Tropical ruffles
welcome the Prodigal Sun —
“Hello-o, Summer!”
He’s on his knees between my thighs, fumblingly overeager, desperately enthusiastic. He’s wired on the buzz of morning hard-on hormones, and his glazed-eye expression communicates the same message as his stuttered explanatory request:
Please is the ask.
I’m going to combust from unsated lust is his reasoning.
My answer?
…Meh.
Everything about my bearing is ambivalent. My limbs, relaxed and flop-heavy, make for dead-weight obstruction to his goal as he tries to manipulate them into a wider V; my breathing, steady and slow, is a dull velvet foil to his diamond-shine quickened excitement; the expression on my face is one of neutral un-interest.
And every moment that ticks by — every moment that he’s exceedingly desperate and I’m anything but — ramps up his excitement, until his cock flushes hot and the veined ridges purple along its turgid length.
He wants –
– craves, desires, needs –
– to fuck me.
.
.
.
And I couldn’t care less.
Come to bed, love.
Catch some Z’s. With me.
I mean…
I’m sure we’ll get around to sleeping…
My spouse is, at the nubile age of 58, exploring the world of culinary arts. (Read: He has discovered the “anybody can do it” educational wonders of YouTube and is learning how to cook. 😉 )
Mostly, this means he now knows how to sear himself a tasty steak.
Tasty cakes, on the other hand, are a little outside his comfort zone.
HOWEVER
Banana Bread is not exactly ‘cake’. And he really wanted to make some.
And so, under wifely supervision (“Look, I’m cooking!” he says; “No Smotchy dearest, you’re baking. There’s a difference…”), with a recipe that pretty much can’t be wrecked no matter how hard you try, my husband tried his hand at bread baking:
^Not bad for a first try.^
If you’d like to try your own hand at a fairly un-screwup-able banana bread, the recipe is below.
🙂