Pandemic Pregnancy Pleasure Ride

The rain hammered against the windows of our small cabin, a relentless, insistent rhythm mirroring the frantic beat of my own heart. Thirty-three weeks pregnant, stuck in this isolated corner of the Pacific Northwest during the height of the pandemic, and utterly, desperately craving connection. My husband, Mark, had always been a sensual man, but the physical limitations of my condition had transformed our intimate life into a series of awkward, hesitant encounters. The sheer size of my belly made everything uncomfortable, and frankly, the idea of him trying to pleasure me felt both exhausting and slightly humiliating. So, I’d taken matters into my own hands, embarking on a relentless campaign of oral and manual stimulation, hoping to quell the rising tide of desire within me.

Mark had just finished a hot shower, the scent of sandalwood and pine clinging to his skin like a second layer. He was relaxed, vulnerable, and radiating a heat that made my skin tingle. As he stepped out, shirtless, the muscles in his back flexed beneath his damp skin, and the sight of his broad chest sent a shiver down my spine. Without thinking, I moved towards him, my fingers trailing along his stomach, feeling the gentle curve of my growing baby bump. The touch, so familiar yet now imbued with a desperate urgency, seemed to awaken something primal within me.

Slowly, deliberately, I began to inch downward, my hands tracing the line of his inner thigh. The muscles there tightened beneath my touch, and I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He let out a low groan, a sound that both thrilled and frustrated me. The anticipation was almost unbearable. Finally, my fingers found their target: his hardened cock, swollen and pulsing with blood. It felt enormous in my hand, a testament to his virility and the potent desire he still possessed.

“Do you like this?” I whispered, my voice husky with longing. “Want me to keep going?”

The groan that followed was a clear affirmation. My fingers began to work their magic, massaging the head of his penis, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. I savored the feeling of his muscles contracting beneath my touch, the slickness of his skin, the sheer power contained within that small, hard body. I loved the way he squirmed, the involuntary jerks that rippled through his frame as I intensified my ministrations. Each touch, each caress, felt like a desperate plea, a silent scream for connection in this lonely confinement.

“Want me to take you in my mouth?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat. The thought of the taste of his arousal, the feel of his skin against my lips, was both intoxicating and terrifying.

Another groan, deeper this time, confirmed his desire. I slipped his cock to the back of my throat, my tongue slick and eager to explore. The sensation was exquisite, a blend of pleasure and submission that left me breathless. I bobbed my head up and down, my rhythm accelerating as I savored every inch of his sensitive flesh. The heat radiating from his body was almost unbearable, and I felt a surge of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm me.

As he neared the brink of climax, I knew I had to act quickly. With a final, desperate lick, I plunged my tongue deep into his shaft, intensifying the sensation. Then, I began to pump his junk with my hand, applying firm, rhythmic pressure. The movement sent shivers through his body, and I could feel his muscles contracting with increasing frequency. He whimpered, a low, guttural sound that resonated deep within my core. It was almost there, the moment of release, the culmination of my desperate need.

Finally, he exploded. A torrent of hot, viscous fluid erupted from his body, coating my hand and dripping down his chest. His body convulsed violently, jerking repeatedly as he fought against the overwhelming urge to ejaculate. Groans of pleasure and agony mingled in the air, a testament to the intensity of his arousal. I clung to him, burying my face in his chest, drinking in the intoxicating scent of his arousal.

As he finally relaxed, exhausted and spent, I began to kiss him, my lips tracing the contours of his body. We cuddled together, seeking solace in each other's warmth, our bodies intertwined in a silent conversation of need and longing. I longed for the day when I could return to our normal routines, when the physical discomfort would no longer hinder our intimacy. But for now, this desperate, passionate encounter was all that mattered.

Now, I find myself increasingly consumed by thoughts of post-pregnancy sex. The anticipation of returning to a more comfortable and fulfilling physical experience fuels my fantasies. I imagine the freedom of movement, the ability to pleasure myself as well as my husband, the joy of reconnecting with our shared sensuality. I yearn for the day when we can shed the constraints of my pregnancy and rediscover the simple pleasures of intimacy.

Tonight, however, I'm content to indulge in this intense, desperate connection. Mark is completely lost in his pleasure, and I am lost in his embrace. The rain continues to fall outside, a constant reminder of our isolation, but within this small cabin, we have found a temporary refuge from the storm, a sanctuary of shared desire and mutual satisfaction. The world outside may be chaotic and uncertain, but here, in this moment, we are united by the primal force of lust, a force that transcends even the most challenging circumstances. I continue to worship his body, both in this moment and in my dreams, knowing that the intense pleasure we share will sustain me until the day I can finally embrace the joys of parenthood and renewed intimacy.

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