits then, not even fried eggs. I grew my hair down to my arse to show everyone I was a girl.
My mum, still my best friend today, knew how self-conscious I was about my plank-like chest. She bought me padded bras and inserts and held me when I cried about my sunburnt feet. Nothing to cast a shadow over them, see!
My friends at school still called me BB, the boobless beast. I thought I was adopted; my mum has a rack like Raquel Welch. Mum said hers didn’t appear until she was pregnant with me. I didn’t believe her. I thought I had a bright future as the principle boy in the theatre.
When my man eventually got me up the duff with our first daughter, the tit fairy finally visited, complete with her magic tit wand. I was three months gone; the fucking bitch must have battered me black and blue with it. I thought I was going to have to get a scaffolder in for the next six months.
I went from an A cup, where most of the space was cotton wool, to an F, a fucking F cup, for god’s sake. My man thought he had died and gone to heaven. I was taking painkillers for the backache until mum sorted me out. She had to make my maternity bras for me. I couldn’t buy any big enough. A year later, when my milk dried up, I was left with a pair of hooters that entered a room three steps ahead of me. Sicko loves them, so at least that’s some compensation for never being able to find a dress in a charity shop. He calls me his dead heat in a Zeppelin race.
The Big Night
On the bed are one of my underwear sets, suspenders, frilly knickers, and a bra. My Little Black Dress, just long enough for me to wear my stockings with a pair of oh-so-shiny black “fuck me bandy” stilettos I don’t have all that sexy stuff he says I have. No leather or latex corsets; no lace-up thigh boots, chance would be a fine thing.
Neither have I ever invited anyone back to our house to fuck me. If I ever do, it will be quite some time after I bury the sick fucker, if at all. I do love him; no fuck that, 20 years on, my girls have both left home, and I’m still besotted with him.
Next to my stuff are his tee shirt, jeans, and smelly trainers. I’ll work on the clothes when I’ve broken him of this self-loathing shit. I am–no, strike that, we are going to get our life back.
After Laura, my second baby arrived, kicking and screaming, but he couldn’t get me up the duff again. That was due to a sports injury; some bastard kicked him in the nuts when he played rugby for the pit team. He only has one that works at all, and not as well as it should; the other one is made of rubber. If I ever find out who kicked him, I’ll stab the bastard.
My poor, sick puppy has a low sperm count now. The blue line refuses to appear on the test strip. I would have liked a boy, but it wasn’t to be. My two girls are enough. They have to be, don’t they? I’ve told both of them I’ll disown them if they don’t give me a couple of grandsons. I’ve got a friend from school; poor cow, she can’t have any!
The compensation should be a proper fuckfest every weekend where my fanny gets seven pints of muff juice pounded out of it. To be replaced by seven pints of his man’s milk. Not me making up yet another batch of fake man cum. I’m spending far too much of my housekeeping money on natural yoghurt and cornflour and sticking it up my prat and chocolate starfish. It’s ruining my icing bag, and I had to buy a new piping nozzle. I couldn’t bear to use it for cake making knowing where it’s been.
The crazy thing is that while he ain’t porn star dimensions in the trouser department, it is over 7 inches long and thicker than my vacuum cleaner hose. I literally shat myself the first time he put it inside me, up on the bike shed roof. It doesn’t hurt now, except if he is in too much of a hurry to put it in my brownie. I want it back where it belongs, rammed hard up my baby chute! It’s not asking too much, is it?
Changes
When I told him that for the last year or so he has eaten lots of cornflower and natural yoghurt out of my chuff, he didn’t like it much. You should have seen his face when he told me he could taste the difference between a black man’s cum and a white man’s cum.
“It’s a drip or two of reggae reggae sauce, you fuckwitt;” I yelled at him. I’ve never even seen a black willy in the flesh, never mind emptied one. That completely took the wind out of his sails.
I dragged him to the club last Friday evening. Just so he could see what he has put me through for the last two years! He wanted to go to the tap room after two games of bingo.
No, you’re fucking not; you can stay here and suffer like I’ve done for the last three years. I’ve got a good mind to leave you here to mark all the cards while I go off to flirt with your friends. There isn’t one of them in the bar room who wouldn’t stab my clam if I gave them half a chance. Even the old gasping fuckers in here are always trying to grope my papps. But silly daft whore me wants you and only you, you dopy great pillock.
I made him sit through another two bingo cards, then gave the rest to old Elsie, a bingo special forces warrior who can mark a dozen cards at once. If she had a line or a house on mine, she would weigh me in with half the winnings. Then I took my man to the bar and made him buy me a gin and tonic or six while his friends got a feel of my tits while he pretended he wasn’t looking. I’m not really a slut; well, I am. I’m a one-man slut, but I like to fool around with his friends. That is the keeping my clothes on kind of fooling around. They all played rugby with him. They all know the rules; my friends are their wives.
When we got home, the poor fecker was bewildered again; he couldn’t believe it. I even showed him how I made the fake cum. It’s easy; there is a girl on YouTube who shows you how it’s done. I played him the clip.
Just for good measure, I made him take me back to the welfare the next evening as well. There was a rhythm and blues band on. They were good, and we both remembered how to jive. There is a real top quality sprung dance floor at the welfare. He enjoyed himself, and so did I. I didn’t have to make him put his hand in his pocket once; he kept my G&Ts flowing all night long without a word from me.
I was as randy as a rabbit and a bit pissed when we got home, and so was he, but the strange thing was, he came home with a canoe in his pocket. For the first time in absolutely ages, I got my little arse screwed off. Three times he fucked me–three fucking times–it was like being eighteen again.
On the last one, he ploughed my little furrow for an hour. I was so sore in the morning, it was untrue. I didn’t complain, though; I squirted a whole tube of Canesten Cream up my prat. I prayed that my swelling would go down before his came back up again.
I’ve found my man again. If it’s possible, I love him even more. I’ve also found out I’m the one who has to do all the running and interpret what he asks for into what he really wants.
Much later, with help from two women who really understand men, which I know I never will, it finally dawned on me that he was trying to give me permission to get pregnant again. What a fucking stupid twat he is. I finally ended this cuckold thing by screaming at him, I don’t just want a baby; I want your fucking baby, you imbecile. I think that was the point he accepted we weren’t going to have a baby boy. He has a little boo hoo on my boobs that night. I lay awake holding on to him all night long.
Two days later I had to go to a police station three villages away to bail the stupid bastard out of the cells. I was told he walked into a boozer, straight up to a guy at the bar and beat the ever loving shit out of him. I was seething with him.
A day later the guy dropped the charges and everyone in the pub claimed, when the old Bill asked, they were in the toilet. The landlord said he was in the cellar changing a barrel.
I was still seething when two of our local coppers came round a day or two later. One of them was a Sargent hubby knew from way-back. He said you were heard to say to the victim, that’s for my son. When my man growled at him I haven’t got a son have I! The elder copper’s face fell a mile when it all dropped into place for him.
He said to the younger I think its time for us to leave these good people in peace now. At the door as I was seeing them out I politely asked for the poor man’s name. I wanted to thank him for dropping the charges.
I didn’t know, my man was stood behind me. As the sergeant turned to say something hubby butted in, for fuck sake don’t tell her. She will cut his nuts off and laugh while the bastard bleeds to death.
I had another sleepless night that night just holding my man in bed. Ive never seen him cry before, I hope to god I never see him cry again. My hubby ain’t so daft after all is he?
So now we play games. I play games with him. I’m beginning to realise that the other thing behind the cucking business is the fact that he is a total sexually submissive slut. Its taken me well over twenty years to realise this! And I call him a fuckwit!
I can live with that; you may guess from my tone that I’m a gobby, bossy cow. If my fanny gets pumped full of his man milk on a regular basis, I’ll positively encourage it. I had him a little worried last week. It’s his own fault though; the novelty of getting thoroughly rogered again five or six times a week has worn off, and I found myself hankering for a bit of variation.
As well as having his very adequate cock in my snatch, I love having my bits licked as well. He wasn’t spending sufficient time down there inspecting the coal face. Well, I didn’t think he was, and wifey gets what wifey wants these days. So I told him to get the bench ready. He was under no illusion; this night was for me; he didn’t even warrant a second thought.
His chastity tube, his idea, don’t forget, not mine, went in the dishwasher that morning when he was at work. As soon as he got home, I gave it to him. I told him to shower and then report to his mistress for locking and a well overdue spanking. If you shake the fucker more than three times after you piss I’m going to consider that wanking then your fucked boy, Do you understand?
He had to come downstairs with his nuts in the keeper ring, but he couldn’t get the tube on because he had a hard on. There is a bag of frozen peas in the kitchen freezer. It’s been there since Thatcher was in power. Two minutes with that wrapped around his tackle He winged like a five-year-old who isn’t allowed sweets; I laughed at him. I suppose it always frees my inner cruel bitch. I laughed as I clicked the lock shut and hung the key in the valley of sperm death.
I sat him down for his dinner, just the first course, he had a large, very leisurely helping of my little prawn cocktail. It’s a secret recipe only one prawn but lots of lady sauce
Then I cuffed him and had him naked on his knees just licking my axe wound while I read a book. Well, I read the first line about 500 times, and I still have no idea what the fuck it’s about.
He has a thing for a bald fanny. Preparing for the day, I bought a complete home waxing kit for Fanny. To be honest, she didn’t like it much or the tweezers after. Ripping out clumps of muff pubes isn’t my idea of fun.
I have to say though, when I finished, my little damp, sexy slit looked so good and I’d have kissed it myself if I could reach it. It was very worth it; the look on his face as I held him by his hair prior to letting him start was a picture.
I suppose now that I appear to be killing the cuck thing off, I’ve got a very nice fun bar and a lovely, talented tongue to play with. To begin, I held him with his nose pressed into me. I have a nasty little riding crop. I bought it from a riding stable when I went for horse riding lessons in the boring cuckold years. All he was allowed to do for an hour was sniff my juicy quim and lick my soft, shiny lips.
I had a very gentle, slow-burning orgasm while he did this. It took a long time, and sadly it fucked his knees up for dancing that weekend. I’ll have to make him a nice cushion to kneel on because, as sure as eggs is eggs, it’s happening again. I don’t think he was aware of my orgasm; I didn’t scream and shout or try to rub the nose off his face while it was happening. Secret little orgasms–it’s good to be a girl.
I think I have a pretty twat; even after my two girls, it’s nice and tight and neat. It doesn’t look like a doner kebab some drunk has dropped and then trodden on. I’m afraid I’m going to have to raid our holiday fund, though! Waxing beats shaving into the ground, but it still grows back. I’ve had a test patch done now; electrolysis is the way forward for this girl and her little hairless honeypot.
If he tried to put his tongue inside me to hurry it along, he got six really good cuts with the crop. I doubled that when he tried to get my clit out to play before I was ready.
I said I wasn’t doing this for revenge, but I knew I was. He had hurt me with his stupid hot wife fantasies, I knew why now, he was due a bit of leniency and I figured if I kept a lid on it and didn’t get too outrageous, I was good to go for a few of thease. And I’m not kidding; he does love eating my prat.
His little man wasn’t enjoying himself in its little prison at all, and little girl, oh yes, there is definitely a little girl in this story, was having the time of her life. The little man did get to enjoy himself eventually.
New Stuff
My sick fucker’s favourite way to cum is a titty wank. Until the day I waxed my fanny, I didn’t like doing it much. As I said, I love him, so I do things I don’t like if I know he wants something. I read stories about women cuming giving their men one. How the fuck does that work? The tit fairy didn’t supply me with a valley full of nerve endings!
However, I’d just had my puss worshipped, and I do mean worshipped for hours. Well, it felt like that. Fanny was tingling, and I thought, “What the fuck, give the boy a treat; he deserves a lot more than a hand job for that. I lathered my puppies in KY jelly and unlocked his tube. It hurt the poor bastard getting it off because he was so hard.
I pushed my boobs together around his cock; Squeezed, lifted them once so his nob head disappeared, let them fall, his nob head reappear firing. He squealed like a girl. I don’t remember him cuming like that ever. Not even when he was 18. It was everywhere–ropes and ropes of his jizz, in my eyes, in my hair, and some went up my nose. He got a facial, and I got a facial. A big blob dripped off my nose onto my tits. His stuff sticks to everything, like shit on an army blanket I was on the floor, rolling around with laughter, tears were running down my face. My belly hurt because I laughed so much. “Man, have you no self-control at all,” as I said? He started to get a bit shy and self-conscious about it and started apologising.
I cut that shit out by licking every drop I could get my tongue to. Then he cleaned my face with his tongue. Fuck it was good, It’s not replaced shagging; tit-wank never will; for me, nothing will. There is still nothing better for me than my big, strong man wrapping me in his arms, holding me tight so I can’t escape him, and then rogering me until I’m sore.
Tit wank, It’s just another arrow in our quiver. We were learning stuff we should have known about each other years ago. He nearly changed everything the day he licked my arse. I very nearly left the planet, and he realised very quickly that for whatever reason my poop chute exit is extremely sensitive after he has kissed and licked my pussy lips for a couple of hours. Yes, it went fairly rapidly to a couple of hours when I realised he’d happily camp out for a week there if someone brought him a cup of tea once in a while.
I don’t know for sure yet; I need to work out how to control it, but he may get another fantasy played out by getting his pole in my brown hole a bit more often as a reward for a bit of extreme cunt and arse licking.
I think his record before I detected boredom creeping in was a couple of minutes over three hours. I keep it to two or so hours now. I started to get a bit lost in it after that. The thing about being in control is that you need to stay in control.
We are now finding out things about ourseles we should have known years ago. It came as a surprise to me to find I was a bit of a natural dominatrix. Sometimes I can be as big a fuckwit as he is.
Every significant point in our relationship has been decided by me. Getting a simple yes out of him is like squeezing blood from a stone. What makes it even more difficult for me is that he was born with a major disability. The prick cannot say no, well not to me anyway.
I think the most often-used word in his vocabulary is “perhaps,” closely followed by “maybe.” Sometimes I could scream at him. Now I realise how he agonises over the simplest decision. I’ve made it easy for him; I just tell him what he thinks. It sounds a bit dictatorial, and I suppose it is. He is happier, and so am I. It’s a victimless crime.
A good example is the holiday booking season. When our girls were living at home with us, the annual divorce in an envelope was when the holiday brochures arrived. My youngest was eleven when she threw the pile on the floor and shouted, “For fucks sake, mum, just tell him where we are going.
I’d never heard either of my babies swear before. I picked up one brochure, which fell open, for a hotel in Lanzarote. Now, I said, book us two rooms for a fortnight there, I gave him my very best death ray glare. I don’t give a fuck if it does cost more; we are flying from Manchester, not fucking the arsehole of the south, Luton. Do I make myself clear?
I was fucking angry, angry that his eternal dithering had drawn the first curse from my baby–well, the first I heard anyway. Truthfully, she has learned a lot more bad words from me than she will ever learn from her dad.
We had quite possibly our second-best holiday ever there. Next year, I binned all the brochures after I had made my choice. “Ooh, but darling, we always.” I cut him off with a “don’t you fucking dare sunshine.” That was the first “yes dear” I remember him using. That one was Turkey; I think that was the third best holiday.
Back To Sex
It took a bit of experimentation for me to realise the Labia-licking orgasm was, as the Americans say, stealing first base. If you are a Brit reading this and don’t understand that, watch the film 42.
A tongue up your bum is walking to home plate while you wave at the crowd after you smacked the shit out of the ball and hit it out of the ground. A proper fucking is an “All Bases Loaded Grand Slam!”
Our best holiday was two months in the States with our American friends. I love baseball; it’s an entire family day out. You can dip in and out of it all day long, or you can get scorecards and analyse team, player, coach, or batboy performance. Even the girls loved it. The gridiron football we saw last time we went is as boring as a bucket full of cold piss! Its cold in Maine where our friends live I won’t be going there in the winter again!
He is sensitive to my needs! Yes, I was gobsmacked too. I’m pretty sure the only time I use the crop on him now is when he deliberately provokes its use. I suppose I’m a bit naive; I’m not one of the bull whip bitches. I do love having him scream into a big, fat cock gag while I run a pinwheel around his cock head. I’m getting very good with rope as well.
Overall, I’m losing the naivety and getting better. I’ve found a group of dominant wives on a private Facebook forum. It’s a little chat group. One or two are complete imbeciles, and I don’t think they have ever had a cock in their fun box in their entire lives. All the others on there are good, helpful, funny, and just like me, a bunch of dirty, slutty bitches. I’ve just stopped lurking and made a post or two of my own.
I’ve made a friend with one of them; her name is Seph, which is short for Persephone. She doesn’t live a million miles away. We’ve met halfway for coffee a few times now. To be honest, she isn’t much more experienced than me, but we can bounce ideas off each other.
She told me the first time we met that she thinks I should try spanking him. I know if I ask him, he will say yes, whether he loves or loathes the idea. Seph has an advantage over me. Up to a point, her boy will actually tell her what he likes and dislikes, but sometimes she knows he will say yes when he means no.
She says she uses the wank test to confirm. Yes, I was nonplussed as well. The wank test is to see how high his spunk flies after you try something new on him. Nothing has beaten a tit wank yet; nothing has come close, but it’s a good indicator.
The second time we met for coffee, she bought me a present. A red rubber paddle. I’d told her that a pre-sex spanking improved the wank test, but his arse is tougher than my hand. I was a bit nervous about using tools, and she laughed at me. What about your riding crop? You told me on WhatsApp that he provokes you into using it. After using the paddle to turn his bum cheeks pink, he hit the ceiling fan on the wank test in the spare bedroom, where we play now.
She wants me to PM another woman in the group; apparently, she is a whiz on computers and specialises in finding things out.
Gilla, thank God for Facebook.
I ummed and erred so long that Seph called Gilla, the other woman, and asked her to contact me. So one day I fired up our desktop, and there was a friend request from Gilla Randall on my Facebook page. Seph had warned me it was coming, so I accepted it, and within seconds I had the little wavy bubbles to tell me someone was typing.
Hi Gillian, Seph tells me you need some help.
Yes, I’m at a bit of a loss.
Tell me about it.
I want to take over our sex life. Well, I have taken over our sex life, or I’m trying to.
So, what is stopping you? Just a second, let me guess; he won’t tell you what he likes.
That’s right, Gilla. Is it common for men to be like that?
Most submissive men are ashamed of themselves for some reason or another. Mostly, there is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s quite common. Look at his computer.
I can’t; I don’t know his password, and I don’t want him to think I’m snooping.
Can you start his computer and get online?
Yes, it’s easy; it’s the one I’m on now.
Send me an email at the following email address: gillarandall@********.com. If you want to find out what he looks at, As soon as it’s up and running, I’ll give you admin rights and tell you how to block me so I can’t see your or his stuff.
What will you do?
I have an app I can load on your computer. Only you will be able to see it, not him. Every time someone on that computer visits a page, it sends the web address to you. If you don’t mind him watching porn and you want to know what he watches, that’s great. Most of my Dome friends use it. We have to cheat to be the supremely dominant sexual goddess our snivelling dogs want us to be. Trust me, girl, it’s the only way. If you do use it, sooner or later, you have to tell him. Secrets will bite you on the arse.
He’s not a snivel—–
Gilla interrupted. None of them are really; my Will served for years in the SAS.
You need to give him a good time, then tell him. Ask if you can keep it. Tell him that if he lets you, there will be more happy times. Tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how well do you know what’s going on in his mind?
I’d say seven out of ten.
Wow, that sounds honest. Most women think they know ten out of ten. I study Will. I analyse everything about him. I think I know nine out of ten.
What do I put in the email?
Anything doesn’t matter. I’ll send a link; you click on it, then click on accept,” and you start getting emails. If he has his history set to a month, you will immediately get a month of his browsing history. It’s up to you how long you keep it. My best friend Grace keeps it on all the time to see what her Kelvin is up to. It’s not because she is nosy–well, a bit because she is nosey–it’s so she can keep him entertained. Another woman I know has a man who has a thing about castration.
What? He watches castrations online.
No, not real ones, but acted-out ones. She bought an elastrator, it puts an elastic band around a baby sheep or goat’s nuts, cuts off the blood supply, and they fall off.
They would need to be on a man for six months to cause any real damage. So she can control it. He doesn’t have a nasty accident this way. She gently scratches his itch. Men can be a bit stupid, you know.
Just remember, if we don’t solve it this time, we will soon. It doesn’t matter what their problem is; there is an answer. We just need a clue or two.
Can I ask what your man’s problem is, Gilla?
Sure, he’s a premature ejaculator, or he was!
Oh, how did you cure that?
I haven’t completely. I ruin his orgasm, but if I ruin his orgasm three times, his fourth lasts easily long enough for him to shag me silly. I used to have to milk his prostate. But we have moved on from that.
Can I ask you another question, Gilla?
I think the answer is to stick your finger up his bum. There is a roughish lump about a finger up. Just gently rub it; it takes a while.
I read a story he wrote about Gilla where he made me out to be some cock happy hot wife who kept him chaste and only let him cum on his birthday. I’m not like that.
Don’t be silly, girl. There isn’t a woman on the planet who is. Let me guess. Iced cock to deaden all feelings. You’re fucking six big black men at the same time. You somehow managed to transport several gallons of cum home in your pussy, and then you made him eat it. It’s pretty standard stuff.
You’re funny; there were only three black men in his story, but the rest is spot on.
Was he like this when you got him? Or has it come on since?
He can’t make me pregnant again; we both wanted a boy. I’ve got two girls, and I’m happy. I think it worries him. I think that’s it, and I don’t think there is anything I can do about that. I wanted a boy, but I don’t want anyone else’s; I got my mini me but not my mini him. I am a practical girl; I’ve moved on. I’m not sure he has.
I told Gilla about Hubbies injury, the fight in the pub and the lead up.
To be honest that sounds good to me. Two things, he is starting to realise its not his fault. Second the penny has doped, it’s too late for both of you now. Hope that doesn’t hurt.
Ooh it hurts, I know its true but it still hurts.
Look, this is not going to be simple. Do you ever make him eat you after he has fucked you?
Yes. He likes to do that.
Stop him doing it. He’s removing the bad stuff. Do you like his cum?
Yes, I like the thought of having it more than the taste. When he first came in my mouth before we were married, I had an urge to swallow it, not spit it. I don’t think I could bear to have anyone else’s in my mouth.
Then, first thing, don’t let him keep it. Take it all. You brought up prostate milking. Milk him, then make a big thing out of it being yours. Or ruin him.
Pardon!
Ruin his orgasm! Can you tell when he is about to start his orgasm?
Oh yes, his balls move; they sort of tighten up if I pull them, it slows it down a bit.
Then tie the bugger up, wank him until his bollocks twitch, then stop. Don’t do a thing. It’s best if his cum just dribbles out; maybe a little bit of surging, but the less of that, the better. Look into his eyes while you do this and let him know you are in charge. Keep telling him it all belongs to you.
If he complains, tell him he messed up with the sex thing; you’re in charge of this now. Remember, not ejaculation; ease it out of him. You haven’t been looking for this before, so you will get better. So will he! He will hate it at first, but he will promise you the world on a stick when the session ends.
Collect it; use a special container if you can; something he knows is yours and is very special to you. Then make a Broadway production of eating his seed. Show him it’s yours, not his; you want it, and you’re having the lot from now on. I’d repeat the ruin at least once; most men can manage two and then make it a proper one on the third.
On the third, you sit on his cock and fuck him until he puts it inside you. It will probably take a while, but I’m pretty confident it will come. If you’re a good actress, fake an earth-shattering orgasm when he shoots inside you. Seriously, I think the poor boy thinks his cum is worthless. You have to convince him it’s your most prized possession.
The third time I ruined my Will, I gave him a titty wank to finish him off. I’d been alternating between hand and blow jobs for a good three-quarters of an hour. I had a good idea he had a thing about seeing his cock in my boobs. The history spy tells all girl.
I oiled my boobs up, sat on his legs, and squeezed them around his cock. I didn’t get two rubs; he spattered everywhere. On my face, in my eye, and in my hair. I wiped it up with my fingers and licked them clean. It wasn’t completely planned, but it couldn’t have gone better. I was laughing my head off.
Ooh, Gilla, that’s exactly what happened to us. I had been teasing him. I waxed my puss, and then I only let him lick the outside and sniff it. He literally exploded over us both. Next time, make him lick it off your boobs; no swallowing for him. Though you French kiss him and take it all back from him, keep telling him it’s yours. It belongs to you, and you will not tolerate him wasting it.
My boy saw some wicked stuff in Bosnia. Sadistic stuff. He needs joy and laughter; that’s his medicine. I think you have enough to start your boy with. Try him with the ruined orgasms and see if it works; I think it will. If not, we will try History Spy. Keep in touch, and let me know how you get on. I’ll talk to Gracie.
Who is Gracie?
Gracie is the head of the coven. Don’t let the name put you off; Gracie’s man Kel christened us that. It’s a pet name; we all picked it up and adopted it.
There is a problem. Your man feels he has been castrated, you have to convince him he hasn’t and stop it from being a problem.