Different places, different pages in our lives, the mechanics of sex can be very different.
There was a period in my life, about eight or nine years ago, when Mr Hunt and I needed to be really creative. I had already proven to be ridiculously easy to get pregnant. With two young and boisterous children at home we were not ready to add a third, but neither were we willing to make that decision permanently. I’d had years on the pill as a teenager to combat appalling PMT, and didn’t want to fuck up my new finely tuned mental health balance by fiddling with the hormone settings again, and condoms and me…we don’t get on. Not long term…and not after those glorious windows of time when he could come in me with impunity, in the glorious anti-taboo moments of being married and trying to start a family.
Sex could have become something stale or even worse, disposable, in the changing challenges of being a family, but it seemed too important to become a victim of over-familiarity and exhaustion, so instead we experimented.
Secure in our relationship, I could admit sex didn’t need to follow any sort of plan that included tit for tat orgasms. In fact, I quite liked it if my orgasm was inconsequential or even better ignored. Becoming a parent, especially the breast feeding, had changed my relationship with my body and “sexy” felt different than it had before and I needed to be honest about that.
Before, I would have found it much harder to admit I wanted to be used.
I wanted to be a hole he could fuck. To be a toy, not a mother.
By necessity of avoiding pregnancy, and a whole lot of creativity, I became his spunk splattered whore.
PIV sex was emotionally hard, instead of being the one step shop it had been before. I could never relax and enjoy it in the way I wanted to. I wanted to trust Mr Hunt in everything, wanted to trust he would never get carried away and come in me, but I couldn’t. Then would get really cross at myself for not quite being able to have faith in him, even though as he admitted it, it was a calculated risk.
He loves anal sex. And so do I… but with the proviso of prep. After years of access to a vagina that pretty much did all the prep itself we were lazy. It couldn’t replace the “just having a sleepy cuddle that finishes with sex” sex, nor the “just woken up and have time for a quickie” sex.
I became a fan of feeling him come on me. Any part of me.
That hot splash of jizz that conferred he still wanted me despite the rainbows of stretch marks and the night feeds and that he wanted me respectful of our decision to not have another child right now, despite knowing he’d rather be buried in my cunt or my arse.
The snake trails of dried cum that marked me as his life choice.
I think necessity increased our freedom to get messy.
I love a cock in my mouth. In preparation for full-on adulthood, getting to grips with the social skills needed to have a sex life, I identified being able to give a damn good blow job was a necessary life skill. Cosmo had a new article on it every month and I had studiously read every tip, then found friends I could practice on.
I cringe as I write that. I wish I could go back and tell 17 year old me that all those little party tricks were not the thing that was going to find me someone who loved and appreciated me, but then, confidence and bravado go a long way when you start dating. I still am the type of person to read the manual before I get a toy out of its box.
It came as a surprise when I first met the lovely Mr Hunt, that blow jobs are not his favorite thing. But that was ok…
…I didn’t want to give him a blow job. Didn’t want to give him some sort of carefully orchestrated performance of lips and tongue and the tiniest hint of teeth.
I wanted him to fuck my face.
The gagging, choking, overwhelming peacefulness of being used.
And then it didn’t matter if I liked it when he came down my throat, or preferred it when he nearly pulled out and coated my tongue to make sure I registered every bitter, salty splash.
Whether he deliberately pulled out to paint my lips and make me hold position for long seconds without licking them clean.
When he’d bark the instruction to keep my eyes open, and I ‘d have front row seats to twitching spasms of his ejaculating cock inches from my face or when he’d cover my eyes and leave me with the whispered friction of hand and skin, punctuated with the tightly controlled pants and grunts of a man who knows the benefits of a near silent fuck, before wiping his spent cock clean in my hair.
We are years past this point in our lives now. Things have moved on. He has had a vasectomy giving us the freedom to have PIV sex without the risk of pregnancy. We no longer need a silent fuck to simply be about not waking the baby…although silent fucks are undoubtly hot. And it is rare for him to come anywhere but deep inside me.
It was only when I read the prompt for this post that I realized we were in a different place and on a different page of our sexual journey.
I think, maybe, they are places and pages that are worth revisiting.