Sex Du Juor: In The Sauna Part II

Taking his time, ploddingly and inchmeal, Stian lowers and sinks himself down into the puddle or sauna’s water,  gawping and eyeballing direct and unwinding and unswervingly straight at me. Goodness! What must I anticipate and think likely doable from him. What perhaps, huh? What haply? Once he has made it as far as I am, he straightens out his hand and clasps my face and cheek likewise. I feel all the more snug and at ease and relaxed and serene. Yeah. This is assuredly euphoria and nirvana in one way or another, or is not it? I needless to say believe so.

“Stian,” I say to him sotto voice and under my breath velvety smooth and yieldingly soft. He takes a dekko and feasts his eyes down upon me, tensile-toned and sweet like. I idolize and think the world of this; so; so; very much indeed!

“I cannot presume and maintain that you are finally mine,” he counters and ripostes selflessly and lovingly. I can heed and make it out in his eyes; I just hardly can blab and take it off its toll. What Stian is putting to words is but the sheer and dyed-in-the-wool fact and no any ilk of make-believe. I can cross my heart and take an oath on that!

“What do you purport by that, Stian?” I query tight-assed and parsimoniously. I am thrown off balance and flummoxed topsy-turvy style at hugger-mugger sixes or sevens by merely that. What literally is he gabbing and running off at the mouth about? What scrupulously, huh? What expressly?

Nimbly; seemingly brusquely; and incisively; Stian’s lips skim and graze against mine, igniting and making my blood boil and foment with lewdness and libido. Deep down all this, I wish and yearn and long to gasp and gulp both inside and outwardly. I ache and itch to do all this and so much more. Yet I am not fitted and proficiently endowed to transact and pull off it. Why methodically, you may ponder and be curious? I have no any slight dealings or knowledge or awareness of that. Maybe it is because I have given way and knuckled myself over to Stian’s slurping and siphoning and supping like kisses. Perchance yes; peradventure not!

As he smooches and cannodles and pecks and snogs me all the more jellified and stiff and jelled, he takes me in his arms and grasps and squeezes me, patting and fondling my spread out and charming flame brown hair pleasurably and pleasingly well. How am I supposed to respond and take the bait back to this? I merely and solely cuddle and hold him taut and hermetic-like as well, straightening and stretching myself out so he can brush and scrape my velvety smooth, silky cushiony-like skin with his lenient, easy-going, and touchy-feely lips. Yes! He is the exemplary and superlative crown and beau ideal of this! He far and away and come hell or high water is this and so much more further.

The keenness and ardor and fire between the two of us is vehement and heartfelt and frenzied and lustfully aroused. We nibble and snap and champ each other’s gloopy, squidgy lips with our fixedly dense and fit-as-a-fiddle teeth. Not that we work it out with objectives and designs and intents to whisk and blend and rouse the other’s soreness and trouble and shooting twinge! Everything that we effect is worked out roguishly and jokey-like and coyly. Precisely that at most!

For a crotchet and fad while, Stian pulls back from kissing me, and he presses on to peep and gape at me forbearingly and mildly. What is it that he hankers and pines to make known and ‘fess up to me? What veraciously?

“Are you okay?” I query and quiz him tensely and ill at ease. Hell yes! He is the one who has made me be this perturbed and overwrought and antsy all in all. What is literally going on? Won’t he just make a clean breast and get it off his chest to me? Won’t he? Dammit! Peradventure I am the one awry and faulty and defective. In any hypothetical case…he should let me know as regards it. Otherwise how will I be qualified and fitted to rectify and emend and set the record straight off my slip-ups and Barry Cockers?

Without resolving or filling up anything to me at all, Stian goes and carries on to smooch and kiss and snog me anew and afresh. I love this…but not his just gone and cringe-worthy uncommunicativeness and unforeseen withdrawal. What was that about—huh?

I am the one who pulls back and out of the kissing state of affairs and matter this time; and like lightning and the clappers, I stare and glance straight at him, endeavoring and seeking to descry and hit upon any resolution and explication to my set-upright inquiries and queries from just his facial shape and pattern and mould alone. I can’t track down the wherefore and explication nevertheless. Meaning? I just don’t know its precise root and prime mover!

Stian guzzles and chokes down. “Are you alright, Ragnhild?”

“I wanted to ask you just that. As a matter of fact, I indisputably and irrefutably did. So please, don’t overturn and overrule the question back to me, do you get your head round this?”

“I do, Ragnhild?”

“What is off base and off target here, Stian?”

Straight away and on the spur of the moment, he grabs and snaps me up back again into his Herculean and well-built and doting and amorous arms. I am cut up and overhauled with jolt and shock and surprise. And before I twig and catch on to anything, he has already lugged and wrested me away from my standing station, blanketing and clothing and mantling me with softhearted and touchy-feely kisses and smooches and snogs. I want to tow myself back away from him and appeal for an explanation to my riddles and posers, but he inveigles and leads me astray by smooching and snogging me all the more bounteous and come-to-bed and irresistible manner and style of way. Screw him for it! ‘Cause I happen to enjoy it and I am keen on it bonkers and in that ape-shit crackpot and gonzo round-the-twist custom!

I stretch and unfold out my hands to his back and behind where I stroke and dandle him naively and possessively and amorously affectionate. Just the feel and flavor and tidbit of his skin flares me up and has me go up in red-hot, torrid, and unbearably fiery sparks and infernos of sensuality, lechery, and all those lot more hots and wantonness. I want him. Now! Every champ and gnaw and pinch of him. I want him so; so; bad and bananas. I take the Duke’s name in vain concerning it if it is mandatory and a de rigueur just to evince and show clear my attested oath and promise!

All at once and unexpectedly, he pecks and necks the bull’s eye and centR and mid of my juggy breasts, making me wind and snake and bend down all in sheer-stark bliss and enjoyment and delectation. This is flawless and consummate. Overconfident and complacent that my hands are stowed and fixed on his back and pleasurable, gorged, and bursting-at-the-full-seams bums and hindquarters, where they are budging and stirring and making even, rhythmic, and unfaltering movements, I come and make it to my big O all so soon and in just a couple shakes of a rattlesnake’s sleuth since the kick-in and first-see-the-light-of-the-day shag and love making. I orgasm two-edged and twofold in just the breadth and stretch of spanking four or five minutes! Dammit!

Argghhh! What sweetly and top-notch delight and contentment this is from a bloke or geezer (a guy or chap if you would cherry-pick any of those two delineations) who is not my fiancé or husband-to-be but instead is my bidei-in and bridegroom himself. Before I grasp and become aware of it, he has sprightly and fleetingly slid and sunk his hand into the water to pinpoint and pin down and finger my numbed, dizzy, and groggy cunt. Sh*t! Sweet goodness! This is so impulsive and unexpected; how ought I hit back and take the bait back at this.

He is kissing and snogging me; at the same time he is whacking and clobbering and tonking his fingers down and straight into my sex—tickling and tantalizing me; fomenting and getting me all wild and non compos mentis. Screw you, Stian! I happen to like and savor this as much as I love and have a weakness for you alone.

My head goes woozy and punch-drunk and reeling and swimming before the sea; my spirits and emotions are nothing but delicate heaven and paradise. I try to calm and cool myself down. I cannot do it—I am too tumultuous and roused and moved and stirred to sedate and keep my cool down. This is so intoxicating and electrifying and exhilarating. I am addicted and a pill-popper freak junkie to all of this. Yes—I am a druggie and cokehead of sex, sex, and nothing else.

Neighborly; clemently and unselfishly; Stian canoodles and kisses me over and over again. I snog and kiss him back, rubbing and patting my rapt, chuffed, and over-the-moon hands behind there on his delightful back and haunches. When I by accident and unintentionally run into and come across his dank, sopping drenched underwear, I go ice-cold and transfixed and unmoving from way too soaring immoderate happiness and gladness and delectation. My phobia and idée fixe with men’s underclothing and the unmentionables; when will it ever cease and nip in the bud? When specifically?

Minutes subsequently, I pull back and draw out of my orgasm with a ponderous and viscous and bulky sigh and wheeze. “Yes, Ragnhild,” Stian mumbles and mutters under his breath to me, blasting and blowing me up into an endless and measureless pieces from the sweetened echoing and vibration of his icky, syrupy, and treacly voice and gee-whizz and wondrous judderings and vibrations against me. It all feels like a paranormal and preternatural event and encounter to some mite extent and expanse. Or is it truly?

As he leans and warps down on me while canoodling and kissing me in unison and in the just the very same ideal breath—I imprecate and cuss the truth—I sight and catch a gander, butcher’s glance of stars glistening and glitching and girdling and girding in round about us. The relish and flavor and tang of everything at this fixed and definite moment—it is gee-whizz and overwhelmingly majestic and wondrously jaw-dropping indeed. Oh yeah!