I don’t dream often, now, nor have I for decades. Most of my memorable dreaming stopped around the time I entered puberty. This isn’t anything I’ve really explored, although I understand I might want to. Not remembering dreams isn’t what is considered normal behavior, I guess. Still, when I was single in my early 20s, there was a night where I dreamt of my ex-girlfriend strongly; vividly; memorably.
It was a rare night in the AbsinthePassion household; all the children were in bed and asleep before Mrs. AP and I. Considering all three of them fluctuate between day dwellers and vampires, we were exhaustedly excited to be able to get some sleep. We were also excited to be able to celebrate my birthday right as it started, shortly after midnight.
After securing the little one in her own bed elsewhere in our room, Mrs. AP and I took our nightly “help us stay asleep” meds that alleviate pain and introduce a nice lovely floaty feeling as we drift off. We have discovered a delicious other side effect of the meds is that they help us relax into and enjoy sexual matters more deeply, which I greatly appreciated when Mrs. AP reached over and started teasing her fingers up and down my chest and sides. I wiggled and giggled and moaned lightly under the masterful touch of her divine ministrations — she always knows how to hit all the right spots to render me helpless to her spell. Her touch became more focused, more insistent, and the moans grew stronger in reflection. Fingered dipped below my waist and teased hips, stroking across a pubic mound and sliding in that open space between abdomen and throbbing manhood. A light gasp of anticipation escaped my lips, which Mrs. AP notably pondered before rotating her wrist and wrapping her hand gently around my throbbing, dripping cock.
For roughly the last six hours today, while struggling through work, I have found myself craving the taste of Mrs. AP under my tongue. I love trailing my lips across her skin, exploring her lips and her neck, meandering down to her luscious breasts and erect nipples, The feeling of her nipples hardening, puckering, rising underneath my tongue and against my lips is one of the divine pleasures of being able to explore the fantastic curves of my wife’s body. Right now, though, in particular, I yearn for something very specific.
I long for running my tongue and trailing my lips down from the soft, pouty lips of Mrs. AP, caressing down her delectable neck, and into the glorious cleft of her cleavage. Downward still, strolling my tongue across the beauty of her stomach and teasing over the rise and fall of her sensuous mons pubis before spiraling slowly inward and down until my lips and tongue nestle into the perfect placement between her long, lean legs.
Oh, but to dip my tongue between her lips and gently coax them wide. Her heat, her scent, dancing across my taste buds to encourage deeper, more forceful explorations. Flattening my tongue, pressing, entering, to be greeted by the sweet taste of my beloved’s arousal. Sweet!, but not in a honey way, or even vanilla and strawberry, like most people like to use for descriptors of sexual juices. She’s more primal and raw, like what would happen if the forest and panthers and hibiscus and orchid and pomegranate and the nectar from lilies could all be blended together and then coaxed forth from within her. This! This is for what I long, and crave, and cannot shake from my mind for hours upon end today!
Oh, but I shall be home soon, and then, for all that is good and naked and wonderful in this world, will I close and lock my door, and strip my gorgeous wife bare, and explore her every twitch and tremble with my tongue until her sweet, subtle nectar becomes a flood upon my tongue and across my cheeks, and she gasps my name and grips the sheets and loses herself into the bliss of erotic release, and then! Oh, but then I will still be thirsty, and will have to drink of her some more until her crescendo repeats, again and again, until she can bear no more and must both push me away and pull me upward so that more than my tongue will slide between that velvety lips.
Soon. Soon. For my daydreams are vivid, and my need is pressing, and the memory of the taste of my wife is … sweet.
Stay SINful, friends.
Tonight is my thirteenth night away from home, which also makes it my thirteenth night away from Mrs. AP. Except for that one bad stint in the hospital last year, this is the longest she and I have been unable to sleep beside each other since February, 2010. When I left for this current business trip we thought I would only be gone nine nights. Obviously that has changed. Delays for the job led to delays coming home. There’s been naught I can do about that, no matter how lonely the bed feels when I’m the only occupant.
The night before I left was also the end of our first full day home after evacuating from Hurricane Matthew — we live on the coast now, which made us a rather high target zone — and we’d had no time or privacy in which to engage in any amorous bonding while we were dodging the storm. The friends who took us in are wonderful, but we couldn’t exactly ask them if we could borrow their room and their bed for some spousal alone time. Etiquette is a real party spoiler sometimes. But hey, no damage to the house, and we saw good friends we’d missed, so I guess that’s the silver lining there, right?
Regardless, knowing I was going to be leaving and knowing we hadn’t been able to play when we’d wanted to for far too many days, even while exhausted, while Mrs. AP and I were cuddling very late into the night, and once I heard our youngest finally settle down for the night I, started caressing Mrs. AP’s delectable body in that way that very clearly broadcasts that I’d like to do more than caress.
I teased her breasts and her nipples, letting the edges of my palms just brush the edges of her areolas, and our mouths explored each other. Her tongue darted against my lips, seeking, imploring entrance, which was granted eagerly. As our tongues danced to the rhythm of our needs my hands grew more insistent, cupping her nipples and her breasts and squeezing. Gently at first, and then more firmly, my hand pulsed in time with our lips and tongues. My efforts were rewarded with her luscious nipples hardening under my ministrations, becoming firm and puckered in that way that begs for attention. With a gentle squeeze I obliged, but only momentarily before sliding my hand down her silky smooth skin and across the valley of her pubic mound before dipping between the folds of her perfection. As my middle finger slipped between her lips, it was greeted with a warm, wet welcome. The body of my wife, my lover, my beloved was entreating me to enter her. How could I decline such an enthusiastic invitation?
Today is Tuesday, the 18th day of October in the year 2016. In three weeks time, the general election for the next President of the United States of America will culminate in us learning which version of historical precedence will be set.
Possibility 1: Hillary Clinton, the candidate for the Democratic Party, will become the first woman and the first spouse of a previous President to be elected President of the United States.
Possibility 2: Donal Trump, the candidate for the Republican Party, will become the first multiple divorcee, multiple civil trial defendant, multiple fraud charge defendant, first candidate allegedly indebted to the Russian government, and first person to have children with multiple previous wives, to be elected President of the United States.
If you are reading this entry, I can assume you love either politics or sex (or both).
If you love politics, please do not vote for Trump. He is destroying every standard and ethical approach to politics this country has ever seen.
If you love sex, please do not vote for Trump. He routinely disparages (and admits to assaulting) women, he regularly insults everybody who is not straight, and he is actively seeking to undo all of the progressive gains this country has made over the last 8 years in regards to civil and equal rights for every non-hetero-normative individual in this country.
Please, if you are a U.S. Citizen, and especially so if you live in one of the states regularly contested, such as Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Iowa, cast your vote for Clinton. Your LGBTQ+ friends and families, and their families, have their very lives at stake in this election. Stand with us. Stand for progress. Stand for hope. Stand for being stronger together.
Stay SINful, friends.
It’s a fun word. Until recently I’d not heard of it, but it started coming up in some reading Mrs. AP and I had been doing, and we being the ever curious types, we looked it up. According to the Demisexual Resource Center, demisexuality is defined as
a sexual orientation in which someone feels sexual attraction only to people with whom they have an emotional bond. Most demisexuals feel sexual attraction rarely compared to the general population, and some have little to no interest in sexual activity.
As you well know if you’ve read any of the tales of the sexual exploits and explorations in which Mrs. AP and I have endeavored together, the latter half of that definiion — “some have little to no interest in sexual activity” — is not applicable to Mrs. AP or myself. We are delightfully sexually vibrant (well, not always, but we all have our down times, don’t we?) However, when Mrs. AP read the first part of that definition she had to stop reading and collect herself. In stunned meditation she processed what she had read, then read it again carefully to confirm she’d not missed anything, before quietly saying “… that’s me!”
I believe this revelation helps us refocus on who we are as individuals and as a couple, and how to tie that in with my previous post — because we’ve had no luck so far finding a wonderful man for us to date. It also means there’s some reorganizing with our online profiles.