I must preface this post by saying that my husband has, over the years, managed to name several of my body parts. The muffin, for example, is one of his favorite breakfast items. He has also managed to figure out that my unruly hair must be ironed if it is to achieve the labels of silky and smooth. Keep this information in mind as you read…
Mr. Fever is many things, but observant he is not. (Well, he somehow manages to figure out when I’m not wearing panties, but otherwise? Not so much.) So I’m not surprised that he didn’t take any particular notice of the fact that I trimmed the bush before we visited the forest this week (the former being a completely different kind of natural growth than the latter), regardless of the fact that his face, hands, and cock were all buried in the…erm…hedges…at one point or another.
This morning, however, in his sleep-induced stupor, his wandering hands petted for a moment…
In a voice filled with barely-awake awe and the gruff satisfaction of a man about to be pleasured, he spoke. With the slow deliberation of the sleep-inebriated he stated his new-found observation in the best terms he was able.
Obviously enamored of what he’d discovered, the Mister managed to string five words together before he plunged balls-deep into the most refreshing pool he’s ever known.
“Hon,” he mumbled gruffly, “You ironed your muffin.”
I have really strong PC muscles, my friends. Really strong. And I laugh a lot. Especially in bed. (It’s called ‘play’ for a reason.) Can’t imagine why…