Easy Like Sunday Morning

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Sundays are sacred time for Lo. No, it’s not the Lord’s day for her, it’s leisure day — one day of the week when she stays in bed till almost noon, has me bring her the Sunday paper in bed, has me make her breakfast in bed, and usually just has me in bed. This particular Sunday was no different, with one exception.

As I have doubtless mentioned before, Lo and I are not on the same Circadian rhythms. Her prime time is between eight and midnight and mine is between nine in the morning and noon. I, gentlemanly scholar that I am, enjoy a nap, a little siesta, around one p.m., right after lunch. Even with that nap, unless I have a late afternoon cappuccino, it’s early to bed for me. Lo, on the other hand, doesn’t even begin to feel fully awake until around seven p.m. when she’s usually dolling herself up for some party. By nine or ten, she’s ready for a romp that could last a few hours. I’m as good a gone by then.

So this lazy Sunday morning, after Lo’s breakfast and as she was going through her morning paper with her coffee, I entered the bedroom — or shall we say, a certain part of my anatomy entered the bedroom before the rest of me.

“Uh oh,” said Lo, looking over at my protruding pajama bottoms and the devilish look on my face, “what is going on there?”

“You know, it’s my time,” I responded, climbing into bed with her, trying to not mess her paper.

“No, Daddio, not now. I’m still waking up.”

“Come on,” I pleaded, “now is a good time.”

“Later.”

“There’s no better time than the present.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

“Later.”

“There might not be a later.”

“Oh, trust me, there will be a later later.”

“But there’s also a now now.”

“You’re impossible!”

“You’re impossibly sexy!”

Now, dear reader, you may be surprised by Lo’s coquettishness in this little dance of desire and demure, but I assure you, Lo had every intention of giving in. Since she is the one begging for cock — any cock — nine out of every ten times, she likes to relish in the rare instance of the role reversal. I knew this. She knew it. We both played the roles to the hilt and so this went on for some time before she finally acquiesced to my ever more insistent demands.

“Fine!” she said, begrudgingly.

“Great,” I said with glee, “take your pants off, spread your legs and let me in!”

She did as told and she lay there like a passive vessel merely to be used. She didn’t move, she didn’t moan, she didn’t speak. She lay on her back quietly as I went at her furiously. You see, another thing that I know about my dear Lo, she likes to be the preferred method of masturbatory relief. This too was an act of hers that, judging from the serious secretions lubricating my thrusts between her legs, was enjoyably played.

I pulled out at the crucial moment and quickly made my way up to her face where I discharged all my morning’s pent up energy. She greedily opened her mouth to receive my tribute to her collection basket. When I was done, I dutifully cleaned her off and praised her and thanked her profusely.

“Did you like it?” I asked, knowing full well that she did.

“Mmmm hmmm,” she said with a small smile, “You know how much I like to be used. I only wish you had tied me up,” she added before returning to her paper.

[From the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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