My dick is hard as nails, obviously. Swear to Christ, I’ve had an erection for five straight years. This girl who I married has me horny twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five. I’m tormented with lust from the moment I wake up beside her supple, inviting body until I fall asleep, exhausted from reminding her who she belongs to.
We’re inseparable. Where she goes, I go. Where I go, she goes.
That’s written in stone. The commandment of our marriage.
People think it’s intense. Or weird. Ask me if I give a shit.
The only person whose opinion matters to me is the girl on the other side of the glass who has just picked up the soap in her right hand, her golden eyes peeking up at me through her lashes for instructions.
“Wash your tits,” I groan, taking my cock in my right hand. “Slowly.”
She nods dutifully, rubbing the white bar between her breasts, then around them so slowly that I start to pant, begging without words for her to touch them fully. And she does. Finally. Soaping and kneading those two incredible globes, larger than usual, thanks to her third pregnancy, making me moan against the steamed up shower glass.
“God, they’re so hot,” I push through clenched teeth. “And you wonder why I keep you pregnant, Missy?”
With a dose of humor in her eyes, she moves beneath the shower spray and rinses off her tits—and I come very close to ejaculating at the sight of her stiff nipples peeking out through the waterfall of moisture.
“The ass now. Please,” I say, my voice so guttural, I’m not sure she hears me until she turns around, bends forward and begins soaping between her cheeks, up and down, up and down until I’m a shuddering mess, ready to lick the glass on the off chance I’ll be able to taste her. I’m jacking myself like a dirty pervert, my eyes locked on that puckered rosebud in the middle. God, it’s so tight. Nothing compares to her pussy, nothing in this world, but taking her ass is an act of claiming that makes me feel even closer to her—and that’s all I need. All I want. To be as close as possible to her.
Is she going to let me have her ass again soon? Please. Please.
“Faster,” I grit, watching the bar of soap pick up speed, rubbing over her little asshole, making it slippery, covered in frothy suds. “Good girl. Pussy, too. Make it squeaky clean for your Daddy.”
I’d eat her out after a ten-mile hike. Clean or not, I want her at all times.
But we love the ritual of performing these private acts together.
Showering, shaving, getting dressed. Nothing is off limits.
Mine.
It’s early in the morning, so the kids haven’t woken up yet. I can’t and won’t stop getting her pregnant, so we’ve had to adjust our schedules to make sure we’re spending enough alone time together—for my sanity and hers. That means at five a.m., the world is just ours for a little while. Which means I pretty much wake up every day with a dick that could double as a rolling pin. Could anyone blame me with a wife this fucking perfect?
She’s not only an incredible mother, she’s a badass businesswoman, no longer afraid to make her voice heard. Sometimes I’m so in awe of her that my whole body aches with love.
As if running Outfitter wasn’t enough for her, my wife purchased my old football team and made me the coach. One season later, we won the championship. She told me I could do it and because she’s so damn smart, I believed her. Believed…in myself. Her vote of confidence in me means more than I can put into words. I just…I wouldn’t be who I am without her. She’s changed my life, given me a home and hope and so much joy that I still think I’m going to wake up and find out it has all been a dream.
“I’m all clean for you,” Missy murmurs into the steam, approaching the glass and letting her delicious tits press up against it. Hell yeah. Mid-groan, I lean down and lick her nipples through the glass, beating my cock in vigorous rhythm, pre-come dripping from the tip. As I watch with rapt attention, she threads her fingers through her wet hair, arches her back, and now that pregnant belly is gently brushing side to side on the glass.
Jesus Christ.
My knees land unsteadily on the floor and I lap at that swollen stomach on the other side of the glass, so turned on I don’t remember my own name.
Until she says it. Calling to me.
My wife. My siren. My best friend and soul mate and lover.
“Turk…”
I’m on my feet and entering the shower in seconds, our mouths meeting in a frantic dance, my hands trying desperately to touch every part of her at once. “Please,” I groan, backing her toward the shower wall and turning her around, licking the moisture off the side of her neck, my cock already separating the cheeks of her ass. “Please, little girl. For Daddy.”