Prendre le congé

Whew.

OK, I’m not going to go back and post-edit like I usually do, second-guessing myself and trying to make sure every sentence makes sense. I’m just going to put this up.

OK, here’s what’s up.

About a week after my last post (yes I know it’s been two months, but there’s a damn good reason and I’m getting to it) Monsieur and I went to dinner, a very lovely romantic one in Austin at a place that looks like a tree house. I got manicotti; ; he had the fish.

After dinner, I didn’t want dessert and he rarely gets it. We went outside and sat under a huge oak tree. Then he handed me this big freaking diamond ring.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said. He asked me to marry him.

I suddenly had to pee – really badly.

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“You are,” he replied.

Damn, he’s good.

We talked a lot. Most of what we talked about will remain private, readers. I’m sorry but it has to be that way. One of the things we talked about was this very blog, which I didn’t know he was even aware. But, he was, and he told me it bothered him that I was showing myself to the world, and talking about deeply personal stuff between the two of us, and generally not safeguarding my privacy and respecting our relationship.

I was embarrassed, and as a result I did two things: deleted picture posts, and didn’t add anything else.

Telling my mom that we were engaged created all kinds of grief between her and me about the wedding and how big it should be and what should happen and where it should be done. Also, among the aunts in my family. I didn’t want that, so about ten minutes later we decided to elope. Which we did, about two weeks ago. So now I’m Mrs. Monsieur.

(A very good friend of mine calls this “burying the lede,” and I suspect he hates it when I do this.)

I don’t know if I’m going to continue this blog, given how it’s public and all. I don’t want to make it Blogger ID-only; and taking it down would be the right thing to do. (I’m definitely not putting up any pictures again!) If I do another blog, I’ll do two things: I’ll hide it from the world, and make it “invitation only”.

In any event, I will at least leave it up for a while. Thanks for reading. You know how to get hold of me, unless you aren’t supposed to.

Pushy

I pushed.

I didn’t really want to, but I guess I had to know. And it wasn’t easy to ask, so for courage, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. Then another. Then I offered one to Monsieur, and then I poured myself another.

I was nervous. Of course, he knew it.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just – there’s been something on my mind,” I said.

“Tell me,” he said gently.

“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but, well, I wasn’t supposed to bring up us getting married until after the first of December. Of last year,” I added.

He nodded.

“Well.” I took a deep breath, and just said it like I practiced it in the mirror. “I want to be married to you. I’m not going to ask you; I want you to ask me, when you’re ready. Don’t decide right now. Think about it carefully, but I really do want to spend the rest of my life as your wife, looking after you, raising your boys, and being a family.”

He toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “The reason I haven’t brought it up,” he said, slowly, “has most to do with the debt.”

“The bills?” I asked. “You’re worried about bills?”

“Not just that,” he said. “I don’t think we’d have the ability to do a ring and a wedding, and I know you deserve both.”

“How much debt is there?” I asked.

He told me.

“Well, okay so there’s a lot. But we’re handling it now, right?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re doing well, making payments and handling it. But to add to that a wedding, a ring, a honeymoon...”

“Which I never said I wanted,” I replied.

“You don’t want a ring?” he asked.

“Not a big one. Not even a diamond. I’d be perfectly happy with two gold bands. One for me, and one for you. I don’t need a big wedding, and I don’t need a diamond. Maybe a nice dress, one that I could wear out anywhere. Not a bridal dress. Just something nice. That’s all. I’d feel ridiculous if you spent $5000 on it. Do I look like I need a big chunk of Africa on my finger?”

“It always seemed to me that you would want more than that,” he said.

“Of course not. Am I really that high maintenance?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Okay, I am,” I admitted. “But not in that way.

He was quiet, in an uncomfortable sort of way, and said, “Let me figure out a way. There are more things that we have to agree on, as well.”

“What? It’s because I snore, isn’t it??” I asked.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, smiling. “Let me figure out a way, and I will let you know.”

“I will need sex tonight, Monsieur,” I added.

“I understand,” he said.

after the flood

We had DSL out, or intermittently off-and-on, for the last week. There were horrible floods downhill from us, in Marble Falls especially, and other places. Skip and Monsieur were out there; Skip was hauling in debris on a backhoe, and Monsieur coordinating some emergency networks for the locals.

the creek, flooded.

Low-water crossing. When you see a road look like this, turn around, people, and save a rescue worker.

The Little Blanco, just downhill from us a couple miles. It’s usually narrow enough to throw a paper airplane across.

When it was really bad last week, Monsieur was checking the radio and the radar on TV and then had me go upstairs and clean all the bathtubs with bleach, then fill them up with water.

“Is it that bad?” I asked him.

“We may lose water at any minute, not to mention electricity and phone. DSL will be the first to go, on these lines,” he added.

He was right. DSL went down last Thursday, and it didn’t get restored until Monday.

On Saturday, Monsieur was down by the little staging area where people were setting up a Wi-Fi network, and providing equipment, especially batteries, and wireless cards to the coordinators.

It’s a mess: boats in the trees, houses in the river, and concrete culverts down in the creek washed in from who knows where. We’ll be cleaning stuff out of the pastures for months.

On the good side, we’ve had homegrown tomatoes into July. In Texas, which is unheard of.

Also, we’re on voluntary water rationing, which means no high-water use until after 9 pm. Laundry and the dishwasher must wait until evening, and we wash dishes by hand if we need them. That rather interferes with my resolution to have all the day’s laundry done by 5 pm. Also, 5 minute showers are no fun.

“You could shower with me and we could make it ten minutes between the two of us,” I suggested to Monsieur.

“I showered already tonight, as soon as I got home,” he replied.

“Well, at least check to make sure I rinsed all the conditioner out of my hair?” I asked him.

Monsieur gave me that look.

“Pretty please?” I said, batting my eyes.

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll check on you after the animals are locked down.”

Later, as I was showering, I heard him come into the bathroom. He pulled the curtain back.

“Turn around,” he told me.

I shut off the water and complied.

“Hm,” he said, looking over my hair. Finally, he said, “It looks like you missed a spot,” and then dumped a large plastic cup of ice water over my head.

I screamed, then, dripping wet, I chased him out of the bedroom with a rolled up towel. He moves fast.

Recovery

We’re home. Everything went great with Monsieur’s procedure. (Read here, here.)

The only bad thing was that we had to wait to get in. He had to be there at 8:30 to get the TEE ultrasound and it didn’t get done. The catheter part was scheduled for 1:30 pm, and it didn’t get started till 4:00 pm.

He was done in an hour, and a little while later the surgeon let me come in to the recovery area and see him.

He was doing fine. The nurses in the recovery room were on their laptops with not a lot to do, and apparently their system kept them from their favorite crossword puzzles. They said Monsieur walked them through hacking around the controls.

He must have been pretty far gone to do that, since he’s all about network security. But it does say something about his recovery time that he could keep it together well enough to show the nurses how to hack the network.

He also looked over at me and whispered, “You know, we should be married.”

I looked over at the nurse, who looked away.

“I know,” I said.

He closed his eyes.

“You know,” the nurse said, “when that anesthesia wears off, they say things that they might mean but might not remember.”

“Oh, you heard that, did you?” I said, with a little grin.

She grinned back. “I don’t hear anything that they say in here, know what I mean?”

He had to be monitored for a while. Since they started so late, that meant an over night stay. I asked him what he needed from the house, cause Grandfather was going to visit with the kids.

“Bring the Linux notebook, okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. But the surgeon said not to bother bringing his computer, as Monsieur needed rest and wouldn’t remember asking me for it anyway.

By the time he was totally awake, the kitchen was closed. I went down and got him a spinach salad (no bacon) somewhere. We watched old movies on TCM, which made me nostalgic for cable or satellite TV. It was nice.

His pulse and BP got checked by the automatic monitor every 30 minutes or so. He had little plastic things taped to his chest with wires coming out of them.

Grandfather and the boys called to say they were better off staying at home if everything is okay, which it was. He talked to all the boys and told the Bigglest Boy that he had telemetry sensors on his chest, just like the astronauts did on Apollo 13.

He tried calling some of the people that work for him at his office, but I had called ahead and told them to watch the caller ID and not to answer if it was him, or from the hospital phone. He needed to be still. Everyone followed my orders and no one answered. He left some voice mails.

He sat back and watched On Dangerous Ground, some Ida Lupino film noir. I nodded off in the reclined chair next to his bed.

Around 2 AM I opened my eyes. He was out of bed, and still, Ida Lupino was on the screen. “Is this still the same movie?” I asked, sleepily.

“No,” he said, “it’s Beware, My Lovely.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This damnable BP cuff is inflating every 30 minutes, keeping me awake. I turned that off, but the alarm went off. I’m disabling the whole thing so I can get some sleep.”

“Oh,” I said. Then, “Are you sure you should be doing that?”

“If not, they can put it all back,” he said.

I didn’t argue. He switched off various switches, removed the cuff and the little red light clip from his finger, and wrapped it all up neatly into a coil and set it on top of the monitor.

The night nurse came, I guess at about 4 AM to check his vitals, I suppose since he was unhooked from the monitor. She wrapped the cuff around his arm, took his temp, checked his pulse. His eyes stayed closed.

“Pretty low,” she observed. “Ninety over fifty.”

“Normal, for when I am at rest,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“You gonna bury us all, honey,” she said to him, smiling.

“Not an attractive prospect,” he muttered, then turned over as she quietly slipped out the door.

The next morning, he was awake before me. The nurse had come in and told him he may as well eat breakfast, and there were no limits to what he could eat. He ordered an omelet with no cheese, then looked over at me and ordered me some juice and bagel and coffee.

We finished all that when the surgeon came in. He is from Spain, and Monsieur and he chattered in Spanish a bit, then in English, the doctor said that Monsieur would check out in about forty five minutes.

Monsieur got up, removed all of the sensors from his chest, and went into the bathroom.

I listened but didn’t hear any sound.

When he came out, he was started getting everything put into his over night bag. I helped.

“Why is it I never hear you in the bathroom?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he said, getting out his toothbrush.

“I never hear you pee. It’s like, silence. You can always hear guys pee.”

“Oh. Well. I sit down when I do that,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“You sit to pee?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Standing is a filthy habit, and I don’t do it. It splashes everywhere,” he explained, finally.

Hm. I wondered why the seat was never up.

Duplicity

I did something totally sneaky, duplicitous and behind the back.

No, I didn’t screw the mailman. Ours looks like Mayberry’s Floyd the Barber. A nice enough guy, but not my type.

OK, you know about Monsieur’s little heart flutter. Well, he will go in to the hospital on Tuesday for a transesophageal echocardiography (TEE) and then a radio frequency catheter ablation (Google links all, you sort it out) and his doctor says he’ll likely go home that day. Monsieur says he could easily handle getting a ride there and back all the way into South Austin Hospital. If he ends up staying the night, well, he’ll get a ride the next day or I and the boys could come pick him up later in the van, after school.

The hell he will.

I said someone could watch the kids while I run him in and back. He says it’s not necessary, as I’d have to find both a substitute for school plus a sitter; besides what if he ends up staying the night if the procedure runs long? Better for him to get a ride than have me tie up school, the kids, run the risk of getting stuck in Austin with him, etc.

The hell it is.

So, I went behind his back. I called J with 2 N’s and got her to take the class for the day. I told her what was going on and that I would make it up to her by taking her girls and my boys to the park or to the pool. J said forget about it, but she’d love to have us all over for a backyard barbecue picnic. I love J with 2 N’s.

Next mission – the possible overnight stay. I called the boys’ Grandfather, Maggie’s dad. I told him what was going on and that Monsieur said I should stay home while he went into South Austin Hospital for the day.

Grandfather’s exact words: “The hell you should. What’s he worried about, being a bother?”

“I think he’s worried about child care,” I explained. “It may run to an overnight stay.”

“I’m sorry, I like the guy but he’s a damn mule sometimes. Okay, Beautiful, [he always calls me Beautiful] here’s the plan.”

He would tell Monsieur that he’s visiting his friend in San Antonio the weekend before, and wants to visit with the boys on Tuesday and stay overnight, and leave the next day. He wouldn’t mention any hospital or anything to indicate that he knows what’s going on. Grandfather would be there, though, in case of the overnight stay, and is reasonably responsible enough to handle three boys for 48 hours if need be.

I laughed. “Sure you can handle Bigglest Boy?”

“Hell,” he snorted. “I raised Maggie; she was worse than ten boys and a wet wolverine. I’ll be fine. We’ll play musketeers and spaceships. Easy as pie.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Beautiful, the hardest part will be convincing their dad. You leave it to me. I’ll see you on Monday night. He won’t turn out their grandfather if I just show up.”

“You’re my hero,” I said. ‘I owe you one.”

“Oh, you hush,” he laughed. “I owe you seven ... thousand. Or more. Leave it to Grandfather. That’s what we’re for.”

I could cry.

How can you mend a broken heart?

I hadn’t mentioned here that there is one thing that I really, truly, and totally hate about Monsieur and about living with him, and it is this:

He does not get sick.

Really, and I mean never. This is frustrating, especially to me. I am beset by allergies, flus, viruses and the occasional heat rash. I get sick like clockwork every November, usually the 1^st or 2^nd week before Thanksgiving. I get the grass allergies in Spring and the mold allergies in December.

Monsieur, the mutant that he is, does not even get chapped lips.

For this, when I get a cold, I despise him and am forced to listen to him walking around and smugly not being sick while he wraps me in blankets, takes the day off to teach my class, and is generally so wonderful I feel like putting the toe of one of my Skechers straight up his genetically perfect ass.

A couple of weeks ago, he decided to do what he called a “cost-benefit analysis” of his life insurance, and consequently my health insurance, and see if he could pay a little bit more for a lot more coverage, and to start planning to use that policy to sock away a bit for the boys’ higher school.

I don’t know why, but I was thrilled. It made me feel like it was more real or something. I swear, once the seduction is complete, the way to keep hold of a woman’s heart is through including her in a regimen of sound financial planning. Try it sometime, guys; open up your portfolio to your lady, name her as a beneficiary, and see if you don’t maybe “get a piece of the rock” or two in exchange for it. If you know what I mean.

And of course, the extra coverage required a health exam. I’d just had mine last year and besides the colds & flus I mentioned above, I don’t have any health problems, so I wasn’t worried. I don’t smoke, I hardly ever drink anymore, and the last illegal drug I ever did was a hit off of a joint five years ago, and it put me to sleep faster than watching “The McLaughlin Report”. Monsieur, of course, chops firewood with a putty knife, lifts 14-point buck deer over his shoulder and can bend iron fireplace pokers with his bare hands, so I didn’t think much more of that, either.

The insurance company had me set an appointment to have a medical exam. The gray haired EMT lady who came to do it was almost apologetic that she had to take my blood and my pee, which I had to provide into a cup and then pour into three little test tubes. I did okay with that. My blood pressure was normal and all. I’d get results back and find out later. I still haven’t actually heard from them about that.

Monsieur had the whole work up at his regular doctor, since he is over 40. I don’t know that he has gone to the “regular doctor” in the whole time I’ve been here. I was actually surprised to hear that he had one. He had to do not only the whole blood/pee ordeal plus full medical exam, which I presume included the prostate (a gloved finger up the booty! you guys are so lucky), but also the doctor had him take an EKG.

Well, it showed he had this irregular rhythm. Specifically (and I heard this a few times) he has an “atrial flutter”.

Monsieur says it’s not a big deal and a lot of people go their whole lives with that sort of thing and it doesn’t affect them and often, like Monsieur, they show absolutely no symptoms at all.

His doctor referred him to a cardiologist, and the cardiologist had a specialist look at him, and he had to wear a little monitor for a day with wires taped to his chest, to record his heartbeat and see if it was a regular thing or just a freak thing.

Nope, said the little monitor, it’s a regular thing.

So, he went back and the cardio surgeon says that the best thing is to try a (I’m looking at this report to make sure I am spelling it right) “radiofrequency catheter ablation” on him, and see if that fixes it right up.

I’m okay, I really am. Mostly. Then I get this panicky feeling, like, what if it doesn’t fix it right up? Before they do that they’re going to do a bunch of ultrasound tests to see if he has a clot somewhere that’s causing it. What if there is? Well, depends on where it is, but likely they’d do a different kind of catheter procedure, yadda blah blah yadda.

It makes me see things in front of my eyes and not any of them are any good. If something were to happen to him what would happen to the boys? I mean, I’d be their guardian; we’d signed that stuff with the lawyer a while back and I am their guardian in case something like that should happen.

But that’s just not right. I’ve seen heart patients down at the gym and recently, at the cardio’s office. Those guys are either old, really old, and they can’t get up out of their chairs without a walker. Or they’re clinically and morbidly obese, and can’t get up out of their chairs without a forklift and a bit of petroleum jelly to unwedge them from between the arms.

Monsieur mows an acre of lawn with a reel mower. The old-fashioned kind. Not because he’s an environmentalist so much, but for the exercise, he says. He doesn’t have a leaf blower; he sweeps the driveway (which is about a quarter mile long) with a push broom. For The Exercise. Most people cut firewood with a chainsaw around here, but he uses a hand saw and an axe. Like, a full cord of cedar wood. A full cord of wood is about the size of a travel trailer. Monsieur cuts that much. By hand. Again, (say it with me) For The Exercise.

His procudures are scheduled for next Tuesday.

It’s not fair. Let me explain my reasoning:

Guys with his abs aren’t supposed to schedule procedures at the best cardio facility in central Texas at the age of 44. Guys with his abs are supposed to go like his grandfather did, until they’re 98, full throttle, after a full life of fighting the Kaiser and the Nazis, the Communist Chinese and Singapore Pirates and the freaking Green Goblin, building a family and raising them right and seeing them all go off and do the same, and putting in a full day of work Every God Damned Day until their kids make them go home and give it a rest, because they’ve earned it after securing the safety of the Free World, the blessings of liberty and the welfare of their loved ones.

Monsieur isn’t worried, and I shouldn’t be either, he says. Well, that’s easy for him to say, because he’s a fucking super hero. I’m just an ordinary mortal, and I will worry every minute until Monsieur’s done with this thing and three doctors say he’s all better and his hitherto fluttery heart is not being all emo and fluttery, and instead is beating like Danny Carey’s bass drum (from Tool – that’s a band, for you old and/or country guys), and just to make double sure, I will require that he cut down a forty foot cedar tree with one cut from his big Japanese saber. Then I might stop worrying.

the hardest, part ii

You remember last time:

He took me in his arms and picked me up, putting me over his shoulder and carrying me to the bedroom.

I was completely undressed and Monsieur still fully dressed. He even had on his shoes and tie. I kept pulling at his clothes, trying to unbutton or undress him. He would push my hands away, reaching for me. It became comical – we were actually wrestling over his clothing. I giggled and he pressed his advantage; finally he took my two hands in his and, taking his bathrobe from the hook on the closet door, he pulled the robe tie off and lashed my wrists together. He pulled the tie taught, stretching my arms over my head. I held my breath. My eyes were looking up at him, and he tied my wrists to the headboard.

I pulled at the bathrobe tie. It held.

“Shit,” I said. I looked up at him.

Monsieur got off the bed, leisurely. I tried to flip around to get up and get to the knot that held me down, but he growled, “Oh, will you, now?” and pulled my legs down. He took his necktie and tied my left ankle to the foot board, pulling it taught enough to straighten my leg as well.

“I might rip that,” I warned him, pulling at the necktie around my leg.

He removed his belt. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said, with a chuckle. He slapped the end of the belt against his palm.

“Oh, god, no,” I gulped, knowing that belt could sting. I didn’t want him to be angry at me for ripping his necktie. I held still.

“Fair enough,” he said. Yet, I still wanted a spank or two.

One leg was free and I moved it around to attempt to leverage the other one. I still thought I might undo the knot on my wrists. His back was turned and he was unbuttoning his shirt, fussing with the collar. I was flipped over and wriggling to the headboard with my free leg pushing me towards it.

Monsieur turned around and, seeing my escape attempt, pulled me down by my leg and tied my other ankle to the foot board – this time with the tie to my bathrobe – stretching me out face down with my arms tied up over my head and both my legs stretched out.

“Shit,” I said again.

Monsieur opened the closet door to put his belt away, then stepped into the closet.

When he came back, he held my new vibrator in his hand.

I turned and stared at it. I had no idea he knew I had it, as I keep all of my toys hidden away, under my winter clothes, in a box that’s wrapped up in a bag. Especially this one, since it looks so … indulgent.

It had been a gift from a blog reader, who will stay anonymous, and who remembered that my birthday was in May. The reader had looked over my wish list, saw the vibrator I picked out, and sent it to me. It had come with a note,

Dear Yearning Heart,
You’ve turned me on so much I just thought I’d return the favor, with much appreciation.

I loved it, the gift of it and the thought behind it. I even wrote a short review for Amazon for it. But of course I never mentioned the gift, or even the vibrator, to Monsieur. And now he held it in his hand, and I was tied to his bed.

He pulled me up to my knees, which stretched my arms out. My wrists were starting to hurt, but I didn’t care.

He felt at me, very gently touching my swollen vulva, pressing his hand against it. It burned, and the cold air hit my wetness as he opened me up. He looked at the vibrator, which has a set of controls, and turned on the vibrating part to a low setting. He touched it to me.

Normally when it’s on its lowest setting, I can barely feel it. But when he touched it to me it was as if I had been shot out of a catapult. I came suddenly, biting the pillow to stop from screaming, and feeling that I looked ridiculous, I was so embarrassed, I blushed bright red. Then I sneezed.

“Salud,” he said.

“Merci,” I replied.

He shoved the toy into me.

My legs pulled at the restraints and I tried so hard to push back against it, but I was well bound to the headboard, and quite at his mercy. He didn’t show very much. My body was out of my own control, and when he put it inside me, he turned it on high. He made the probe part turn on, and the little beads went around and around, and the probe twirled up and down, spiraling into me. Occasionally he would push it into me, which brought the little rabbit up to my clitoris. Then he would pull it out … and it would barely be inside me, hardly touching me at all.

In ten minutes I was almost out of breath. My entire sex was so swollen I could barely handle it being touched.

He turned the toy off, and set it on the night stand.

Standing up, he began to undo his shirt and and remove his shoes. He put his shirt and socks carefully in the laundry hamper. He folded his pants neatly and considered them. “I could wear those again, I should think,” he said to himself.

I pulled at the bathrobe tie that held my wrists. It held fast.

He opened the closet door, found a hanger and hung up his trousers. He retrieved my vibrator from the nightstand and set it on the counter by the bathroom vanity. Then, he finally slipped off his boxer shorts.

He was magnificently hard, and It pointed at me, curved up like a boomerang. I could see his pulse in It, the flare of Its head, and my mouth felt dry. I licked my lips.

He leaned over me, brushed the hair from my face and kissed me softly. I responded hungrily.

“You know,” he whispered into my ear, “I just might take you now.”

“Um, okay” I croaked weakly.

He leaned over me to lower the lamp, and I pulled my leg mightily on the necktie, and it finally ripped away from the foot board. I could then move up to the knotted bathrobe tie that held my wrists and bite at it, pulling it apart with my teeth. He watched as I did this, amused at me, but I worked quickly and got my wrists free from their restraint.

“Nicely done,” he said, admiringly.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said softly, pushing him back and attacking his cock with my mouth. Up and down the shaft my mouth went, but in trying to suck the head in I soon found that it wouldn’t fit at all in its state.

He turned me over, face down, untying the other bathrobe tie that was still on one ankle, and he lifted my butt up and held me by the hips, and It slid into me so slowly and so precisely, like a glacier moving. He held me by my hips, partly for leverage, and partly to keep me from impaling myself on It all at once.

I could hear myself slish as he went in, and I was so sensitive and swollen from before, that it’s tight down there. Very tight; so tight it hurt. Then, as he had It in as much as he could go, he held It there. He held me by my hips, preventing me from moving. He reached under me and found my right nipple, and as he held It buried inside me, he pulled on that nipple with two fingers, stretching it out, not using his thumb, just holding it between his middle and ring finger, letting it pop out between them lazily. He did this three or four times, letting the nipple pop out. He then pulled It out halfway, and positioned his hips so that we were only making contact at one point.

I let go with my hands, and reached down between us to feel that point where we joined. It felt so stretched. I started moving back, then forward, and he held It there for me to use like a toy, and I moved against it and let go totally and buried my face in the pillow and writhed and pushed back, until I felt something bump inside, and I knew there was no more to go, I couldn’t go any further, and I rubbed myself and moved my hips, sort of shimmying my ass up and down, totally being selfish, thinking, well if he’s not even going to try to get himself off, fuck it.

It started to feel like it might be getting sore down there, like it was getting dry or something, and I said, “Something’s hurting.”

He held his hand on the base of my back, and began to withdraw it.

“Noooo!” I cried like the brat that I am, but he got behind me and put his tongue in there, and OHHHH it was so good, like water on a hot griddle.

I came again, very hard, and I thought I may have accidentally wet the bed, but I was too far gone to care.

“Are you done?” he said.

“NO!” I said sharply, then, more gently, “I mean. Not if you’re not!”

I turned over and pulled him to me, and my arms went around him, and my legs went around him, and then I reached between us and put It back where It belonged. It felt so good. The hot sensation was gone and it was just perfect.

He finally took me and he let go, as I buried my face in his chest, watching his stomach muscles clench and flex, as I whispered to him encouragingly, “Take it … take it … you’re so good, so good, so wonderfully good... can I be yours? Let me be all yours,” and he looked at me and said, “you’re mine,” and I rubbed myself and whispered hoarsely ‘vraiment? Encore?’ and he said, ‘toujours’ and I came again as he put my legs over his shoulders and just let go as I had my hand around the base of It; I could feel the pulse of his orgasm bubble up through It and into me, and I thought to myself, whatever happens, I am not going to forget this. Not ever.