Five Months of Longing

The dust motes danced in the weak morning light filtering through the kitchen window, illuminating the stainless steel counter where we’d both inevitably succumb. Five months. Five agonizing, desperate months since our last shared intimacy. My husband, Mark, bore the scars of a freak accident – a construction accident that left him sidelined and, frankly, a little bit broken. The doctor cleared him for physical activity, but the emotional fallout lingered, a silent tension between us that had morphed into a strange, twisted game. We’d decided to prolong the agony, to savor every breath, every touch, every stolen glance. A perverse challenge, really, to see how long we could hold onto our primal urges before yielding.

The first week was an exercise in self-control, a slow burn of frustration. I'd find myself lingering a little too long in his arms, craving the familiar heat of his skin against mine. I let him worship my body, letting him suck my cock, but firmly denying my own release. He, in turn, explored my pussy, a careful, deliberate dance of pleasure denied. It felt like a cruel joke, a tantalizing tease that only amplified our desires. The longing was palpable, thick in the air between us. The raw, desperate need for connection hung heavy, a constant reminder of what we were missing. We communicated our frustration through clenched teeth and lingering touches, a silent language of shared frustration.

Week two saw a shift in tactics. I relented, indulging in a slow, sensual hand job, letting him rub my sensitive flesh with focused attention. But as the anticipation reached its peak, I deliberately pulled away, leaving him wanting. The frustration was exquisite, a burning heat that intensified my own arousal. He, unable to contain himself, finished the job himself, a silent acknowledgment of his victory, and a reminder of my restraint. The act felt both empowering and demeaning, a constant push and pull between dominance and submission. It was a game of control, played out on the edge of pleasure and denial.

The following weeks were a blur of kisses, prolonged embraces, and frustrated moans. We’d cling to each other, desperate for physical release, but the conscious act of withholding became an obsession. We’d taste each other's skin, savoring the scent of arousal, but never allowing the inevitable to happen. Mark would suck my nipples, hard and insistent, while I grew wetter and wetter, yearning for him to penetrate me. But each time, he'd stop just short, teasing me with his presence, his heat, his sheer proximity. The frustration was almost unbearable, a slow-building crescendo of desire that threatened to consume us both. We’d kiss for hours, lost in a haze of lust and longing, our bodies intertwined, our hearts pounding in unison. But the absence of intercourse remained, a constant reminder of our shared challenge.

By week four, the tension had reached its peak. The air in our small apartment thrummed with unspoken needs and suppressed desires. The thought of actually having sex, after months of denial, became almost unbearable. The waiting game had worn us down, both mentally and physically. We were raw, exposed, and utterly desperate. The morning of the fourth week found me stirring before Mark, unable to bear the torment any longer. I slipped out of bed, discarding my bra and panties, feeling vulnerable and exposed. I crept into the kitchen, the familiar scent of coffee brewing in the background a mocking reminder of normalcy.

There he was, standing by the counter, his eyes searching mine. He knew what I was about to do. He’d anticipated my rebellion, my desperate need for release. He asked if he could touch me, his voice a low rumble, and without hesitation, I whispered, "Yes." As his fingers brushed against my skin, a wave of heat surged through my body. His erection pressed against me, a silent invitation to succumb. I turned around, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, and kissed him deeply, savoring the feel of his lips on mine.

Then, I took control. I gently lifted his boxers and, with a confident movement, pulled out his erection. My wet pussy called to him, a primal urge that he couldn’t resist. I held him close, guiding him to the counter, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of our bodies. “Fuck me,” I commanded, my voice husky with desire. The words hung in the air, a challenge, an invitation, a promise. There was no denying the pull between us, the desperate need to fulfill our shared desire.

He tried to resist, but his muscles tightened, his breath quickened, and his gaze lingered on my wetness. The temptation was too strong, the anticipation too intense. He gave in, yielding to the insistent demands of my body. As he took me in, my screams of pleasure echoed through the apartment, punctuated by the dogs barking in the distance. The sounds of our bodies colliding, our moans blending into a symphony of lust, filled the room. It was a release, a cathartic explosion of pent-up desire, and it felt utterly incredible.

As he finished, leaving me breathless and trembling, he began to eat out my pussy. His hot tongue and breath down there at my sweet spot sent shivers down my spine. I couldn’t help but moan and pull his hair, unable to resist the pleasure he was inflicting. He encouraged me to cum too, pushing me further into the depths of ecstasy. My orgasm built up, a wave of intense pleasure that threatened to overwhelm me. But I held on, determined to savor every moment, every sensation.

Finally, as my release came, I let out a primal scream, a release of all the pent-up tension and desire that had been building inside me. The climax felt unbelievably intense, like a tidal wave crashing over my body. I felt completely consumed by pleasure, my senses heightened, my body vibrating with the afterglow of ecstasy. As I finished, Mark kissed me, his lips gentle and soothing. He helped me clean up, a silent acknowledgment of our shared experience.

Looking back, I realized that this twisted game had done more than just prolong our intimacy. It had rekindled the romance between us, reminding us of the raw, primal connection that existed beneath the surface. The waiting game had stripped away the layers of casual intimacy, forcing us to confront our deepest desires and vulnerabilities. And in doing so, it had brought us closer together than ever before. The memory of that early morning encounter, the feeling of being completely consumed by lust and pleasure, would forever be etched in my mind, a testament to the power of desire and the enduring strength of our love. As for whether anyone else has ever played this game, well, who knows? But I doubt they've ever experienced anything quite like it.

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