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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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01 September 2005



It is 7 AM. I really need to pee, but Jefferson’s father-in-law is sleeping in the next room. At least, that’s where he was when we went to bed last night, and I’m not about to go traipsing through the house nearly naked to find out otherwise.

I put it out of my mind and jerk off instead. Jefferson is still asleep, but my rocking and soft moaning have roused him slightly. And his cock more than slightly. I put my palm on it, almost protectively and stroke it gently for a while. I am not about to force myself on him knowing his feelings about sex with relatives in the next room (though that didn’t stop us last night).

I roll over and he spoons me, kissing my shoulder and neck, resting his head on mine. I feel his cock hard on my ass. I squeeze my pussy, feel the pulsing of my clit and grind myself back against his thigh.

He reaches down and puts the heel of his hand on my pubic bone. As his finger touches the top of my pubic hair, he gasps and his cock responds with a twitch. I part my legs. He fingers my clit and I replace his hand with my own. Now two of his fingers are fucking me and I am rubbing off another orgasm. I have a series of smaller ones. I think this is the closest I’m going to get to having sex this morning, since the father-in-law is around.

“I need to pee.”

“I will get up and see if our guest is still around. If he is, your peeing will signify the end of the ‘being in bed’ part of the day and we’ll do our ‘out and about’ part of the day. But if he is gone, we can continue the ‘staying in bed’ part. I’ll be right back.”

He threw off the striped sheet and kissed me. We lay there, kissing, until I say, bladder about to burst, “Seems we’ve gotten a little distracted from our purpose, darling.”

Jefferson jumps up and puts on pants and a t shirt. After a few minutes he’s back, walking through the bedroom doorway, arms raised,

“We’re Alone!”

I leap out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, holding onto walls for support. I pee, brush my teeth, wash my face and hands and return to the bedroom.

“Better?” Jefferson is naked again.

“Much,” I say as I lie down beside him. He is touching my face, tucking my hair back behind my ear. It falls forward. He tucks it back.

“It’s just going to keep doing that, you know,” I smile.

“Then I get to keep doing this… Your eyes are so lovely, baby—the way they take on the color of the walls…”

The kettle is whistling and he jumps up. He’s making coffee. When he returns I am lying on my back, arms out to my sides.

I feel like I’m floating in the ocean-- a tiny speck in an endless sea. It could carry me away, swallow me, pull me into its depths and I would let it. I am so calm.

He lies across my body, kissing me and touching my breasts. He takes the right one in his mouth, sucking it.

“Harder,” I say, “please.”

He does, and bites my nipple. He has moved my legs apart and is laying between them, his cock hard and pressed against my thigh. His lips and teeth and tongue are attached to my breast and start moving in circles around my areola, marking me.

His left hand is cupping my breast from below, while his right holds the top and his forearm rests across my chest. The biting is so intense, and I am so high. I grab his forearm and pull it onto my throat, choking myself just a little. If his cock were inside me right now it would be perfect.

Did he read my mind, or did I say that? I don’t know. We often joke about sharing a brain, so it could have been either.

He takes a condom from the drawer, throws the foil on the floor, and slides his dick into me. He alternates between low and slow, concentrating strokes against my g spot, to deep plunges that take my breath away. My calves are on his shoulders and I rub his face and head with my feet.

We are staring at each other, intently. I close my eyes and turn my head away occasionally, lost in myself. When I come back, he is still watching me.

I straighten my legs and pull them over to the side so he can fuck me sideways. I love watching our bodies merge like that. When he separates my legs back town to the mattress and straightens them I can barely move. And I am so slippery and wet from all the cumming and sweating.

“Baby, shall we take a coffee break?”

He pulls out, wipes the wet hair from my forehead, and rolls off. I stand, and Jefferson says, “Madeline, I’m just warning you- what you see in the mirror will not be a pretty sight.”

“Honey, I’m not even going to look.”

My hair is dripping, my body drenched in sweat and my cum. We walk naked to the kitchen, where Jefferson pours the coffee that’s been steeping in the French press for the last 40 minutes.

In the living room I realize that I don’t want to sit naked and wet on the couch. I go to fetch a towel and my white beach tunic. We sit on the couch, Jefferson reading the paper and me drinking my coffee.

He looks up and takes my hand. “Baby, you’re shaking.”

“I know. I’m fucked-up. And I’m sad.”

He pulls me to his shoulder. I look across the room at the painting we’d brought home last night, blinking back tears.

Wedding days are hard. Today would have been my eighth anniversary. I’m happy to be spending it here with someone I care about.

“Madeline, I’ve had the best time. I’m so glad you could be here.”

“Jefferson, thank you.”

“For what, sweetheart?”

“For making space for me.”

“Of course, silly girl,”
he pets my hair and kisses my forehead, “’tweren’t nuthin’.”


Blogger figleaf said...

"He pulls out, wipes the wet hair from my forehead, and rolls off. I stand, and Jefferson says, 'Madeline, I’m just warning you- what you see in the mirror will not be a pretty sight.'"

It's always funny when people say that. What could be prettier?

The logical antonym for "composed" would be "decomposed" but that's obviously not the word I need, but...

Going back to food, my favorite analogy for sex, I think that just as there's beauty in a heavily laden, perfectly set holiday table, there's an equal beauty in the chaos left when everyone rises, sated and happy.

Whether fucking or feast you can look at the aftermath as a chore to be tackled or evidence of happiness. It doesn't change what must be done, but the first way you look at it with dread, the second lets you see it with pride.

Call me a pervert but instead of warning you, Madeline, I'd drag you over, stand behind you in front of the mirror, pin your arms behind your back with one hand, and finger-trace (and maybe, with our juices, fingerpaint) the wreckage of our prior composition, with the biggest, most infectious kid-like grin you ever saw, saying "wow, Madeline, look at us now!"

It takes a lot of work to turn a bed of roses into a den of delightful iniquity. :-)

Take care,


p.s. Of course all bets are off before coffee but the general principle stands. :-)

Blogger learn said...

Hi Madeline,
Just wanted to tell you, you have a wondeful blog, warm with human feeling, rich with pleasure.
Hope it's ok if I link to you.

Blogger Madeline Glass said...

i could call you a pervert, but that wouldn't be an insult...
i think jefferson would agree with you on both the analogy and the reality.
i'ts cool to sit back and admire your creation/destruction.
after the coffee, of course.

Blogger Frenchy said...

miss you maddi, tell us a strap on story! pleeeeeease! bises

Blogger introspectre said...

Awwwwwww. That's sweet.

Making space. That's the good stuff.


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