We had a good sex life, or so I thought. I always started with a kiss and threw in some titty sucks before poking her. Within the height of our glorious passion, my ears heard good feedback – one of two well-placed Ohs and Ahhs.
So why did I tinker with perfection? I cannot answer.
One night while slurping her nips, instead of moving back up for the fuck, I moved down. In retrospect, a crucial misstep. I continued my downward progression until my face was situated on her furry twat. Then, I gave her a lick.
Sounds emanated from my wife that I didn’t even know existed in this world. She possessed the strength of forty men, thrashing about, as I grappled to hold her pussy to my mouth. When the deed was done, my face resembled a glazed donut – the good kind, like from Krispy Kreme.
Unintentionally, I created a monster.
A year later and my previously round face was now flat on two sides.
I single-handedly, or rather single-tonguedly, kept the dental floss business afloat. Speaking of tongues, I nursed a repetitive strain injury – in my tongue! A mashed nose and bloody lips followed courtesy of her smashing, grinding, and gyrating facials.
Another horrid happening – my hair. It was always a lush landscape of follicle perfection, yet now sported noticeable bald spots. Sad face.
Lounging on the couch watching ballgames became a distant memory. Every time I sat down, my view was blocked by a wanton pussy. My cheers were muffled by a wanton pussy. The smell of my beer subdued by a wanton pussy.
The final horror – no more Sunday morning pancakes for me. My breakfast was now a moist snatch. However, I still got some syrup… of sorts.
The moral of this story is it’s maybe best to let sleeping dragons lie. My tombstone will read, “A loving husband lies here who was accidentally smothered in his sleep by a very eager beaver.”
