Sickly Sweet Recovery (L)

The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless, gray assault mirroring the damp chill that had settled over the house. It had been a brutal week – a confluence of allergies, the flu, and a general sickness that seemed to have gripped the entire town. My husband, David, had been laid low for three agonizing weeks, a pale, weak shadow of his usual robust self. The silence in the bed beside me had been deafening, broken only by his ragged breathing and the occasional, pained groan. I’d taken care of him as best I could, but the longing, the desperate need for intimacy, had been a constant, gnawing ache. Three weeks without a touch, a kiss, or even a shared breath had left me raw and desperate, a simmering pot of unfulfilled desire.

My big vibrator, a sleek, black bullet, had become my only solace. Every night, I’d retreat to the sanctuary of the bedroom, lose myself in the throbbing pleasure of self-gratification, clinging to the memory of our shared intimacy as a fragile lifeline. The dreams were vivid, almost painfully so, filled with stolen kisses and passionate embraces, a stark contrast to the desolate reality of our current situation. I’d lie awake, listening to his snore, a low, guttural rumble that both comforted and tormented me, each inhale and exhale a painful reminder of what we had lost.

Just as his fever broke, signaling a glimmer of hope, another wave of illness swept through, this time hitting me square in the chest. Another week of enforced separation, another cycle of longing and frustration. The misery was almost unbearable.

This morning, we both woke feeling like two disgruntled, grumpy bears. David, used to the structure and stimulation of his work, was particularly irritable. A carelessly worded comment, a sharp retort on his part, ignited a fire in me, a torrent of pent-up anger that threatened to spill over. I retreated to the shower, seeking refuge in the hot water, hoping to cool my temper before I could utter something I might regret. As I stepped out, a text message pinged on my phone – an apology from David, a heartfelt expression of gratitude for my care, and a promise to make things right.

A wave of relief washed over me, but it was quickly followed by a surge of boldness. I decided to inject some excitement into our bleak existence. I pulled on a long-sleeved cotton shirt with sturdy snaps up the front, a deliberate act of defiance against the suffocating atmosphere of misery. I removed the bra, exposing my generous melons, letting them peek out from beneath the collar of the shirt. Then, I whipped up a simple lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, and beckoned him to the kitchen.

As he entered the room, he couldn't help but notice my outfit. A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine expression of amusement and appreciation. He reached out and squeezed both of my breasts, a playful gesture that sent shivers down my spine. We ate together, the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by a tentative sense of connection. David returned to his office, leaving me to my thoughts, and that's when the idea struck.

I grabbed a plush, velvety blanket, a deep crimson red, and draped it over our king-sized bed, envisioning its luxurious softness and its potential as a makeshift catching net for any unexpected encounters. Next, I lit a scented candle, a blend of vanilla and sandalwood, and turned on some mellow jazz, creating an atmosphere of sensual relaxation. I retrieved my two favorite dildos – one a classic bullet shape and the other a larger, more elaborate model with textured surfaces – and liberally coated them in coconut oil. Finally, I removed my panties, preparing myself for the inevitable.

I called him back into the bedroom, instructing him to shed his clothes and lie down on his stomach. I then positioned myself on my knees, straddling him, my body angled slightly upwards. Pouring the warm oil onto his back, I began to massage him, my fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles, before leaning down to kiss his neck, savoring the scent of his skin. The heat, the anticipation, the sheer intensity of my arousal, made it difficult to breathe. I felt utterly drenched, my clitoris throbbing with pleasure.

As I continued to knead and squeeze his tight ass, my body arched in response to the sensation, my moans building in volume. The rhythmic pounding of my heart echoed in my ears as I realized I was on the verge of an explosion. I came first, a powerful, earth-shattering release that left me breathless and trembling. But I didn't stop there. Determined to prolong the pleasure, I continued to rub his back, riding his ass, clinging to every inch of his body, until I came again, and again, and again. Each orgasm was more intense than the last, pushing me further into the depths of ecstasy.

Finally, breathless and spent, I rolled off his stomach and sat beside him, spreading his legs apart. Reaching for the iPad, I handed it to him and said, “I want you to read my story, “Keeping Warm on a Freezing Day.” I let him read a little, enjoying his captivated expression. Then, as he continued, I climbed onto his hard cock, adopting a reverse-cowgirl stance, raising myself until the head of his penis almost protruded from my pussy. Slowly, deliberately, I slid down, as far as I could go, feeling the friction and heat intensify. He grabbed my hips as I thrust harder, moaning with another wave of pleasure.

Just then, I retrieved the iPad and handed it back to him. “My turn for a massage!” I declared, and he quickly obliged, pouring warm oil over my breasts and beginning to rub them vigorously. As he massaged, he slipped a finger into my swollen and wet pussy, and I couldn't resist the urge to respond, begging him to take it deeper. He complied, his touch both firm and gentle, igniting a fresh wave of desire. We continued like this for a while, lost in our shared pleasure, before I demanded, "Slap that pussy! I want to feel those balls slapping my cunt! I want to soak your balls. Oh, God. Baby, that’s soo good!"

He obliged, and as he did, I reached for the dildo and plunged it in and out of my drenched, still throbbing pussy, speaking dirty words with every thrust. "I want to see you cum on me, baby. Shoot on me now. God, I love to see you cum!" He erupted his seed on my tummy, and I shrieked with delight. "I need your tongue, baby! Oh, God. Please eat my pussy. I got to have more!" He went down on me, licking circles and long strokes on my clit and thrusting his tongue deep every few thrusts, savoring every moment of our intense encounter. I came again, hard, and he continued to finger me, taking me to another couple of orgasms until I felt completely saturated. The last few were so intense, so overwhelming, that tears streamed down my face. Orgasms that felt like a release of pent-up emotion, a desperate need for connection.

Finally, he pulled out and began to stroke himself, his movements slow and deliberate. As he did, I grabbed the dildo and plunged it in and out of my drenched, still throbbing pussy, keeping the dirty talk flowing. “I want to see you cum on me, baby. Shoot on me now. God, I love to see you cum!” He erupted his seed on my tummy, and I shrieked with delight. Then he came, completely emptying his seed into my wet pussy, and I let out a primal scream. As he pulled away, I continued to use the dildo, exploring every inch of my pleasure, until I felt completely satisfied.

Afterward, he lay beside me, his head resting on my chest, his body warm and comforting. As I lay on my side, wrapped my leg around him, I stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, expressing my gratitude for his love and support. "Hey! By the way, I didn’t get that massage," I said, a playful tone in my voice. He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. "Was what you got better?" I confirmed, a mischievous glint in my eyes. "Yes, most definitely!" And with that, we drifted off to sleep, intertwined in a blissful embrace, lost in the warmth and comfort of our shared intimacy. Thank you, God, for this man and for allowing me to spend my life with him.

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