Have you ever had sex so good that you wake up horny? How about getting fucked into oblivion, pounded so hard and deep that you wake up in the middle of the night, mid-orgasm, because your sleeping mind looped the sex in an adult wet-dream rather than your typical dreams? Maybe I’m just broken. In the past seven or so months I’ve gone from wanting to orgasm constantly to needing to orgasm constantly.
You’d think that a five-guy gang bang, with hard, long-lasting sex afterward, would sate me. You’d think wrong. You’d opine that having nasty sex, being fucked like a trashy slut, having a threesome, a foursome, then having my aching, dripping cunt licked and worshiped for hours on end would quench the bonfires in my loins. No such luck.
Luckily, I’m sexy enough that I can get sex nearly whenever I want. Luckier still, my boyfriend is a bigger pervert than I am, one that enjoys seeing me in the throes of passion. I’m not just eating my cake and having it, too. I’m having my cake, eating it, sucking it, fucking it, and having it jizz all over my ass and tits.
Even though my sex life has become constant and wild, I still wake up horny. I’ve woken up horny, with my cunt dripping, needing to cum, since before I graduated High School. It used to be that when I had a lover, my morning ritual would stop; now, it’s merely kicked into overdrive, hyperdrive. If I don’t get sex, I masturbate constantly. If I do get sex, I masturbate even more. When the sex is incredible, it affects me like an aphrodisiac.
I was awake before the alarm clock on Monday morning, for once in a row. A very long nap the day before, taken between having my pussy orally worshiped for hours on end and being fucked hard, until my legs were weak, gave me the rest my body needed. It didn’t matter, to my libido at least, that I had lost count of how many times I came. Somewhere between orgasm number twenty-five and “please fuck me like a whore and cum on me.” My body didn’t care that I woke up in the middle of the night with my fingers sloshing in my wetness and my other hand tugging my clit so hard that I almost snapped it off. I woke up before the sun, my fingers still giving my nether regions a workout.
I was nude, dried cum encrusted on my breasts, some on my thighs, some even caked into my hair. I awoke only moments from orgasm; the heat welling up between my thighs was probably what interrupted my slumber. Not bothering to stretch, definitely not stopping, my fingers, now under my conscious command, plunged deep inside of me. The squishing sounds turned me on even more as my left hand took over inside my canal so my right hand could run harsh circles around my clit. My button was engorged, swollen with lust.
Screaming out in blissful agony, my orgasm ripped through me. I allowed myself to scream, announcing my pleasure to the darkness. Hips bucking into my hands, back arching so deeply that I may need chiropractic care. I threw my head back, panting and moaning. The alarm clock chose that moment to torture me. Since my leg was already half over the bed, it took only quick straightening of the knee to catapult the abysmal torture device, called an alarm clock, across the room.
Tasting my juices, I stood up, reminiscing about the night before, as well as the weekend that proceeded it. It had been a fairy tale weekend filled with sex, high-class, designer clothing, mud, a threesome, a foursome, lots of wine, and more sex on top of the sex. Smiling to myself as I walked, nude, down the hall, I recalled the two women that had graced our bed, licked my loins, fingered all my holes, and thrust their juicy cunts into my face.
By the time I got to the bathroom, I was horny again. The clawfoot tub, surrounded with natural stone tile, looked inviting, deep and spacious. The shower, however, was my destination. While many an orgasm has been enjoyed in the tub, my legs spread and hanging over the sides, the shower was quicker and I had to get ready for work.
The spacious stall, also lined with cut stone tiling, has a bench facing the showerhead, enough space for two people to bathe in comfort, and clear glass doors. As I turned on the hot water, marveling at the intensity of the water pressure, the memory of a few weeks ago brought a smile to my lips and intensified heat to my pussy. When tornadoes rolled through a month ago, my boyfriend’s friends came over to shower, as we were a lone isle of active heat, electricity, and hot water.
The altruistic gesture of supplying fresh towels led to the discovery of one of my boyfriend’s friends stroking his hard cock while moaning my name. In the man’s defense, I had dressed to tease. Indulging in voyeuristic delights, rubbing my clit, I spied on him, with mounting pleasure, until I was interrupted. My urgent needs mounted after that until I ambushed another of his friends, a chef named Luke, in the shower. Luke resisted my advances for at least five seconds before my slutty feminine wiles conquered his reservations. I recalled how he came in gallons, his hot spunk painting my chest and mixing with the water.
Many other fond memories were also made in the shower. I turned the water on, full hot. The running water of the shower caused the air to cloud with steam, matching the steam between my thighs. Stepping in, my flesh cringing under the intense heat until it relaxed under the soothing hotness raining over me, I noted my shaving gel and razor sitting on the corner shelf. While silly, the can always reminded me of my boyfriend’s cock. Long, thick, and hard as steel, they share many attributes.
Soaked, both internally and externally, organic soap, scented with essential oils, rubbed my body. It seemed that my breasts, nipples, ass, and dripping petals were excessively soiled. They needed extra attention, extra rubbing. As I can resist anything except temptation, the shaving gel can beckoned to me. “Rub me over your pussy lips,” it begged.
With the shower massage head ripped from its mount and dialed into the pulsing-massage mode, my nipples received delightful liquid pummeling from the showerhead as the can rubbed between my labia. Can dropped, fingers parting my fleshy wings, the massaging, pounding action of the showerhead addressed my neck, back to my heaving breasts, and down my taut, vibrating stomach as my fingers played in the wetness between my legs. Thighs undulating, three fingers pumping into me so deeply that my knuckles grazed my clit, I stopped long enough to adjust the showerhead to a single, focused, intense stream of water. The water was being expelled with such force that the shower massage was making a vibrating, whirring noise. As I pulled back the hood of flesh, aiming the stream at my swollen and exposed clit, my moans of rapture drowned out the shower head’s song.
The burning-hot water assailed my most-sensitive nub with the force of a tsunami. I came quickly, intensely, my entire body overcome with spasmodic seizures as wave after wave of lust, pleasure, and release sent my mind into annihilated glory. It still wasn’t enough.
Bending to retrieve the fallen shaving gel canister, the pulsating beam of water sprayed its hot, liquid bliss over my thighs, settling on my ass. With the water pounding my backdoor, the can rubbing furiously between engorged lips, another orgasm ripped through me, leaving me a soaked, hot, quivering heap on the shower floor.
Exiting the shower, drying off, the decadence of the fluffy soft towels was a sensory delight. At my house I have regular towels; my boyfriend has huge, soft towels that gently caress you as they dry you off. Seeing myself in the steamed-up mirror, my hair straggly from wetness, my face, chest, and breasts flushed from the heat of the shower and masturbation, I noted that I looked so wanton, so sensual. I’m not narcissistic, but I looked so sexy that I just had to run the soft towel between my legs to note how my face looked in the throes of passion.
That “trial run” led to a repeat, which led to another. Trying and failing to suckle my nipples because my boobs are too small to reach my tongue, I settled for running the tautened towel up and down my slit until I had another orgasm. Feeling the need to scold myself for being such a dirty slut, finger fucking myself when I should be getting ready for work, I just had to spank my bad-girl ass.
Two orgasms later, I finally made it back into the bedroom, resolved to get dressed and go to work. However, my Womanizer was sitting on the bedside table, charging, right next to my Lush. Promising myself that this would be my last orgasm, the Womanizer sucked, flicked, and massaged my clit, making me cum in record time.
I eventually got dressed, put on my makeup, and headed to work. Luckily, I got there before anyone else. I was still so fucking horny that I needed one more cum, just one more orgasm to start my day.
That is my morning ritual.
