It’s your anniversary. Each year, the responsibility falls on you to come up with a gift that is thoughtful and awe-inspiring. In addition, you are expected to somehow finagle procuring dinner reservations at a Michelin rated establishment that is known for serving their patrons precisely 4 ounces of meat on a grossly oversized platter! It’s a lot to orchestrate and you’re understandably beyond tired of this gig. You knew this was all part of what you agreed to when you said “I do” but back then, the fire was burning hot.
On special occasions like this, you’re both able to conjure up a small remnant of the original passion you once shared for long enough to do a tad more than just tolerate each other. You usually go through the motions of making love and pretend to stare into each other’s eyes; it’s a pretend version of a lovely night. Some years, your wedding anniversary may even include a blowjob (big emphasis on “may”). Then for a few days after, you tell yourself that you feel a wee bit closer to her, and your eye doesn’t wander quite as much.
This year, the weather is dreary, threatening to storm as the sun goes down. Your wife is at her sister’s an hour away when the thunder strikes and the clouds open up. She texts you to tell you that she’s not going to risk the drive and will be staying the night at her sister’s place. You’re not terribly disappointed to hear this news because it means that the awkward pretending has been postponed. You situate yourself on the couch, resigning yourself to another blah night of television and jerking off.
After enduring 15 minutes or so of boredom, you hear a knock at the door. When you open the door, yours truly is right before you on your porch! You stand there paralyzed, shocked that I actually drove in the downpour to come over. “Are you going to let me in, babe? I’m getting soaked!”
I march past you, dripping water from my body onto your floor. You rush to get me a towel. I start to take off my top when you stop me, asserting that you’re determined to be loyal to your wife tonight. You desperately try to convince yourself of the words that are spewing from your lips. You go on to tell me that things seem to have taken a turn for the better of late. I half-heartedly smile and say “Okie-dokie, artichokie” (insert eye roll).
After conversing for a few minutes, I see that you’re attempting to be serious and that you are nervous in my presence (which I’ve seen plenty of times from you before). “Let me just dry off and relax for an hour, then I’ll leave if you like.” You agree. “Thanks, babe,” I say and flash you a sexy smile. Hearing me call you “babe” caused your cock to involuntarily start twitching. You stand there for a moment, staring at my boobs through my skin-tight t-shirt. There are no words required; my nipples are doing all of the talking. They are commanding a silent but significant conversation all on their own.
After a short while of sitting on your couch together just engaging in idle conversation, I mention that you could use a haircut. When you agree with me, I insist that you let me cut it for you. We go to your kitchen, where I situate you on a chair. I drape the towel that you gave to me earlier over your shoulders while pressing my erect nipples up against you as I smooth out the towel.
With your electric razor, I start to chip away. My hand feels amazing as it caresses your head. You feel your cock begin to grow, but you’re still attempting to maintain a newfound sense of ahem…loyalty (more like willpower). “My goodness, your hairs seem to be sticking to my damp top,” I say as I back away, making quite sure that you have a clear view of my tatas.
Without the slightest whimper of protest from you, I peel off my damp, clingy tee and show you how persuasive my tits are when they are bursting out of my bra. I let out a tiny giggle as you stare at them silently. “No complaints, baby?” You shake your head, afraid of what you might say if you spoke any words. I press your face to my cleavage as I work on the back of your head (back, front, sideways, it’s just fucking beautiful). After another minute or so, I declare myself finished.
“That’s it?” you ask in a needy voice.
“Well, I could shave it all off. Then we’d have to continue for a few minutes more.” The thought of my heaving cleavage in your face trumps the thought of you having to explain to your wife why you no longer have any hair and that, of course, is beyond exhilarating to me.
You’re not able to deny me. I proceed to take your hair from you, slowly running my fingers along your face and fluttering them across your shoulders while I remain focused on the real issue at hand (my cock).
I unhook my bra from the front and liberate my beautiful breasts by setting them free. I always derive divine pleasure in the life force my tits emit! I grin at you as I watch your eyes bulge out and your cock go from “growing” to rigid.
“Can I suck on them, Ashlee?” you ask in a tone that is indicative of a drug addict begging for a fix. I politely say “No”, reminding you of your resign to stay dedicated to your significant other.
You respond by grabbing both of my hips and pulling me in towards you. Your mouth fully opens, your eyes close, and you bring my left breast to your lips, encircling it with your longing tongue. I cradle the back of your smooth head, “Yes babe, you can suck on my tits. You can always suck on my tits. In fact, my tits are here for you and you alone, so suck away, baby, suck!”
You pull your face back for a moment and gratefully look up at me. “Thank you, Ashlee.”
I pet your shiny head as I look down into your eyes. I take a moment to savor the unspoken connection that we share. I firmly push your head back down onto my chest where it belongs.
There’s nothing sexier than seeing you horny and defeated, nuzzled up against my full bosom.
Tonight marks us. It’s no longer her day to claim with you. It’s ours.
I just love building new traditions together, my strapping, bald, beau.