We got married two years ago. Tom’s a good guy. He’s got a great job, is kind to me, and now, pretty much every day since we got married, I can get that good dick.
It would be unfair to say I’m insatiable. My sex drive is high, yes, but what my husband gives me is enough. I don’t crave any more than what he brings to the bedroom. It’s just enough. It’s perfect. And, like I said, it’s good. If you’ve had anything like it, you know what I’m talking about.
Last night, after we’d finished up and were getting ready for bed, I whispered to him my appreciation for everything he does. He does so much. He smiled and kissed my nose and we went to sleep, content and basking in a haze of afterglow.
One night last week, I had to go without. Tom was stuck at work. There’d been an accident, so he and his co-workers were busy taking care of the aftermath. It’d been a train crash. It was all over the news. There were at least 40 dead. My heart went out to each and every one of the deceased. But I still missed Tom. I hate sleeping alone.
Eventually, I drifted off, only to be plagued by nightmare after nightmare. Awful stuff, most of which involved my husband. I imagined him among the accident victims; surrounded by the dead. People who had so much potential. People who were cut down in their prime. Such a waste of lives. A waste of everything.
Tom came home at dawn and found me tossing and turning, still in the throes of some terrible dream. He woke me as gently as he could, then got into bed with me and stroked my hair. He held me as I calmed down. His gaze of love and concern brought me back to reality quickly.
“Welcome home,” I said, smiling.
“It’s great to be back,” Tom replied, returning my grin.
We cuddled for a while, but like usual, one thing led to another and soon we were naked and writhing around on the sheets. He looked amazing. He felt even better.
“Hold that thought,” Tom whispered.
He got up and crossed the room. He reached in his work duffel bag and took out a rolled-up towel, then came back to me. “Take your pick,” he told me, grinning impishly. He unrolled the cloth and three tumbled out onto the bed. My eyes widened. One was spectacular. I stroked it, feeling the veins under the tight skin. It was even partially hard.
“Are these from…”
“…from the accident,” he finished. “Oh man, it was brutal. Parts were torn off everyone. These were ripe for the picking!” We laughed.
“Well I think they’re just perfect,” I told him.
“So is it that one?,” Tom asked, pointing to the one I was still stroking with absentminded reverence.
I thought for a moment before I answered. “I think this is a special occasion. Let’s go with two.”
Tom beamed. “So one for me, one for you?”
“Hmm…,” I pondered. “Better make it three.”