COVID Cough & Crimson Kiss

The insistent drone of the digital clock sliced through the humid morning air, a relentless reminder of our shared misery. Nine o’clock. The same time every day since the fever broke, a grim routine born of exhaustion and lingering weakness. My wife, Melody, lay beside me, her face pale against the crisp white sheets, a stark contrast to the vibrant colors that usually painted her smile. We’d both been ravaged by COVID-19, a brutal assault that had stripped us bare, leaving us vulnerable and clinging to each other like shipwrecked sailors on a turbulent sea. Recovery was slow, torturous, but the thought of her, my Melody, fueled my determination. I’d penned a little something, a silly little song parody inspired by our ordeal, hoping to inject a dose of levity into our bleak existence. It was a desperate attempt to reclaim joy, to remind ourselves that even in the face of illness, there was still pleasure, still connection, still love.

The lyrics, crude yet honest, spilled out of my mind like a forgotten memory, each line a testament to our intimacy, our shared vulnerabilities. “It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, we both have been as sick as sin…” The words hung in the air, laced with a touch of self-deprecating humor. My fingers danced across the keyboard of my laptop, translating the mental imagery into tangible form. Melody stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open, a hesitant plea for comfort in their depths.

“Tom, can you play me something?” she whispered, her voice raspy from disuse. “I’m your Melody.”

It was the opening, the invitation. The moment when inhibitions dissolved and the primal urge took over. “Your man touches are sweet, and you make me feel complete,” I typed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “So I want you to remove all my clothes.”

Her response was immediate, a silent command that sent shivers down my spine. She shifted slightly, arching her back, drawing me closer. The scent of her skin, faintly sweet and tinged with the lingering scent of disinfectant, filled my senses. The desire, long suppressed by fatigue and illness, surged through me, a tidal wave threatening to engulf my senses.

“Make love to me,” she murmured, her voice thick with need. “You’re my loving man. Make love to me tonight, ‘Cause you know that I am your Melody, and I want you to play me all night.”

I didn’t hesitate. With trembling hands, I reached out, gently pulling back the covers that had shielded her from the morning light. The cool air brushed against her skin, eliciting a moan of pleasure. Her body, still weak, yet undeniably beautiful, beckoned me closer. I felt an overwhelming urge to possess her, to lose myself in her embrace, to forget the illness that had brought us to this point.

The first touch was tentative, a feather-light caress against her hip. It ignited a fire within me, spreading rapidly through my veins. Her muscles tensed beneath my fingertips, responding to my touch with a primal eagerness. I continued my exploration, tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her breasts, the delicate arch of her back. Each touch was deliberate, passionate, a silent conversation between our bodies.

“Melody was once a friend of mine,” I whispered, my voice husky with desire. “But I grew to love her, and she grew to love me. She likes all my jokes, we like each other’s folks, but she’d like to be much healthier be.”

Her laughter, weak but genuine, filled the room, a precious sound that lifted my spirits. She shifted again, nestling closer, her weight pressing against my chest. The heat radiating from her body intensified my arousal, blurring the lines between pleasure and pain.

“Tom, this dang COVID’s been bugging me,” she sighed, her voice laced with frustration. “As the smile runs away from her face, and I wish that you were making love to me. I say, Inside you’s my favorite place.”

My hand moved lower, sliding beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. The feel of her skin against my palm was electric, sending shivers through my entire body. Her breath hitched in her throat as I explored her, my touch growing bolder, more insistent. The rhythm of our breathing synchronized, a testament to the intense connection between us.

“We’ll get through this,” I declared, my voice filled with conviction. “I’m your Loving Man. We’re gonna get through this alright, cause you are my beautiful Melody, and this isn’t a permanent plight.”

As the morning progressed, our intimacy deepened. We moved from gentle caresses to more aggressive exploration, each sensation intensifying the pleasure. I introduced my mouth, exploring her body with playful abandon, teasing her into a frenzy of moans and sighs. Her pussy was soft and sensitive, responding eagerly to my touch. It was an act of both lust and tenderness, a celebration of our love amidst the chaos of our illness.

“Now we were once busy scientists,” I murmured, my voice thick with desire. “But we found time to be husband and wife. Lovemaking’s been gravy. We go sexually crazy, and we hope to do so for life.”

My hand found its way to the straps of her bra, unhooking them with swift efficiency. The moment she stood there before me, stripped bare, was breathtaking. Her skin gleamed in the morning light, her body a testament to her inherent beauty. The sight of her vulnerability ignited an even greater passion within me.

“And I’d love us to be practicing oral sex,” I said, my voice low and suggestive. “Then her pussy I’d bone, and then I would give her cunnilingus, and lick out our protein-rich foam.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with a mixture of pleasure and anticipation. She leaned into my touch, her body quivering with excitement. I responded with fervent kisses, my tongue exploring every inch of her flesh. The sensation was exquisite, both raw and refined, a perfect blend of lust and tenderness.

“I say, I’m so proud of you this Saturday,” I exclaimed, my voice filled with admiration. “She gives me a beautiful smile, and says, It’s my nude body you’re longing to see, so we can forget about our health for a while.”

Her laughter erupted again, a joyous sound that echoed through the room. We embraced, our bodies intertwined, lost in the moment. As we continued our passionate encounter, I realized that our shared experience had not only strengthened our bond but had also given us a renewed appreciation for the simple pleasures of life. The illness may have taken much from us, but it had also brought us closer together, reminding us of the enduring power of love and desire.

“Make love to me, you’re my Loving Man,” she pleaded, her voice breathless. “Make love to me tonight, ‘Cause you know that I am your Melody, and I want you to play me all night.”

I obliged, continuing our passionate embrace, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of our bodies. As the sun began to rise, casting long shadows across the room, we reached a crescendo of pleasure, our bodies writhing in unison. The experience was transformative, leaving us both feeling refreshed, renewed, and utterly satisfied.

“Just so ya know… We DID make love the next day – in the morning, actually,” I whispered as we lay entangled in each other's arms, the remnants of our passion lingering in the air. It was a perfect ending to our day, a testament to the enduring power of love and lust.

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