Sex Du Jour: A Sexual Bliss Collection

It is so humorous and funny and side-splitting and waggish and jocose that sometimes I feel like mewling and howling and howling my eyes out because of it, don’t you? I have a peculiar and eccentric and porangi mania and phobia and hobbyhorse with Stian’s underclothes and the alike unmentionables, don’t you? Occasionally and from time to time and every so often, I believe that I am foolhardy and idiotic and quixotic for it, don’t you opinion and hold that too yourself? The manner and style and fashion that his underwear or smalls embrace and twine round and brace on to his seductive, irresistible, and alluring bottom and thighs and impeccable light-like skin itself—it implodes and splits apart and to nonexistence my senses and aura and smarts all in all. Doesn’t it to you?

Yes. Stian and I are tonight going to fuck and funk and turn tail with him dressed in his snazzy, stylish, dashing, and ritzy underwear. That is very good and cracking schmick, aren’t you of the similar and alike view? I do so myself; yeah, I assuredly and for certain do. Accept it or not. Hmnnn. Stian’s underclothing is the most jazzy and schmick and flashy and attractive kind that I have ever seen. Ever, I mean.

I am peering and monitoring on him as he stands vertical and upright and on his feet not a mile or great distance away from where I am slumped and lolled and drooped on our monstrous, mountainous, and behemoth bedstead or couch bunk. Yeah. He is frocked and garmented in nothing but his sensual and voluptuous and come-hither and beddable underclothes or men’s lingerie. Yeah. If you did not have knowledge of it, men have their own sort and type and brand of lingerie and their own frillies or smalls too. Yeah. That is just the fashion and way and style that it is! Yup!

I am spellbound and entranced. In what respect and custom and manner, you may puzzle and cudgel your brains? I don’t exactly know; I am just in awe and fascination and stupefaction and wonderment. Exactly. That approach and technique and mode that you can only baffle and bemuse and faze at. Or cannot you do that?

As Stian nestled and perched and located himself—still erect and standing up on his two busy and energetic and bustlingly strenuous feet—in a standpoint and viewpoint where he was capable and qualified to place and set and lay his hands on the expensive, wide, and large window of our spacious and voluminous bedroom itself, he toned and voiced out to me behind, “Does my spartan and unfussy white shirt and raven-shaded underwear every time and unfailingly hold you spellbound and gripped and enthralled at me? Does it, Ragnhild?”

I am overcome and staggered and struck dumb as if hit by a ton bricks that I specifically and particularly have knowledge or the slight hint or clue of what to respond back to him. What is it that I must cluelessly say to him? What literally? I don’t know at all…or do you?

“Why are you day in, day out—on every occasion and aye—fond of putting on black underwear and nothing latest and ultramodern?” As I ask him this, and note him swinging and swerving round his head back to me, I make sure and certain and positive that I switch and wheel round my head to fly the coop and skedaddle from coming face to face and eye to eye with him. And boy, do I triumph and prevail in doing that? Doubtlessly and beyond the trace of a misgiving.

With my head fixated upward toward the towering and elevated ceiling above and my eyes made fast and stuck sideways in a route and track and bearing opposing and adverse Stian, I gulp and slurp saliva down my throat, thinking and questioning myself on what his feedback and counterblast to that will be. What truly and precisely? What veraciously?

“Is not my underwear and underclothing habitually and on every occasion very sensuous and kissable and beddable? We were of the same mind and opinion that things should be this way…after all, that you have always wished and desired for. I clothing myself in assuredly and positively erotic and bedroom-arousing underwear and smalls. And I in turn get you to wear those flirtatious and titillating and naughty bras and underpants that I very much and without exception want to see you frocked and geared in. Tell me, Ragnhild. Is my raven underwear not arousing and come-hither enough to you for you to ask me that?”

I feel shabby and tattered and scruffy and frayed with myself. Damn it! Why is Stian querying and posing all of this to me? Why?

“I didn’t say that, Stian,” I retort and counter to him slickly and awkwardly. Of course. What better thing and deed than doing this? What else, huh? I add on, “All I made a comment on is that you are amorous and doting on putting on dark-colored underwear. Why are you so affectionate and indulgent of the color black so much, huh? Why, Stian?”

He scrapes or scratches and claws at his whiskers or mustachio at that. Goodness! What riposte and comeback am I going to receive at him? What exactly? I wonder…I am only curious and conjecturing. Dammit!

“I will respond to that only after we have fucked and banged early this morning, Ragnhild. Do you understand?”

“Yes, overlord,” I reply feebly and effetely. To be decent and veracious with you, I am not truly and in fact ready for this…another course and round and series of morning fuck episodes and acts…but it turns out that I have no selection and preference and pick of my own, or do I? Seemingly and apparently not so.

Who-oo-ooh! I sigh in and out, shifting and transposing about my position on the giant, bulky, and ponderous bed. Yeah. I canst not now have knowledge of how I am going to be fucked and spanked heartlessly and cruelly, or do I? Nay—I don’t.

“How are we going to fuck this time around, mister?” I query and interrogate Stian whilst whirling and spinning and twirling myself smoothly and softly. I love sex…but not this time around. This feels like enforced and mandatory or unwilling sex on my piece and share to be trustworthy and decent with you. My husband…my man and partner and spouse and significant bidie-in other all in all—I can’t oppose or rebuff or deny him anything, can I? No way! Even if it means I wound and cut and scrape and gash and bruise myself, I would willingly and contentedly do it for him. My delight and joy lies in seeing him blest and gay and floating on air and stoked; my suffering and discomfort and agony and sorrow and hardship thrives and flourishes and super-abounds so long as I see and note him in pain and soreness and hurt and irritation. And it will habitually and customarily be so as long as I stay and remain in love with him.

I am nude and stripped starkers. Fully undraped and in my birthday suit even. Yeah. If it were not for these coverlet rugs and bed sheets and coatings concealing and screening a great lot deal of my golden and fine-complexioned body, Stian would be by now entirely and effusively feasting his eyes and getting a load of my entire buck-naked self, don’t you agree with me.

He strides and wanders toward me from the window where he was taking his stand at inchmeal and leisurely. While still tramping and stepping toward me, he notifies and briefs me, “Peel and take off those sheets away from you, Ragnhild. I wish and fancy to gaze at my wife in her birthday suit and nothing else.”

I do like I am told. Submissively and dutifully. As Stian takes a seat and perches himself next to me on the bed, still inspecting and looking over me, he stirs his hand to my vagina and pets and fingers it for a split second. In that split second, my eyes drift and roam up, my body crooning and trilling and warbling in delight and satisfaction. Yeah. Stian is lord and chief and captain at just giving me that ideal delectation and gladness and contentment and bliss that I long and pine for the most. He is so…amazing and gee-whizz and connoisseur and jaw-dropping at this.

“Shall I provide you with more of this atmosphere and feel?” He questions me while he glances and stares at me in that very sensual and erotic way and fashion. I cannot battle against not giving or surrendering in to this lechery and lust and lasciviousness that is fast bearing down and jam-squeezing itself against me. Yes. The air is lusty and rich and flourishing and overflowing with sensuality and wantonness and thirst and appetence; and canst I do anything ’bout it? Nay!

“Yes,” I murmur and speak in hushed tones to Stian. “Yes, Stian. Present and furnish and bestow me with more and more of this. Please do it, my love.”

“Great,” he says sotto voice and utters under his breath this to me. I have a weakness for his sugary, flavorsome, and lip-smacking voice. I have a preference for its well-heeled and plenteous pitch and tonality. I am obsessed and preyed on in my mind and thrown uppermost deep in my thoughts with its modulation and low-pitched volume and intonation. Aren’t you as well?

I wait and pause and tarry and look forward to…the forthcoming and at hand moment when Stian is going to place and prop and stow his fingers into my vagina and rub and pet it. Yeah. I crave and long for him to do that so very much. And boy, does he accomplish and transact it. Nay—to my shock and turn-up from the books and bombshell. What is he waiting for, huh? What strictly?

He slithers and creeps onto our bed where he writhes and drags himself on all fours until he has his face stationed in the route of my clitoris and his knees and feet and arched and warped and tortuous back farther away from me. Yeah. It seems he is going to scoff and gobble and munch and polish off my pussy and vulva and cunt with his very own mouth and tongue, or will not he?

“Stian,” I wheeze and gasp out his name, getting up and making ready myself for what is to come. Tongue sex and taste sex and more of stroking sex. Will it be too nice and pleasing and lekker? Just like before? I am not absolutely sure…and so are you not certain and convinced about it, I fathom.

Arghhhh…His tongue is entombed and sepulchered deep into my vagina, brooming and sweep brushing about, flicking and stroking inside. My goodness. This is just too awe-inspiring and impressively intimidating, is not it? What is he singles out and cherry-picks gnawing and tearing and nipping my pussy-cunt with his all-too razor-sharp and jagged and serrated teeth. No, he will not be sardonic and trenchant enough to do that. If he does it, then I without question and assuredly and doubtlessly will avenge myself. I will also rent and chew and gnaw and nibble and masticate his big, long dick with my own keen and cutting teeth. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

As he lolls and reclines down on my bed while brushing and vacuuming and scrubbing his tongue inside of my vagina, I shove and thrust myself upward-like, wholly and effusively and truly delighted and given tickle-turning-pink pleasure and bliss and contentment to. What else could be better than this? What scrupulously and unerringly?

My goodness! He is licking and lapping and clobbering me faster and too faster, grazing and stroking and fondling my rocklike, stony-akin nipples as he does so. I like the way his hands and fingers are making a move and brushing my pimples and gigantic and extensive boobies themselves. It is all too amusing and gratifying and to my liking, isn’t it? It assuredly and without fail is.

“Stian,” I weep and sob and wail out, all too pleased and satisfied and contented and over the moon.

“You are the sweetest thing ever that I have come to taste and relish and smack in my life,” he takes a break and enjoys a breather just for a little while so he can state and assert this to me. Holy fuck! This is bliss and happiness and delectation indeed on my part and portion. If I will not croak and give up the ghost all because of it, then I by all fair means and with clean hands know what it is that is precisely going to take place and ensue up to me, or do you?

Who-ow-wie! In a surely dove-like and benign and mild way, Stian keeps on at beating and belting and slapping and bashing his tongue into my clitoris, initiating and whipping up in me these too sweetened and treacly feelings and sentiments and spirits that I cannot without much trouble put into words, neither can I explicate and throw light to you on what exactly and indubitably they are composed of. My body warbles and blows the sing-song and toneless whistle noiselessly and softly. I cannot breathe in or out for an instant. No, I cannot.

As Stian’s hands touch and graze and brush and skim my breasts all the more faster and rapidly and hurriedly and briskly, I icen up and harden and become solid and glaciated for a while, likely and perhaps and in all probability flown and soared off my way into more superior and desirable and design and style and version of an unblemished and impeccable heaven. Yes. This is it. I am in Valhalla; I am in the Happy Valley; I am in the Elysium or Elysian fields. Have you jetted and winged your way here too with me? Have you?

I seek to breathe; I make an effort at accomplishing that so very much hard and laborious; in fact, I break my neck and knock myself out over it. I can’t breathe. No—I cannot. What is coming about to me? What exactly? Goodness, I am passing away and giving up the ghost. Presto like a bat from hell and like a flash and at the rate of knots and even lightning itself. Help! Help! Somebody assist me please! Whenever I unclose and gape wide ajar my mouth to yell and shriek that out, I find and detect no vigor and wellness in me with which to hollo and holler that out. What is happening to me? Am I kicking the bucket and popping my plogs whilst delighting and reveling in sex here?

The world around me blurs and becomes smoky and foggy like. Through torrenting and flash flooding tears, I catch a decrepit and effete glimpse of Stian as he slaps and wallops and bashes his tongue in and out of me, feeling and stroking and grazing my bosoms and boobies and tits with his hands the hell lot faster and quicker as he does the earlier and aforesaid. This is the greatest and most long form of big O or orgasm that I have undergo and encounter in my life. Ever, I mean. Holy goodness. When will it quickly and speedily resolve and dissolve back to nonbeing and nonexistence? When precisely? Of course…I cannot take or bear it anymore.

Whoops. At final last…the tongue-taste brushing and lapping thing or case is finished and ended with. It sure and without lack of conviction and irresolution is. At least for now it is. Stian has me sprawl and couch and recumbent down on our bed atop an extensive and bulky and stellar pillow, and with my hands hurled and cast and lobbed away from each other, he hurls and tosses and tilts himself on top of me, and the instant that his body comes into adjoining and within-sniffing-distance span and width from mine, I seize and nab and capture his buttocks behind which are draped and garbed and dolled up in so fleecy and velvety like a baby’s bottom underwear and under-gear. I orgasm fleetingly and sigh and gasp in deeply and gravely  from just that. Yes. It is so lovely and nice and lekker indeed. Don’t you opinion so?

Having made a rip or slash or lance on the front or facet of his underwear either with a knife or whatever sharp razor or cutting thing it may be, Stian draws and hauls his titanic, jumbo dick and schlong, and having stretched and unbent and extended it so as to jerk and wrench and tweak and shake it about satisfactorily and hurriedly and in silence so that it topples and tips out semen and male gamete on my legs and clitoris and thighs, he points and sites the head of John Thomas on my vulnerable but keen-as-mustard Vagina who can’t help but turn into a ball and chunk of sugar and honey the minute that ensues. Orgasm Number Three if I am not incorrect and in error, is it not it? Yeah…it certainly and positively and without question must be so. That is what I esteem and anticipate myself. Assuredly.

Huh! Gradually and steadily, and taking his time by leisurely degrees, Stian climaxes or ejaculates inside and outside of me, at a snail’s pace and in his own good time. Whenever he sneaks and ghosts his Mr. Goliath-alike dong into me, pant and blow my breath in, slanting and tilting down on the jumbo and yet feathery cushiony pillow underneath me. Each time that he ejects or boots out his unbendable erect penis out of me, I wheeze and heave out, getting up and straightening myself up from the pillow beneath me. Sex is way far too fantastic and five-star, don’t you believe so as well?

“You are saccharine and honeyed, Ragnhild,” Stian murmurs and mumbles under his breath to me, pleasantly and harmoniously and beautifully even. I do not answer him. I am dazzled; I am spellbound; I am enraptured and so beguiled that I cannot rack my brains or weigh up anything in my mind at all. “You are sweet, Ragnhild.” He iterates and recapitulates this time around again, mumbling and sotto voicing more rowdily and ear-splittingly and clamorously. “You are more sweet and sugary than honey or sugar itself, my love.”

Oh no! Has it come to that now? Has it?

He builds up and snowballs speed as he carries on with out fucking, pressing forward and toppling out abundantly semen into me, delighting and gratifying and tickling me pink all over. I catch and grasp and latch on toward myself all the more tighter and firmer his burly and bulky and pretty and winning and velvety and silky like bottom and arse. Arghhhh! I love and cherish and bow down to this so very much. I unquestionably and indubitably revel and delight in all this. Don’t you?

Stian…Stian…Stian…my beloved, my angel, my sweetheart, my dear one, my inamorata. It is all that I can get myself ponder and cerebrate and brood on. All I can handle and preside to cogitate and rack my brains on.  

Stian’s buns and haunches and hindquarters shake and jiggle and wag and wiggle behind at too extensive pace and tempo and velocity. Yeah…yah…I only and powerlessly and vulnerably prance and swing and jig and frolic and cavort and bob up and down to their tune and song and theme and music. What can frustrate and hold me back from so doing? What precisely? What can even repress and hinder and bar us from fucking and romping up each other right now? Call and name it loud and boomingly enough if you can.

Sex…is…smash…cracking…and…sensational…indeed…

At length last, Stian comes to a halt and standstill. He certainly and come what may and inevitably does. I pant; I catch my breath; I gulp; and I fight for my usual and typical and routine form of breathing. Before he makes a furthermore and into-the-bargain stir, I slap and tap and stroke his stellar, bulky, fleecy and feathery like a baby’s bottom and inviting and sexy butts which are enshroud and hooded with all too pleasant and pleasurable to touch and brush underwear and underclothing.

Whilst we set foot and make an entrance into our succeeding and next round and phase of sex, Stian and I have tête-à-tête or discourse…call it chatty or colloquial or conversational reproduction if you have a preference for that…

First, he grumbles and bitches out vociferously, “These rugs or coverlets that you call blankets are bleak and chilly and biting, Ragnhild. Can you please bend over backwards so that you can reorganize and restyle and swap them for something better and more lekker and delectable?”

I heatedly and furiously fling back at him, “Why must you day in, day out kick up a fuss on whenever we are having sex, Stian?”

He twitters and giggles, “I belly-aching whenever we are having sex. That is nuts and not-the-full-shilling, Ragnhild. Now do like I have commanded you!”

I grimace and knit my brows. “Sorry, overlord. But I am not making a move out of this blanket. Positively not so.”

Stian gets ptight and raving with me for that. “How dare you have the balls to refute me of my officialdom and government over you, you slavey of a woman? Good. I will pull of that myself. You believe I am bedridden and incapacitated to not be qualified to do anything. Well, if that is what is going on in your mind, then you are absolutely and unquestionably misled and wide-off-the-mark about me.”

I contend back, wrenching him more closer and intensely tighter to myself. “You are not scaling or clambering away from me, do you hear that? You will carry that out only after you have butchered and whacked me dead.”

He rolls and twirls his eyes, rustling and sighing raucously out at the same time. “What would you give your eyeteeth for just for me to do, woman?”

I spin and revolve my eyes back at him, ridiculing him as I wheeze out stridently too. “Just keep on fucking me. You are not going anywhere until you wrap up to conclusion what you have started here. In fact, I won’t license and flash you the green light to do whatever it is that you feel like until you have rounded off and brought to a definite conclusion this crucial, no-laughing-matter commerce and merchandising of ours.”

He gulps and pants out irately. “Women. What the hell is in-error and even unsound with you?”

Nonetheless, to chop-hack an extensive yarn short, he carries on to fuck and fuck and fuck me…which is what I exactly and precisely feel an intimate need for right now. Hours afterwards…

I myself, twiddling and spinning my eyes in fury and a fierce fit of temper. “Why have you quit fucking me, Stian?”

He snarls and shows his knackered, ready-to-drop teeth. “I am dead beat and zonked to near curtains, Ragnhild. I noticed and observed that you were so hushed and still, with your eyes shut and fastened close, and I was starting to hold out and believe that you were already in sleep and slumber.”

I roll in the aisles momentarily. “I can never take a nap in the course of sex and not wake up, Stian. Now stick on to our trading. I am not yet filled and appeased. Keep up with the fucking and cum-pumping.”

He laments, “I am so spent and done in, Ragnhild. I can’t stick on with this. Please understand me.”

I glare and frown at him. Loudly bellowing: “That is the most brain-dead and doltish thing that I have ever heard. Are you not more of a sterling, original, Herculean and stout man rather than being less of an ass jerk and nincompoop. Don’t let me down, Stian. Don’t fail me please.”

He concurs reluctantly: “I will try, Ragnhild. But I am not pledging and avowing you anything. Not a word or any slight utterance whatsoever.”

Minutes thereafter…

I myself, seeming very occupied and tireless with the love-making underneath the somewhat frosty blankets, can rarely feel the cold at all. Maybe it is because Stian’s body is pressed on top of mine, balmy and yet shuddering from chills. I call smoothly nice, “Stian.”

He replies straight away, “Yes, Ragnhild.”

I tell him, “I want to ‘fess up something. Would you not take offence at it?”

His tone is so sickly and effete. It is now mid-noon, I imagine, following a whole morning of fucking and screwing and hammering each other in our bed. “What is it?”

I spill the beans to him, “You primarily say that I have insomnia nowadays. It is not insomnia actually. I can’t sleep until past midnight due to the function and work of some sleep-bereaving pills that I took a couple days ago. They cease to be in operation only after three full weeks have slipped by. Purporting that for at least an estimated twenty-one days, we will barely be sleep except for

 fucking and fucking all the way through.”

Thee screwing or sexual intercourse or going-to-bed intimacy or shag fucking that Stian presents and supplies and bestows unto me is just mind sweeping and buffeting and blasting all in all. He is the lord of fucking and screwing; the skipper or captain or overseer of any sex co-allied sport or game or recreation. He certainly and absolutely and positively and come hell or high water is. In my opinion and judgment and way of thinking, no one fucks or nails the pussy and cunt or humps and bonks and shags off far better than he does, or is there a different and variant baas and lord and governor and head of sex out there? Is there? I by fair means and with clean hands don’t frankly and genuinely know…and I don’t plainly and frankly believe and conceive that there is a most outstanding and cracking pussy and ass fucker than him—or is there verily? At any rate, don’t take my word as the truthful and conscientious and virtuous credo and verity. Don’t do so…please don’t! I may be spot-on and authentically unerring; or I might be erroneous and inexact. That is just the way and style and manner it is.

Phew! This very same afternoon, after gobbling and polishing off and scoffing to completeness an in-fine-fettle and in-the-pink and blooming-as-a-fiddle solid and substantial and profuse meal that I cook up and prepare and dress on our bed on timber and planks composed trays, Stian falls asleep acutely and to the core slumbers and dozes and zizzes. Yeah. As I cannot easily and without facing and suffering much can of worms drop off to sleep, I in silence and calmly eyeball and take a recce at him as he relishes and takes pleasure in his sleep.

The later day…

Stian Elberd has made tracks off to work hours back. But I long to see him anew and even ache for him like I have last caught a glimpse of him in centuries. Perchance I have; perhaps I have not. As I ensconce myself in the pale gray divan at our still and hushed home, with nothing more than to work out and bear on myself, I take hold of my cell that is lodged on a pint-sized slab counter adjacent to me, and snatch it leisurely and unhurriedly so that I can make use of it in forwarding and mailing the ensuing SMS to him.

My vagina is regretting the absence of your John Thomas. She cannot tolerate his absenteeism.

In just forty undeviating seconds, he echoes back.

John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy right now. He does not want to be interfered and pestered with. Sweetened, dearest Vagina better find something else to execute. You can practice self-abuse or onanism with her if you crave to.

I am so mystified and flummoxed I can’t find any comfort or restfulness in myself.

What do you hint at by saying that John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy. Is he having fun with another Vagina Number Two right now?

Stian is edgy and cantankerous just as much as I am.

That is not what I had in mind, Ragnhild, when I composed my not-long-past text to you. John Thomas is engrossed deep into forty winks or beauty sleep in my Dolce and Gabana underclothing or underwear right now. Why do you want to rouse him from his zizz. Is that not what you purpose to do? Is that not it?

I chuckle and snigger to myself at poring over Stian’s all-singing and latest text. Fuck him to hell!

I want John Thomas to bestir from his dormancy and snooze, you hear? Vagina is all pissed off and outcast and lonesome and companionless here. I connote that it is not reasonable and justly fair, or is it? You must school and coach John Thomas not to be sleepy and drowsy and work-shy, for the most part in broad sunlight like this. Daylight hours are for labor and sweat and night hours are for shuteye and repose. If John Thomas desires slumber, he can access and acquire it no more than in the night hours. Do you get that?

I was curious and nosy-parkering on what Stian’s riposte to that would be. Like I did not forecast and think likely, I was unbearably and terribly awe-shocked and rude-awakened and blow-staggered by the mode and course-of-action that he utilized to riposte back to me.

Excellent! You have triumphed and prevailed, Ragnhild. John Thomas is at long last roused from his sleep and bed. Now what do you have to pull off with him. What now?

Phew. At long last I have smash hit the jackpot and couped up the Sexually Whipping-up bonsela or trophy. Yuppie! Now the grand stroke and feat begins, must not it commence? I certainly and categorically surmise and presume so myself.

I want to suck and slurp and up and quaff him with my lips first. After that, I am going to grab the lollipop that I am gripping and clasping in my hands now, and after stroking and caressing it on John Thomas so that he slops out and tips over a great deal of scorching and scalding hot scum on it, I am going to chew and much the lollipop itself in my merry and jubilant mouth until I am so sweltering and sultry even as your jissom itself is.

Stian is short-winded and out of breath all because of that. His feedback insinuates that. I suppose so.

Fabulous! That is amazingly brilliant cracking. My goodness…John Thomas is about to let out the aboil, piping hot jissom. Nab and capture it on your lollipop, will you, Ragnhild?

I take a deeply and heart felt breath, pivoting and gyrating and  wheeling my eyes as I do so.

I am all set and in readiness, Stian. Notify that to John Thomas, will you please?

He blusters and spouts out back without hesitation.

HERE I COME, RAGNHILD! OOHHHH! TAKE ALL OF THIS JISSOM FROM JOHN THOMAS IF YOU CAN…NAB IT ALL, SWEETY!

And I work out just that…

It is pitch-black and darksome and poorly lit outside. Outside of the car that is. The clouds too, just like the sky, are tenebrous and overcast and dusky and gray. I breathe out and suspire deeply and deeply as I look at them. Yes. Stian Elberd is perched and settled in this car of ours right next to me in the driver’s stall, and when I gaze at him, he strikes me as being studious and reflective and cogitative. Ruminative and cogitative of what? I am not acquainted with that either.

“Stian,” I whine and rumble out his name, swigging and swilling saliva down my throat as I do so. Uhmmnnn! My voice sounds to some degree craggy and rugged and two-fisted. Like I am in a gone-bad and embittered state and frame of mind. Am I genuinely? I don’t know…verily…

“Yes, Ragnhild,” he responds serenely and coolly, gazing and gawping at me in a not so impolite or insulting or unmannerly way. Damn me for that! I feel ashamed and remorseful and conscience-stricken for having been so uncivil and discourteous and ill-mannered with him. Crap. Shit me to hell if you feel like it.

“Aren’t we going back home?” I query him kindheartedly and nicely thoughtful this time around, “I mean we are finished and over with all the shopping and buying things that ushered us our way here to this mart and supermarket, is not it so?”

He first looks at me vaguely and imprecisely and then expresses the following to me, “You are on the right lines, Ragnhild. But we aren’t going back home anytime soon until after we have…have…fucked each other up in this dingy and nonpublic or in-camera car of ours, my beloved bride. Don’t you like the plan and strategy of mine?”

My goodness! We are having what I must put in words here as ‘shopping sex.’ You can dub and mark it out as ‘sex at the end of purchases and buys’ if you feel like it. Holy goodness! What is this queer proposition and recommendation and theory of Stian? Is it too logical and sound to you? To me, it hell way too far isn’t—but I have no means and courses of action with which to rebuff and rebut him of what he states and dictates to me. If he directs and bids me to take down into lettering his invaluable and priceless and exquisite and recherché name on both of my breasts and boobies and mammary glands with the utility and use of  an exceedingly whetted and serrated knife so that I lose and yield out blood and more blood vulnerably and powerlessly, I would with pleasure and cheerfully do it. After all, my very own happiness and bliss and satisfaction depends and relies on the attainment and fulfillment of his, or doesn’t it? It hell surefire does!

“Now, slip off your panties off yourself,” the decree and request is grave and seriously no laughing matter, but lenient and sweet-tempered and benign on the other hand. I work out just what the governor and overlord desires me to do.

Of course. He is all too wary and circumspect and on the qui vive and up on his toes. He studies and notes and monitors every move and man-oeuvre of mine that I transact, sweeping and scrubbing his glad, merry lips with his jolly and over-elated tongue. My goodness! Is he also going to lick my vagina?

“Excellent!” He at last exclaims to me once I am all finished and accomplished through with the uncomplicated and straightforward assignment and chore that he as of lately and not-long-ago allocated and assigned to me. “Now shut your eyes. I have got a small surprise and package for you.”

I am cudgeling my brains and asking myself on what that could be when the words abruptly and all of a sudden make their way out of my mouth—yes—even without my consent and go-ahead and authorization. Damn me for that! Fuck me to hell for it instead! “What is that pygmy surprise and Lilliputian package of yours to me, Stian?”

He grimaces and scowls at me promptly and unhesitatingly, whirling and reeling his eyes at me in annoyance and vexation as he does so. “Just close your eyes, Ragnhild, my darling and babe. Is that rocklike and intricate Chinese merely for you to empathize with and act out? Is it, Ragnhild, my sweetheart and babe?”

“Fine, Stian! I will do just what you have demanded and decreed of me.” And that is what I precisely and scrupulously do. I shut and make barred fast my eyes, breathing in and at length out inchmeal and at my very own pace and good time. Who-ow-wie! What astonishment and wonder of his is he keeping under wraps from me? What exactly? I marvel and sit dumbstruck and filled with awe and curiosity…I can only be in awe and wonderment.

Holy spanker! Is that note his hand that I feel stirring and budging up my thighs and humongous, attractive legs themselves? Yes. It is surely and beyond any misgiving or lack of conviction his hand, but then he is gripping and latching on to something, something that brushes and skims past my skin, filling me with chiming and jingling and jangling prickles and tickles and goose pimples. My goodness! I pray that he won’t cut or hurt or gash me…I entreat that he won’t carry that out to me…

Unexpectedly and on the spur of the moment, he is inside of my vagina—not him specifically, but that device and body and item that he is bracing and cradling in his hand. I can feel it smoothly and warily and charily smack and whack and flog the inner sides and interior of my vagina and clitoris. Great! This is so stunning and sensational and eye-popping. No. I don’t open or unclose my eyes because of its breath-taking and gee-whizz stroke and knell and strapping thump. I still have my eyes shut and fastened. Don’t you? Toot-sie!

Arghhhh…This gadget or gizmo or doo-dah that Stian is grasping is twisted and crooked and angled. I mean it. I can feel its tortuous and crippled-like and out-of-shape upper flange or contour or threshold worm and slink about—both in and out and both pleasurably and enjoyably—in and out of my vagina, buzz-kicking and flushing me with just too much excitement and stir and titillation and vibration. As my womb auspiciously and gleefully and blithely vibrate and fluctuate and oscillate and judder, my remainder and rest entire-self pulsates and throbs and reverberates too—all in counterblast and respond to the droning and humming and thumping and reverberation of that whatsit and thingummy and doo-dah that Stian is whisking and rustling and stimulating about my vagina and pussy. Damn him! Triple crap!

“Ragnhild,” he whoops and yells out my name, murmuring and hissing in soft tones a bit too loud in other words.

“Yes, Stian,” I answer back with all speed and like greases lightning, shivering and vibrating and palpitating as I do that.

“Ragnhild, how delectable and delicious is this thing in your vagina?”

“So, so, so delicious and pleasing, Stian.”

“Must I give you more of it or quit doing all of this right this moment?”

“No, don’t break off doing all of this, Stian! Gimme more of this…gimme more of this, honey!”

“Boffo then! Here comes more.”

He rams and pokes and prods the gadget and whatsit more and more deeper into my pussy and cunt, and as soon as he is finished and over with that, he starts smacking and cuffing and flogging it all the more faster and quicker and pleasant into me, and I give my word, I feel it deflect and warp and incurvate inside of my vagina that I suppose and imagine that it will arc and arch all the more until it has splintered and split into two inside there, leaving me with nothing more than despair and discomfort and hardship and woe. And how were we going to get it out again? How exactly?

Triple crap! That would Stian’s quandary and turf war…and not mine. It would be his answerability and liability and blame and burden. Though it would be much of a pain and trouble and suffering and  regret and remorse and guilty conscience on my portion and segment and fragment as well, don’t you think so?

“Stian,” for a stretch and interval of time, I lament and howl out my eyes at him. Please take note that at this specific moment my eyes are still shut and fastened close. Yeah…they sure are!

“Yes,” he retorts elitely and genteelly.

“Stian, I feel like that tool and instrument of yours is going to splinter and crack into two inside my vagina. Be more cautious and painstaking with it please, will you?”

“You mean…the banana?”

Goodness! There was no more puzzle or teaser or uncertainty about it, or was there still any? Stian happened to fuck and bang my vagina with a godforsaken damn banana? Can you imagine that? How foolhardy and gogga of him! Dammit!

At that point in time, I snap and tear open my eyes, horribly stunned and staggered and confound. Yes. The instant I prowl and rove around with my eyes, I see and discover that he has a godforsaken damn banana fixed and lodged inside of my vagina. I raise my voice to him forthwith and pronto, “What is a fuckin’ banana doing inside my vagina, Stian? Is this the ugly and unpleasant kind of surprise that you are having and keeping for me? Is this it?”

In embarrassment and ignominy, he flutters and flits shut and open his eyes, seemingly having no any enlightenment and science of what to do next, until he without warning and in an instant starts to kiss and smooch and canoodle me madly and hysterically.  As I am all libidinous and lascivious, I give in to his kissing without much of a row or wrangle. Yes. That is what I assuredly and exactly do to him. I lay down arms to his government and influence. I certainly do.

Goodness. These kisses and smooches and canoodles of Stain. They are gloriously and beautifully sweetened and sugary and honeyed. Yes, they are. The way he uncloses and unlatches open and unbarred his mouth adjoining and neighboring to mine, the way he smacks and whacks and clobbers his tongue against mine, the way he inhales and exhales and wheezes and gasps straight into my face…it is all so icky and syrupy and treacly and cloying that I canno help or relieve it at all. Stian is just plain damn striking and staggering and sensational at it. For real.

For an instant he refrains from necking and smooching me to gawp and eyeball me soundlessly and speechlessly. What? What is it that he is going to specifically say to me now? What expressly?

“I love you, Ragnhild—so, so, so very much. I trust that you are aware and conscious of it, are you?”

“Yes, I am aware and conscious of that, Stian. I really and truly am.”

“Good. Do you love me as well?”

“Do you question and have any reservations about my love and affection of you?”

“No, I don’t. I just want to be positive and clear about it. It is all I want. To hear it straight from you and be satisfied and assured and free from doubt always.”

“Well then, in that case, I must say that I have on every occasion loved you, Stian, and I will day in and day out continue to think the world of you. I will surely and verily keep on idolizing and being in love with you.”

“You cross your heart.”

As I grin and beam from ear to ear propitiously and auspiciously, I willingly and with lief pleasure mention to him, “Yes, Stian, I do cross my heart on that indeed; verily.”

Arghhhh! Ooo-oosh! Stian’s large and immensely attractive fingers are in my pussy and cunt, tapping and stabbing and poking inside there. Yeah. It is super. It is excellent. It is cracking topping. I adore and cherish and treasure it when he does this. It gladdens and tickles me pink. It gives me paramount most pleasure and utopia and Eden and every inch and wonderfully prepares and makes me ready for sex. That is what it does…without fail.

I catch my breath; I gulp and slurp down speedily and hastily sharp intakes of active, cracking, and headlong breaths. He necks and snogs and canoodles and pecks me all the more faster and delightfully and enjoyably, beating and knocking seven bells of bliss and delectation out of my pussy below with his lengthy, hulking, spectacular, and strenuous fingers—and as he does and accomplishes all this, he is inclining and tilting and slanting himself over me in the passenger’s seat, bright-eyed and bush-tailed.

Stian; the passion and endearment of my life; the guy and chap and dude of my dreams; I love him so very much…don’t you yourself?

For a little and ephemeral while and whim, he stoops and inclines himself down so that he can inurn and embed in his tongue deep into my pussy and cunt down there. Yeah. He does it steadily and by gradual and measured but definite degrees at first, then, as he presses on and on, he boosts and steps us his rapidity and quickness, lapping and licking his tongue into me all the hell lot faster and faster. Yeah. It is all sugary and honey-like indeed.

Arghhhh…arghhhh! My reasoning and thoughts are so muddled up and Greek-fazed and muddy and mucky and boggy and skanky and quaggy as the blurred and lusterless and smoky waters…Yeah. So, so fuzzy and quite, quite obfuscated at the same time…

Stian is fucking and licking me good real time. How come he is a professional and virtuoso and maestro at sex? Warm-up and practice makes proficient and versed, doesn’t it? It certainly and without a doubt and assuredly does. Yeah…it awfully and honestly and actually does.

In such a cautious and fastidious and very discreet way, Stian nibbles and clamps and gnaws and masticates my clitoris with his all zest and keen and sharply teeth, making me become shaky and hysterical and flustered and on edge. Yes. As much as that delights and cheers and amuses me, it makes me tense and fearful and tormented that he might chew and tear and snap my vagina and high-priced clitoris itself otherwise. Wouldn’t you get edgy and jittery and twitchy and nervy if you were indeed in my shoes? Wouldn’t you?

I gasp and catch my breath once more. When will all this sweetness and sugar of mine that I am relishing and enjoying right now end and nip in the bud? When exactly? For the two shake and trice—or moment in other clashing but homogeneous words, I am taking joy and finding satisfaction in this. Aren’t you?

In a snap tick and two-shakes twinkling, Stain warps and buckles and stoops and incurvates my seat or stall down. I for the nonce and forthwith arch and wind and flex down along with it. Yes. My elongated and extensive and far-reaching and lengthy light brown hair cascades and plummets down while I topple and go head over heels downwards too. Goodness. Stian discontinues and cuts short the seat from further winding and snaking down. I am happy and cheerful that he did do just that, because, to be ethical and decent and upright with you, I was starting to become by fair means cowed and unnerved and petrified. Yeah…I sure indeed was…

Stian sets and cements his eyes on mine, breathing in and out all the hell brisk and sprightly and rapid. Goodness! Is he going to canoodle and neck and kiss me? Or will he fuck and screw and shag-bonk me up straight away without any hold-back or slow-back? Will he indeed?

He hurls and flings himself down so that he can smooch and buss and canoodle and neck and peck me like crazed and frantically loony. I love it! I adulate it so much! Don’t you yourself? With his lips becoming and sweeping and scrubbing and stroking over mine, he presses and forces down himself against me, shoving and ramming and wedging his hand into my sugary, as-of-now wringing wet and soaked and drenched pussy. Yes. It is quaking and shuddering and having a bad time from the chilled and shaky cold and icy sogginess itself, and if his heated and piping hot boiling cum or spermatozoon or reproductive cell will not be spewed or splashed or let flow into it so as to dissolve and melt and unfreeze the sodden and waterlogged ice racking my pussy, then sweet dear Vagina is going to icen up and harden for good. For certain.

I groan and bewail and bemoan as Stian punches and bashes and swats his fingers deep and more deeper into my pussy, magnifying and heightening and enhancing up his speed as he does so until I am all swelling and escalating and snowballing remedilessly with elevating and aggrandizing and building up bliss and enjoyment. I make it to the big O right that particular moment, unclosing and setting off ajar my mouth in sheer fun and relish and delight. Damn him! he made me come all too quickly and unexpectedly and without notice. Screw him for it!

With my mouth still unclosed and ajar and stretched out, Stian shifts and moves his so close to mine that he kisses and snogs me terribly and exceedingly ferocious and uncontrollable and tigerish. I land at another big O as he does that, leaving me with not much any tip-off or pointer or hint as concerns what next it is that I can precisely do. Damn him once more!

By the time and tick he takes off his mouth away from mine, I am all sugar and ice cream and milk and yoghurt and honey. Arghhhh! Sex is way too far sweetened and enjoyable, isn’t it?

We are finished and ended. With the pussy fingering matter and concern that is. And? Stian adjusts and amends the positioning and posture and bearing of his seat so that it tumbles and trips and keels over downwards. Then with that executed, he enjoins and bids and adjures me to undo and untie and unstrap the belt laced and tied up on to his pants so I can take in my hands and furthermore trifle and amuse myself with his knob and John Dong kept in the dark and drawn a veil over inside there.

My, my. I find out and learn and realize and see that he is dressed in the most seductive and arousing and voluptuous style and fashion of underwear. Yes. His things and the tips and heads of his hips and buttocks are looking so very come-hither and slinky and kissable and beddable. If they were foodstuffs and nosh and aliment, I would have by now devoured and gobbled and polished them off. Arghhhh. Stian is looking so voluptuous and titillating and arousing right this instant and moment. Is he in reality and truthfully mine? Mine alone? All of him in his entirety?

First, I lick and sweep and dust my puzzled, fascinated, and tickled-to-fancy tongue over his bulky, inviting, and irresistible-looking thighs. He moans and sighs out raucously as I do that. Damn him for it! Won’t he just enjoy and take pleasure and joy in this noiselessly and in hushed tones. He is a man after all, isn’t he, and not some psychological, emotive, and tear-jerking woman just like me? Even with the rolling and booming and thundering of his rumbustious and boisterous sighs and moans and whinges, I keep on at raking and sweeping and brushing his legs and thighs with my tongue, cheering and tickling him roseate to the very core and crux as I do so.

Then I land and get as far as his jumbo and gargantuan John Dong is. Yes. It is at present moment prickled-up and standing and firm and raised up straight. And it is showing or exhibiting no any manifestations or gesticulations of plummeting and tripping down frail and decrepit and anaemic. No, it is not.

Without seizing or laying hold of it with my hands, I take and eat it up in its entirety and fullness in my merry and ecstatic mouth, bashing and clipping it hard but good-humoredly in the farther borders and peripheries and extremities of my mouth. Yeah. All so sweetened and icky. I love it…I am in love with its sweating, in-perspiration like smell…I hold dear and dote on its redolence and bouquet and stench. Don’t you?

“Yeah, Ragnhild, baby. Keep doing it; press on with it,” this Stian asserts and asseverates to me, looking and seaming all joyous and elated and on cloud nine. And am I stoked and rapt and floating on air just like he is? You can be most certain and positive and dauntless about it!

Why are men’s penises and John Thomases so saccharine and sugary and honeyed? Not that I have tasted and chewed and scoffed avariciously all dicks and phalluses and winkles and joysticks that go vertical and prickled-up and rigid and firm in the entire world. I have not. And I will not ever do such kind of a thing, or will I? Hell-way no indeed.

Stian Elberd has the most sweetest and enjoyable cock organ and vagina and ass pecker in the entire world. Do you differ in opinion and dispute with me? Well, if you were in my shoes and feet, you would obviously and undeniably know what it is that I am talking and shooting the breeze about here. You sure and come hell or high water would.

While I lick and slap and plash and gurgle every inch of Stian’s massive and wonderful erection, I lay down and establish my hands deep into his sexual provoking and flirtatious underwear so that I can brace and hold on to bit and chunk and lot of his arse and butt behind there. Yeah. It is all so sweetened and honeyed and pleasurable and enjoyable to grasp and cling on to. Do you dare take issue with me on this or cross swords with me in other words?

Goodness! This sex and rumpy-pumpy is steadily but assuredly and unfalteringly is killing me. It verily and surely and without a doubt is doing all that indeed. Arghhhh! I love it! I dote on this! I think the world of this—don’t you?

It is funny and weird. But it is veritable and factual on the other hand. Before, I was not like this. What has Stian and matrimony life done to me? What exactly? Back then, I was a bashful and mousy and reticent withdrawn and single and lonesome and for the most part companionless maiden. I definitely and for certain was. But now…now…I am valiant and plucky and ballsy and lion-hearted like when it comes to sexuality stuff and material. I am like a whore and hooker and lady of the night. Stian’s loyal and faithful and staunch call girl and strumpet and fille de joie and woman of ill repute. And him on the other hand? He is my tom and whore and hustler governor and master and overlord and tutor all in all. Whatever sexual appetites and carnalities and lustfulness of his…it is my mission and service and office to see that they are satisfied and contented and gratified. I must unfailingly see on to that. Is that not being harlot and demimondaine enough? Whatever your counterblast to that is—I do not and will not bother about it and give a damn what’s more!

Sex…sex…sex…It is what is filling up and brimming over in my mind right this moment. Sex…sex…sex…and more sex…sex…sex…and an additional incessant sex…sex…sex…sex…sex…sex…

Just as Stian is about to come, he respires and wheezes in deeply and seriously excessive and firce before he goes on to notify and inform me, “I am about to cum, Ragnhild. I am about to let go and let out my sperm. Watch out!”

Goodness. Do I have to swallow and then throw it out? Or must I slurp in into my stomach once I hoover it into my mouth? Maybe I must duck and shirk away from it? What scrupulously and precisely must I do, huh? What literally? I commit myself to gobbling and guzzling it; and it is what I bang on and squarely do.

Gosh. The manner and style and fashion that Stian’s jism and cum erupts and bursts off into my mouth—it is a bit and jot frightening and alarming and startling and terrorizing. Shaken and petrified at first, I gather and amass and hoard it all in my mouth up till I at length and in the fullness of time make up my mind and reach a decision that I have no preference or choice than to hoover and swig it all. Yeah. I have no any choice or selection other than this. Do you yourself?

Male gamete and seed tastes funny but richly hilarious and sharply acetic in case you didn’t know. Yeah. At times I feel like I could eject and sputter it out of my mouth; at other times I still treasure and cherish it in spite of all the disastrous and deleterious things that it is in the mouth. Yuck! And fantastic again!

At long and final last, I am finished and ended with the cum or jissom gulping thing. And what comes next? Pussy bashing or banging in other words. Yeah. From the look and feel of it, Stian appears prepared and all set to venture on accomplishing and bringing off that. Yeah, he sure does. Aren’t you yourself all set and in readiness for it? I bet and gamble and deem that you are.

He has me lie and lounge down in my seat steadily and at my own pace and leisure; and with that carried through and concluded, he sets and rests himself on top of me in his ace and topping clothes, having his trousers and underwear sagged and drooped and slumped way further down his thighs and legs themselves. He slaps and tonks me as being fairly sensuous and bedroom provocative. Don’t you take ion and fathom that as being very much beddable and kissable too? It inevitably and nailed-on is to me.

Yah! I feel at ease and take it easy and relaxed as Stian lazes and lies down on me tenderly and smoothly. Nothing could be more better and preferable than this, aren’t you of the same mind with me? He jerks and tweaks and hitches my dress farther up so that he can feel and stroke and finger and run his hands on my vagina and cunt down there. Yeah! He does it inchmeal and ploddingly and in his own good time. Yeah. I savor and revel in all this and so much more.

Arghhhhh! Sex with Stian? It is godsend damn awesome and schmick and brill and tiptop and super and ace. Steadily and taking his time, he lays and sticks his knob and penis and plonker into my vagina, and once he is inside of me, he looks down at me fixedly and overpoweringly, making me feel so awesome and super and pearler about everything here. Yeah. I am so in love with him. I think the world of him and I idolize him indeed. Don’t you yourself feel the exact same for him?

As he bangs and bashes and batters into me, I shut and close my eyes for a moment, aiming and attempting and seeking as hard and finest as I can to hoover and swig and eat up all the king-size and immense delectation and contentment and bliss and enjoyment that he is bestowing and consigning to me. Yeah. It is all awe-inspiring and breathtaking and gee-whizz indeed. Doubtlessly.

Faster and more faster; he is rapping and smacking and banging and thudding into me all the hell lot more faster and quicker. I gasp and gulp and wheeze markedly and inordinately and to the nth degree as he does so to me. I can’t help or relieve or aid it but liquefy and thaw and evanesce and dissipate into this whole lot and entirety swelling and hump and tumescence of sugar and honey and vanilla. Arghhh! If I am not in paradise or Zion or the next world, then I in good faith and ethically don’t verily and surely know where it is that I right now am in. Where seriously am I? And how I jetted and sailed and winged my way here? How truly and precisely? How?

While Stian jams and butts and prods and jabs into me, I reach for his bottom and fleecy just like a baby’s bottom buns behind, and once I have beat and rapped and knocked and tapped them flippantly but hard enough, I grasp and cling on to them like real bad and no laughing matter. Yes. I want him to fuck and jab and prick and nudge deep into me; I want him to do that and nothing else. Serious.

Just when my breathing and wheeze becomes ponderous and heavy and concentrated and intensive—just like Stian’s himself too—he sets free and unshackles out loads and fills and crams and lades of semen into me. And boy, do I like and enjoy and revel in it so very much? I assuredly and come what may and beyond the shadow of a slight doubt do. After all, yes, his spermatozoon and male gamete in me is but seriously and excessively sugary and honeyed and saccharine indeed. Or is not it? It obviously and needless to say and without doubt is. Buy into it or not. By the time that he pulls and hauls out of me, I am but terribly and ultra contented and assuaged and appeased indeed. Oh yeah…I certainly and absolutely and sure thing am…