Forty Years of Wetting Bliss

The rain hammered against the windows of our secluded cabin, a rhythmic percussion that mirrored the insistent throb in my veins. Forty years. Forty years of shared breaths, whispered secrets, and an intimacy that had deepened with each passing year. But it wasn't the comfortable familiarity that had me utterly consumed tonight; it was the promise of something primal, something raw, something utterly addictive. My wife, Eleanor, lay on the plush, dark velvet of our king-sized bed, her body a landscape of gentle curves and tantalizing shadows. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to her skin, a familiar comfort, yet tonight, it felt like an invitation.

She’d always possessed a particular fondness for oral pleasure, a yearning that had blossomed early in our marriage and continued to grow with each passing decade. It wasn’t just about the mechanics of it; it was about the connection, the complete surrender, the way her body responded to my touch, her breath quickening, her muscles clenching with anticipation. She could reach an explosive climax multiple times during a single session, her pleasure so intense, so visceral, that it bordered on painful. We’d discovered, years ago, that a small, discreet bullet vibrator, strategically placed near her clitoris while I feasted upon her, amplified the experience exponentially. The vibrations, a subtle yet insistent hum, heightened every sensation, pushing her closer to the brink of ecstasy.

Tonight, I was determined to push her further, to explore the depths of her desires. The rain continued its insistent rhythm, providing a fitting soundtrack to the unfolding drama. I began by gently running my tongue along her clitoris, feeling the delicate pulse beneath my fingertips. A shiver ran through her body, a prelude to the pleasure that was to come. I increased the pressure, my lips tracing the sensitive skin, building the anticipation. Her breathing became heavier, her eyes fluttering closed in anticipation. I introduced the vibrator, its gentle hum vibrating against her body, intensifying the pleasure. Soon, her body began to writhe and shiver, her muscles contracting with each stroke. A soft moan escaped her lips, a testament to the escalating pleasure.

Then, she began to squirt. The first few drops were hesitant, a trickle of warm, salty liquid. But as I continued my assault, the flow became more insistent, more abundant. It was a clear, bright yellow, utterly devoid of any mystery. There was no ambiguous "girl cum" as some might assume; this was pure, unadulterated urine, a testament to her body’s remarkable capacity for pleasure. It felt primal, almost animalistic, yet undeniably exquisite. I reveled in the sensation, lost in the moment, completely consumed by her pleasure.

She arched her back, her hips thrusting against my body, a silent invitation to deeper penetration. I obliged, sliding my hand down her spine, my fingers tracing the curve of her hips. The heat intensified, the air thick with anticipation. I pulled myself closer, my body pressing against hers, our bodies intertwined in a dance of lust and desire.

Suddenly, she pulled herself up, her body sliding to rest against my face. Her pussy lips parted, revealing the soft, pink flesh beneath. With a deliberate grace, she unleashed a torrent of warm liquid, a powerful, concentrated stream that cascaded over my face, soaking my skin and clothes. It was a complete release, a moment of pure abandon, and as the warm liquid washed over me, a wave of pleasure surged through my body. It wasn't just the physical sensation; it was the emotional connection, the shared experience, the utter trust between us.

She lowered herself back to my chest, her body trembling with the afterglow of the experience. I responded instinctively, drawing her closer, my hands stroking her hair, my lips lingering on her neck. The pleasure continued, intensified by the shared intimacy, the shared experience. We continued to make love until we reached a point of near climax, each movement punctuated by moans of pleasure. Finally, we succumbed, engaging in rough, passionate sex that left us breathless and spent.

Later, as we lay tangled in the sheets, the rain still drumming against the windows, I realized the depth of my love for Eleanor. It wasn’t just the physical pleasure, though that was certainly a significant part of it. It was the connection, the understanding, the shared vulnerability. It was the knowledge that we had found something truly special, something that had endured through the years, through the challenges and triumphs of life.

But my desire for her wasn't confined solely to her pleasure. As she had hinted at earlier, I was willing to indulge her in a way that went beyond the conventional. When we showered together, I took pleasure in holding her cock, directing the warm stream onto her breasts and body. The sensation was both shocking and exhilarating, a playful transgression that further deepened our intimacy. It felt right, somehow, to give back, to fulfill her desire in the way she found most satisfying. It wasn’t about dominance or control; it was about mutual pleasure, about sharing in each other’s ecstasy.

As we lay there, exhausted and content, the rain continued its relentless rhythm. The cabin felt small, intimate, a sanctuary where we could lose ourselves in each other's arms. It was a perfect place to celebrate our love, to savor the moment, to revel in the shared experience. The thought of others finding our methods distasteful amused me. It wasn't something for everyone, that was for sure. But for us, it was a cornerstone of our relationship, a testament to our open-mindedness, our willingness to explore the full spectrum of pleasure. We welcomed any comments from couples experiencing similar sensations, hoping to connect with others who shared our unique perspective. The rain continued to fall, washing away our inhibitions, leaving only the pure, unadulterated joy of a love that had stood the test of time.

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