Sex With Stian

Sex With Stian Sex With Stian

Status: Finished

Genre: Romance


Status: Finished

Genre: Romance

Summary just more sex!

Summary just more sex!


Submitted: January 17, 2015

A A A | A A A


Submitted: January 17, 2015



Two working days or hours of sunlight and moonlight before we drop in on Stian’s grand-dad’s dorp or place in the village and vicinity of Orr Dour, he makes up and plays the part of pretentiousness as if he does not fancy and set his heart out on chancing on and coming face to face with his elderly, getting-on and grey-haired grandfather, Sian himself. I have not come or run across Sian himself. Stian himself apprises and lets know to me that Sian is one such grizzled or senescent in years infirm and decrepit like lookalike man who is bizarrely and eccentrically burly and stalwart and Herculean man who can buoy up and up-heave or perk up the weightiest and most massive and ponderous slice or scrap or chunk of steam or electric iron all on his own; lacking and in need of anyone’s muscle and remedy. Stian’s tales and narratives about his athletic-muscled and yet skin-and-bones grandpa makes me pine and hanker after sighting and getting a load of him. Untruth be it, I even now yearn and would give my eyeteeth just to catch a glimpse and dekko of him. Ever since Stian got it off his chest or blabbed out the beans that we will be stopping by and calling in on gramps’, want and wish for visitation of him has haunted and smote me like nuts and crackers. Like I have lost my marbles and cuckoo in supplementary or auxiliary words.


It is in the dead of night already. I am here, taking a loose-fitting and snug seat by the plane and facet of our titanic, jumbo bedstead. The glazed, glassy, fixedly shimmering lamps are flaring and shining and coruscating all about me. I delight in their cushiony, squelchy-like luminescence; I revere their velvety, boggy akin gleam and glare; I idolize or esteem their doughy, gloopy, squidgy like-two-peas-in-a-pod brightness and effulgence.


I am geared or frocked in a suggestive, come-hither, titillating night gown or garb. I am smearing on and shampooing in a plain, flush, smooth-shaven caliber and brand of cream and salve where I am benched and stooled on the threshold or verge of the ornate, ritzy, and elaborate divan or bed that is so loose-fitting and commodious to lie or sprawl down on. I have my bosoms or boobies showed and brought to light in such a flirtatious and kissable mode and course of action that Stian cannot countervail and hold out against. I am certain and convinced and free from doubt that his phallus or pecker is going to go all uptight and elevated and pricked-up once he makes out and lay eyes on me.


I am all ruminative and cogitative when the egress or opening to our bedroom clicks and cackles and pops open. I leap and jump back in bombshell and stupor that definite instant up till for the nonce peek and peep and peer back to perceive and note him straightened up on his feet in his latterly and anew doublet of Levis and no shirt at all. My goodness! This is wrong’un and cobblers indeed, is not it? Stian is dressed in no shirt at all and he looks so rosy and blooming and dewy from his ruddy shower that I could lap and brush him with him my tongue or lingo all day long. At just espying and glimpsing him, I at full tilt blaze and go up in flames of lechery and salaciousness like nobody’s business. Holy crap! My flesh and bones are itching and ticking and having wantonness pimples like I am not going to regain my health and strength after all this, or am I?


To my shock and bolt from the blue, he wanders and tramps toward me, so certain and satisfied of his footstep and stride that he implants and settles his eyeballs and peeper on me all the while he stirs after me. Whilst still traipsing and treading toward me, he gradually and at a snail’s pace unfastens and unbars the zip of his Levis to a certain mini degree so that he has got as far as where I am bottomed and bummed, he adjures and directs me to, “Fully take and doff off my clothes, will you, Ragnhild?”


I am fast and rapid and speedy to succumb and give in to what he compels and enjoins me. After all, I am the slave or bondservant and Stian is the overlord and overseer. I goggle and am awed by what I catch sight of once I am accomplished and finished with peeling off and letting fall off to the floor his glamorous and alluringly irresistible Levis. He is dressed in the most charming and enjoyable to gawk at underwear and boxers. I can see that John Thomas is slumbering and deep asleep, but I am to stir and rouse him up anytime soon. I certainly and beyond the shadow of a doubt will work and pull off that.


“Wow,” I assert and express out as I peek and gaze up at Stian—my very own too good-looking and dishy mate or hubby—and once he has winked and fluttered and twinkled down at me, I finger and fondle his under-wraps, covert, and concealed  and honeyed schlong with my two own tumultuous, animated, and wild hands.


He breathes and exhales out in exhilaration and enthusiasm and elation as I work and pull off all this.


“Sprawl and loll down, will you?” He kindheartedly and nicely queries and poses to me in the long run. 


I am speedy and cracking fast or nippy in working out what he requests and sues of me. Yeah. I hunger and yen for it all so intensely and viciously desperate. Once I am flopped and lounged down on the ample, commodious bed, he retrieves and collects a razor-sharp, serrated cutter he has been withholding in the pouch or bag or pocket of his Levis, and while swinging and wheeling me round on the bed, he puts it to use in nicking and cutting and cleaving off piece and chunk of the night garment and robe that I am having on. The lump and slice from my tummy or puku or breadbasket is all slit and pierced and wrenched and wrested off so that I am all buck naked and in my starkers birthday suit from my paunch and abdomen and everything down there. My goodness! What dramatic and intoxicating and rip-roaring means and style to get undressed and unclothed. Of course! I enjoyed and reveled in everything that Stian did to me, didn’t you?


As he stares at and checks out and peers at a stripped nude me from the stomach all the way down, I sight and glimpse the ghost or trace or hint of a rapt smile emerge and materialize on his face. What is he silently tittering and fiendish grinning at? What? Do I look farcical and side-splitting laughable waggish when starkers and stripped naked? Do I?


To my shocker and rude awakening, he stirs and reclines or lies down on top of me, which I did not even forecast or envisage coming. Or had I? Needless to say not! While he roots and makes fast and establishes himself atop me, he makes definite and inevitable that my legs and feet are moved and pulled apart or away from each other. Yeah. That is what it supposed and ought to be. Aren’t you of the same opinion or viewpoint or sentiment with me? I cross my fingers that you optimistically and sanguinely are. Aren’t you?


With that executed and ended through with, he gawps and gapes down at me while reaching for his penis or dick inside his stygian black underwear, so that once he grasps and grips it, he wrenches and wrests it out to first fiddle and have fun with it by stroking and petting it with his shaggy, wooly hand before kneading and rubbing and wiping it on the cover and exterior of my vagina and cunt. As he performs and carries out this, I cannot aid or slouch by but sigh and carp and rasp out in sweet-most but transitory bliss and delectation that has a groggy and punch-drunk muzzy feel and modest, insubstantial throe to it.


Wow! Lovemaking is mind blasting and sweeping, isn’t it? I esteem and in fact imagine and postulate so, don’t you yourself?


Why is it that Stian delights and savors in wiping and caressing and smoothing his aromatic, treacly dick over my clitoris and even marginally and a little bit inside my vulva itself. Why is it like this? I don’t grasp or catch on to the motive or grounds of that, but then I verily and surely and eminently do revel and find uttermost pleasure and relish and zest in all that, don’t you? Hmnnnn…him and his procedure and approach of making ready and jacking me up for facts of life and matters of screwing. It is sexually appealing and enchanting anyway—is it not?


When Stian skims and runs over his eager, avid, and desirous eyes, I puzzle and cudgel my brains on what it is that he is slap-on and smack-on going to undertake and execute as pertains and concerns us. What scrupulously and strictly? As he strokes and scours and massages his cock or knob on my muff or quim, I feel at ease and even go on to loosen up on the gargantuan, humongous divan that we are both taking our ease at. With his other hand pulling off and effecting to fruition or finalization the feisty, filthy, and grungy slice of drudge, he reaches his other loose, unfettered hand for my far-reaching and spread out light brown hair, which he jerks and wrests and tows leniently and in one dove-like fashion and style.


I grouch and carp out, twisting and warping and incurvating myself marginally and on a small scale as he carries that out; I am ailed and beset and plagued with such extensive and king-size delectation and contentment. My whole physique and shape and form—or body—croons and warbles and chirps out melodiously and euphonically. To be law-abiding and veracious and scrupulous with you, or candid and bona fide in other words, reasoning and judgment and opinion is so mixed up and flummoxed and fazed right now. I can’t rack my brains and get lost or strayed in thought on anything else but in lieu desire and hunger and yearn and itch for more sex and nookie and coitus and rumpy-pumpy. Goodness. I am going gonzo and off-my-head and up the shied and brushed-off pole or pillar of insanity, am I not?


At long last, Stian is securely and permanently inside of me. Not his whole and intact and unbroken self. I mean the entirety and sum of his winkle and tadger. Yes. John Thomas is every inch and stock and barrel inside of my crack or pussy, taking a dip and bathing and reeling and spinning and soaking and covering himself in spermatozoon and semen and male gamete of his own. Yes. He has orgasm and hit his big O too rapidly and speedily, leaving me to come and bash my big O ultimately after him.


As he tips over and throws off or pours and sploshes spillages and overspills of semen or cum into me, he grouches and laments and carps to himself, all thrilled and sunny and so over the moon, and not groggy and punch-drunk and woozy like someone of you might be anticipating or opinioning. That makes me cogitate and brood my brains over it. Is sexual climax and satisfaction for men very much at variance and dissimilarity with that of women and Misses? Is it?


The odor and whiff and aroma of his breath and gulp is too sweet-smelling and fresh and redolent for me to stand and put up with. How come? He is all sweating and perspiring and without any stitch on but he reeks and has that pure, aromatic, and mellow-like scent and fragrance that makes it seem like he is not entered into and participating in a very crucially weighty and cumbersome chore or toil or enterprise, or is he?


I am curious on that…and can only be amazed and be awed solely. Damn it! Don’t I stink to high heaven and smell bad here? Don’t I? It doesn’t strike me as being that way. Or if it is, then Stian does not happen to show worry or distress or care about it. He is all pleased and delighted and cock-a-hoop, banging in and out of me, clapping in and out fast and rapidly, booming in and out under his renewed, invigorating breath and contentedly likewise.


In no time, he budges and rearranges or repositions me so he can take and slap-bash me more faster and nimbly. Yes. The posture and pose and positioning he has me dwell and bide in delights and gladdens and tickle me pink real genuine and real good. What could be more better than this? What explicitly and veraciously? What really?


While striking and belting hard and clobbering fast into me, he strokes and cuddles and nuzzles or pets my boobies and titties in that gee-whizz and jaw-dropping manner and tikanga or style that brings about a rapid and impulsive and swift big O which I carouse and relish in just experiencing and living through. My goodness! I feel so alive and kicking this express and exact moment…so animate and having life like I have never been so functioning and pleased in the land of the living like I am right now. Wow! That was the most tremendous and big-time moment in my life. Ever I add and asseverate.


Whoopee! I hang loose and let my damp, waterlogged from heavy moisture or sudor hair cascade and plummet over to the bed beneath. Yes. I am so exhausted and flagging drained or whacked right now that I feel like almost going belly-up and breathing my last, don’t you yourself? My feet and knees and joints are soring and hurting and twinging and aching so bad…and unbearably. I can’t relieve or help it. It is all piece and chunk and slice of this complete and undivided gender-facts-of-life, or is it not? I guess and reckon and conjecture that it is myself. Come on; don’t brief me that you don’t. You do, right?


The sex and honey-like rumpy-pumpy making of ours is eventually and at last moment finished and done with. Stian and I myself take a nap and switch or turn the lights off. He snoozes and snores and zizzes in his sleep so that I am not capable and fitted in for sleeping until after ten shakes or minutes when he ultimately and in closing slumbers and goes into the land of Nod. Phew! What an alleviation and easement and assuagement this certainly and doubtlessly is for me! I can rest and take joy in my beauty sleep when all is said and done, cannot I? Yes. I inevitably and beyond the silhouette or penumbra of a doubt can. Which is what I exactly and plumb square-on do.


The subsequent or later night…


As Stian Elberd slams and seals shut the door to our bedroom, I know what it is that he is specifically going to do to me. Which is spank and smack me carnally and sexually till I am all condemned and certainly and dreadfully ill-stared and ill-omened. Yes. He is vaguely going to do that and so much more. That, I cannot doubt or question about in any way probable. Buy into it or not. I do not give a damn at all No, I do not in any way thinkable.


I sigh to myself as I turn over to gaze at him. He is all pleased and cheerful. Which, to me, by all likelihood and potential, is one comparatively and relatively good sign indeed.


My inner vagina and womb does her blissful could-nine dance. I am so glad and relieved that she has done that. To me it is all a bitchin’ capital and magnificent and symptom and indication that she is still animate and living. Yah! I love and adore it to the very hilt and drop. I really and completely do. I am not versed in as regards you.


“Stian?” I whoop and yell out, blinking and winking my eyes apprehensively and speedily.


“Yes, sweet baby,” he answers harmoniously and beautifully.


My goodness! That almost thaws out and dissolves me. I love and adore it so very much indeed. For sure. Didn’t you yourself? I myself indisputably and with conviction did. Yeah, I in fact and in truth did. I don’t know about you. I forthrightly and candidly don’t. Phew! It is time to ask and press forward that much-longed and much-craved question of mine, don’t you consent so? I do so myself.


“Stian, are you really and truly going to fuck and ramp up my anus tonight?” I raise this to him and his consciousness warily and circumspectly. Why? I simply and plainly am afraid and terrified of the answer and reaction that he is going to give me. Truly have a word with you. My goodness! He quickly and gamely grins at me in that iniquitous and irreverent way that he is all the time fond of carrying out. Does that mean he is going to have us do it? I can’t exactly tell. My anus is relieved and thankful about it on the other hand. Yes—she surely and beyond doubt is.


“Yes, Ragnhild, we’ll actually and in fact do that. Don’t you like the idea and thought of it?”


 I don’t. But then I do on the other hand. So what now? Duh! I can’t make out which is which now. Damn me for it! Censure and scold and slap and nag me for it if you feel like. I will cheerfully and blissfully accept and receive it.


“I like it, Stian,” I confess and disclose it to him. Though I am afraid and scared on opposite hand and side that…he may leave and be dissatisfied with me if I tell him the whole truth about this topic and affair. Yeah. I truly and earnestly am afraid about that.


“Good,” he tells me coolly and properly well.


I shudder momentarily and shiver at where all of this is going. Where to exactly? Disaster or goodness and bliss all in all? I cannot exactly tell—much less this too soon.


“Curvature yourself down, Ragnhild, will you?” Stian orders me in a slightly tow-fisted, rugged, but churlishly nice voice as well. I tremble and get quite thrilled and keyed up about it. So? Duh! I do like I am told to. I kneel down before him, wagging and shaking my behind or ass when he asks me to do thus so that he slaps and smacks it well and nicely. Arghhhhh! This is so nice…and enjoyable indeed. I wish I could be in this delectable and enormously delicious state of existence all day and night long. Yuh indeed!


Suddenly and hurriedly, he puts his long, charming-shapely fingers into my ass and starts to dance and whirl and sway and jig them inside there. Arghhhhh! I cannot feel the pain. Only the pleasure and delight! Hip—hip—hurrah! Asho-oo-ooh! Life is great and enjoyable indeed, aren’t you of the same mind and opinion with me? Crap!


As Stian fingers and jabs and stirs his finger inside of my anus, I feel all the pleasure and kick bounce and bound and spring up and leap and jump inside of me. Cool. This is oh…so…delicious and lovely indeed, don’t you agree and coincide with me?


“Ragnhild,” he ultimately sighs and words out to me, relatively nice and coolly. I wish that I could emulate his honey-like sweetened voice or speak in just about anything close to it.


“Yes, Stian,” I retort sweetly and softly, hoping that I have succeeded in making my voice as amiably and harmoniously best as I can make it. Or have I?


“I am going to blow and release air into your ass. So I want you to prepare and get ready for it. Will you?”


“Why do you have to say that, Stian?”


“I want to lick and thrash my tongue your ass real mad and real nuts.”




“Aha. Now pull your legs farther apart and furnish and present your ass to me real hard and real good.”


I do just that. Then his tongue is suddenly and quickly wagging and wiggling inside of my arse. My goodness! I was not expect him to be this much quick and speedy. Wow. He took me by absolute surprise and shock. Goodness! As his tongue moves and stirs deep into the deepness and profoundness of my arse, I open wide my mouth in total incredulity and downright skepticism. This is utter and sheer pleasure—satisfaction in its deepest and most finest ever form. Whah! What a life and a night indeed? Glorious and idyllic for sure.


“Ragnhild,” Stian buzzes and whirrs into my arse, and even though I am taken aback and winded out of my breath and senses as his air drones and hums through me, I make out the words that he is saying and airing out to me.


My goodness! This man will kill and butcher me with too much pleasure and enjoyment. I have no any other alternative but to stand and bear and tolerate all of this. I honestly have no other selection and preference here. No, I don’t at all. Do you yourself?


Goodness. Stian Elberd is going to fuck me doggy style this very night. The cogitation and reflection makes me all ecstatic and on cloud nine, fluttering and winking and twinkling my eyes at full speed and at a rate of knots like I am going to pay a visit and be the guest of a most awesome and jim-dandy locus and vicinity. Isn’t that just great and ideal? I think it definitely and unquestionably is in any case. I don’t know about you or your feeling and notion about it. I truthfully and from the bottom of my heart don’t have any kind and form of knowledge about that at all…


Duh. I am stooped down and bowed on my knees on the elevation and facet of our bed, totally disrobed and undraped or stark-naked behind as I am frocked and gowned in nothing but a cursory and pint-sized dress. It is a very knee-high-to-a-gnat design and brand and model of the mini-skirt itself that uncovers and lays bare to Stian’s congenial and enjoyable view my large and bulky bottom and jacksy as well as my sugary and sweetened vulva and vagina. Yeah. I can hear him moan and groan to himself groggily-like and tunefully and musically as he checks out and leers inaudibly and mutely at my undressed  and buck without-a-stitch-on bulky and rich derrière and arse. I love it. Don’t you?


“Yah,” Stian grumbles and bleats to himself, talking under his breath to be clear-cut and exact as he polls and studies my behind, striking and whacking it with his fingers even. My goodness. I am enjoying and reveling in this so much…being cuffed and walloped and laid one on in that topping and ace and bodacious way. It grasps and pinches and knocks off all my breath away. Is it usual and conventional? I believe and conceive so myself. Sincerely speaking. 


“Do you like it, baby?” Stian inquires me whilst amusing and capering and frisking his hands about with my ass and my much-loved and priceless ass pit itself as well as my inestimable and dear vagina and clitoris itself. Holy goodness! It all feels and tastes so brilliant and divine indeed. I do not ever want this to break off or nip in the bud. Not at all. Hello? Is someone poring over these warrigal, nuts, and unfettered words of mine? Is someone scanning and deciphering all this?


In and out, in and out, Stian gently and coolly stirs his finger into and outside of my muff and pussy, burdening and ailing me with that fierce and excessive want and hankering to catch and seize and haul and wrest viciously and roughly that ever great and huge and gargantuan dick and humungous penis of his so that it strikes and batters and bashes and whacks and swats and belts into the very deepness and profundity of my crack and punani, bestowing and supplying me with all too much delectation and contentment that I cannot wholly and totally absorb and swill up. Or can I devour and consume it all? I don’t think so myself…


“Stian,” I weep and mewl out to him, all tears and wailing.


“Yes, Ragnhild,” as he responds and takes the bait back to me, he talks and natters in a very treacly and euphonic voice that smashes and bursts and implodes about all my faculty and aura. My atmosphere and sensibility is so shattered and knocked for six right now that I don’t ever think that it will be workable and feasible for it to mend and patch up again. Or is it?


“I can’t take this, Stian,” I boohoo and whimper out to him, oscillating and vibrating and pulsating and reverberating both carnally and fleshly to the cadence and rhythm that his constant and uninterrupted jiggling and joggling of his hands on my hulking and gigantic arse and his fingers on my rapt and stoked muff and cunt is making me be. This is the best thing ever. But the delectation and enjoyment present is all too extreme and doubled up for me to take and hold up and also keep up with. Yes. It is that too much severe and utmost for me. It really and truly is.


“Fine,” he mentions and then lets fall and submerges his steep, piping soprano-like voice to a lowborn and plebeian breath and mere swish sough murmur or whisper in spare words. “Take my cock in that sugary, ready cunt of yours. Here it comes.”


I am all oversweet and sugared too maudlin as the words are uttered and voiced to me; I don’t know how to precisely respond.  And as my much gorgeous and handsome Stian pegs down his zip and breaks his back brusquely and shoofly just so to take and slip out his mammoth, all too leading and paramount cock from his attractively and charmingly formulated and tailored underwear, I sigh and take a wide, intense breath out, knowing what it is that is precisely going to present itself to me. I cannot get away and break free from it. In fact, I fancy and long for it so very much to occur and come off to me. It is all I want right this very moment and nothing else.


Leisurely; smoothly; properly; warmly and lovingly; Stian rubs and pats his jumbo, monstrous phallus and vagina plonker on the edges and rims and lips and flanges and brinks of my cunt and beaver before he without warning and like a shot pierces an penetrates and drills his sharp, full erection into me. I love it so very much. That moment he works and carries out that to me, I am all melted and liquidized and fused and fluxed into this one great and molten runny conglomeration and load of enjoyment and delectation. Who could not enjoy this anyway? I am taking pleasure and relishing in all this myself. Nothing could be much better…nothing at all…


“Arghhh! Arghhh! Arghhhh!” I shout and howl and shriek out as Stian raps and strokes and thumps into me, tipping over and capsizing streams and surges and sploshes of spermatic honey and fluid each time before he seeks and has a go at pulling out of me, but not having the bravura and gallantry to do so. Yeah. It is all so, so delightful and lovable.


In no time, Stian has me kowtow or get down on my knees on our stellar, humungous, and mammoth bed. I love the flawless and impeccable posture or disposition or arrangement that he has me genuflect and kneel in. Nothing could be more knickers—oops—spectacular or splendid than this. Yeah. I am conscious that he is going to fuck me doggy fashion and style. And boy, I am in love with that like nuts and crackpot. Aren’t you?


As he starts to batter and knock and bash and wallop into me from my behind, I seal and slam fast shut my eyes, swigging and imbibing and slurping in any crumb or mite of delight and satisfaction and delectation that he is pouring and injecting and spurting and pumping up real hurried and brisk and hasty into me. Duh! Sex is just way too far sugary and cloying and fragrant-smelling, isn’t it?


The air is intensive and solid and thickset and excessively concentrated with the fragrance and aroma and odor and niff of sex…sex…and more sex. Wherever I swing around and switch to, I come across and sniff in the scent of intensive and too sweet sex and sex. Anywhere I seek to entomb and inearth and inurn myself, it is all sex…sex…and more sex.


Goodness. The manner and style that Stian slaps and whacks and clobbers into me…the fashion and mode and means with which he breathes in and out a great lot deal onerous and exhaustedly…the racket and hubbub of his buttocks and bums behind as they jiggle and joggle and wiggle and jig…it all crushes to smithereens and nonbeing my faculty and awareness and thinking altogether. Yeah…it assuredly and indubitably and determinedly works and carries that out. Doesn’t it pull off the same toward you? Doesn’t it?


By the time that Stian gets done and carried through and settled with our dealing and business, I am all fatigued and exhausted and weary and whacked out. I let myself topple and plummet down to our bed after he acts that himself, all pleased and sunny and jolly and cheerful. When I stare and glance at him, he is all grinning and smiling from ear to ear, blinking and batting and fluttering his eyes at me in pleasure and fulfillment. I have given him my best shot and blood sweat, I hypothesize.













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