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Sex Du Juor

By: livebeornwulf



Stian Elberd and I myself—Ragnhild Ascwin—are departing off for a hush-hush and not-communal picnic at some far away seaside and seashore. By hush-hush, I denote that it is going to be the two of us alone and not more than that. Yes. We are going to gobble batches and assortments of delicious and lip-smacking food and more outstandingly and significantly have endless laps and lots of great and so out-of-this-world sex. It is to some extent chilly and icy, but we are going anyway. We have made up our minds and assessments about it and nothing is going to alter that.

Regrettably and unluckily, and much to my own dissatisfaction and aggravation, the car that we are in—a bullion-colored Nissan Trimm 196—breaks down and Stian is left with no preference and alternative other than to ring up his repairman and tell him about where we are and what came about to us as well as where it is that we are going. After continual and nonstop minutes of chatting and conversing on his phone with the grease monkey man, he breaks off the call and peeks at me callously and frigidly like.

"What did the mechanic say?" I ask him.

He frowns at me unfeelingly for being daring and audacious enough to inquire him of that. "He will be here in like two hours from now; can you believe it, Ragnhild?"

"That is totally awful and dire news in any case."

"Yes, it is terrible news indisputably."

To hack a time-consuming story to the summary and terse, Stian and I consent that we are going to fuck each other in this bulky, infinite forest about us. We can't just wait any more longer to arrive at the beach. I want sex right now and I yearn for it so bad. I would recite the rosary and even say my prayers out loud if it is bearable and allowable just so I can have and enjoy it. I am not shaggy dog storying here. This is the fixed and genuine truth. Arghhhh! I watch in silence as Stian takes off his blue-color jeans and pitch-black underwear and remains in nothing but his steep and irrefutable bareness. Why is it all the time that he likes having on black underwear in distinction and disparity with the other poles-apart shades? Oh my! Those mightily and impressively built and gorgeously hulking and filled and bursting-at-the-seams thighs of his...they enthrall and spellbind me. Damn me for my unquenchable lust and licentiousness and lasciviousness of him! Yes. I have an voracious and unappeasable desire and longing of him and his gigantic dick too. My monster and dearly loved John Thomas—I call him. He is mine to get pleasure from; mine to stroke and feel and amuse myself about with.

Phew! This is so truly funny and intriguing. I don't want it to end; not at all.

"Tilt down over the front windshield of the car with your face gazing straight at mine so I can fuck and spank you till you are so exaggeratedly stoked and floating in mid air."

My goodness! That is what I am supposed to do? I hurriedly do it keenly and merrily in any case. I clamber up on the windshield of our car, and once I am settled and accommodated on it, I haul and tow my legs apart and then pitch and fling up my yellowy dress so that my lemon-tinted Gee-string is laid to plain and infallible sight before Stian's vigilant eyes and gaze itself. With a speedy and trained and yet mild tug, he yanks and tows away my Gee-string until he is clutching and gripping them in his very own hands. Then, with that carried through, he flings and tosses it away into a close-by bush.

I am provoked by his deed there and then. "Shit, Stian, you threw away my Gee-string, didn't you? Have you got any idea of how much it was that I bought it? It was and still at present is very pricey."

He becomes charmed and absorbed to the heart by my uncovered and furry and shaggy vagina when he stares at it. Yes. He is going to fuck it pretty damn bad and hard. This I can tell from the way and manner that he is licking his lips while gawking and ogling at my undressed cunt itself. Fuck me already, will you? 

"I will get you a new duo and set of Gee-strings, Ragnhild, before we get back home. I assure you. I will get you any type of pants that you want. Do you hear that?"

"Yes, I do hear you obviously well, my overlord and boss." That is what I call Stian. He is my principal and overlord. Any heading and label that you can think of which has a majestic and lordly feel to it belongs to him. Yeah. That is just how things are between the two of us. And I like it that way. As for me, I am his servant and bondswoman and varlet and serf. I like it and I am also mad about it so, so, so very much.

"Nice," Stian notes kindheartedly. "You are a good girl indeed. And I am so very in love with good girls. As long as you submit and yield yourself entirely to me like this superb way that you even now are doing, we will all the time be at harmony and serenity and cheerfulness with each other."

Won't he fuck me already? I have had enough of the lame, monotonous, and stupid talk already. 

When he reviews and checks my hopeful and longing pussy this time, I am convinced and positive that I will be spanked and fucked and banged pitilessly and heartlessly like no man's dealing. In fact, my vagina itself is missing Stian's spermatic seed and jism so, so, so very much. She is awfully and particularly parched and thirsting for it. Without taking another swallow and fresh nip of it, she will definitely kick it and pop her plogs. I am just jesting and wise-cracking, don't take offence at me. But once it—his male gamete—is made accessible and obtainable to her—my vag (abridgement or shortening for vagina) or pussy hole—she will without doubt gulp and guzzle it all down.

Properly and evenly, Stian places and lays his finger into the thickness and breadth of my gleefully now animate and busy pussy. The feeling...the sentiment that stirs with it...it is all so great and riotous and unbelievably fantastic. I have not submitted myself to anything like it before. Arghhh! Bit by bit and nicely, he jostles and jams smoothly nice his elongated fingers into me. I stare up at the boundless blue sky above my head and close my eyes for what seems like a fleeting while. Each time before we have sex, Stian all the time does that to me. He knows very well how to make and get ready my pussy for a good and pleasing round of kinky fuckery. This is so great and far-fetched indeed.

Left and right, up and down, his skillful fingers rummage about and stab and prod each and every side of my vagina's inside. I like the feeling and commotions that they are rousing up with the stabled movements; I like everything about his balanced and yet calm and body-striking movement. It is all Greek to me—which I do not know and even do not apprehend—and I am utterly thrilled and excited by it as much as my mind is muddled and obscured up like mud-spattered and grimy waters on the other hand. Sex, sex, and more sex please...

"Can I lick and lap and sweep your pussy with my own tongue and also nosh and snack it with my very own mouth?" Stian asks all this to me, observing and studying what my reaction and response to him will be like. I am perplexed and dazed at the same time, and my face can evidently and straightforwardly show all of this. 

"Yes, Stian. Flick and lap and brush your tongue in my cunt if you like. Snack and graze it with your very own mouth too if you see it preferable and more suitable and eligible." And he does precisely just that. Bowing himself down towards me so that he has his mouth stationed and positioned right next to my vagina, he gawks and glances it briefly and for a moment before budging and stirring ahead to lap and whip his tongue violently and hysterically against it. My goodness! It is the best and most excellent thing ever. The lips and rims and margins and flanges of my sex wags and wiggles with the thrashing and flogging of his tongue, creating these pleasant and stunning sensations from somewhere there down my waist. In the dome and quarter of my muff and punani that is. Goodness. It is all the great and gratifying. I do want all this to come to a concluding and ultimate ending? Not at all! I want us to go on and on and on without any sort of conclusion at all. 

My body is melting and dissolving and liquefying in this vast, grand accumulation and grouping of keen most bliss and pleasure. Getting laid is the nicest thing in case you didn't know. My breath is so confound and disarrayed up and my thinking itself is this gone nuts and round the bend. All I experience about and within me is enjoyment and bliss and immense contentment...and nothing else. The way that Stian licks and thrashes his tongue on the rims and brims of my sex bears out to me just how much of a professional and connoisseur he is at sex. I am so pleased and relived that I am married and wed to an accomplished and practiced man like him in the first place.

After breaking off from his accomplishment for a little bit while, he runs his finger down my vulva towards my ass and then stabs and pricks it. I howl out vaguely savored and delighted and a little bit surprised and taken aback by that. My goodness! Will he also be fucking that zone and region and neighborhood of mine? He shouldn't do it. I am at the moment not ready and geared up to be rammed and rapped with that massive cock and dick of his into my ass. Not now; not any sooner; perhaps some time later.

I scowl and make a face whilst Stian's finger sports and fiddles and wantons about with my ass. Is he solemn and grave and staid on biffing and decking and walloping and whacking up that quarter and neck-if-the-woods turf of mine? Is he? I ask him straight away, "Are you also going to slide your stretched and giant John Thomas in there, Stian?"

"Not really. But I can do it if you want me to. What is your say on that?"

"No, no; don't do it. I am not geared up for it right now."

He stoops and bobs himself down and first smells and gets a whiff and sniff of my ass before he proceeds on to lick and smack it with his tongue as well. My goodness! Oh my goodness! The feeling is so bizarre and abnormal and of-the-wall and daggy-like. Doesn't he find it foul-smelling and stinking and reeking sort-of to have fun and frolic and frisk about with my anus this freaking anomalous way? An hour before we left for the water's edge and ocean plage back at our home, whilst I had locked and shut myself up in our capacious and bountiful latrine and water closet, I had given up human dung and faces and excrement that looked as grassy and greenly as hale-and-hearty lawn, and it was the most malodorous and feisty-smelling waste matter and lak of mine, which I hand wiped up and brushed and swabbed entirely clean with the velvety and silky maroon-colored tissue. Damn Stian for doing that to me! He was trifling and amusing himself with my goddamn intimate and darling most anus, wasn't he aware of it?

I am shamefaced and conscience-stricken and sheepish on that. I mean, the anus is supposed to be mucky and grungy and skanky—isn't it all that? And Stian here is sporting and romping up games with it like it is greatly guiltless and squeaky-clean and irreproachable? Yeah...I know. Like they term and style it...anal play...grungy and dirty play, isn't it so?

Heck. Who would have foretold Stian engaging in silly and stupid games with my prized and priceless anus all thanks to the utilization and usefulness of his sluggish and dopey-minded tongue? Damn him for it! He was thick-headed and brain-dead enough to do it. Yes, he definitely was. 

When he is completed with entertaining and amusing himself with my much-loved and very much helpful and functional anus, he stares up at me and then beams and smirks wickedly to state to me, "Must I come up there to fuck you? Or must I drag you down here to fuck you right close to me?"

"Mount up here and fuck me please," I make known to him. He does just that. He crawls and clambers up to where I am seated on the bonnet of the car, with my back tilted and leaned on the windshield beneath me, and once he is up here with me, he curves and twists himself down to place and lay himself over me. Goodness. His solidified and congealed erection strokes and brushes my thighs; and I am all this frozen immobile and static right away, gulping down hard as a sugary, lust-awakening-like feeling and passion journeys through my blood and veins themselves. I want him to fuck me hard...right here and right this particular moment. Will he at any rate? It is too soon to tell that, or is it not?

"Are you ready for me to come into you?" Stian questions me, reviewing and surveying my facial appearance and idiom itself. 

I nod towards him silently, and it is then that he penetrates his full erection into me, lightly and cautiously. Yah! I have been waiting for this sugary moment all these lengthy while ages. And here it has at last come. I don't want everything to end. If only we can expend and splurge and fritter up the rest of our outstanding and lingering but lasting days fucking and spanking up each other. It would be so great and fantastic, aren't you of the same opinion and estimation and view with me. Leisurely but unquestionably, Stian pumps in and then bails out his elongated and made-bigger dick out of me, satisfying my lust, slaking and placating it—and I am so extremely and from the bottom of my heart pleased with him and his achievement. 

Oh my gosh! What a content, joyful, and pleasurable life of mine this all is! A life of sex...sex...and more sex with my very much handsome and devoted and caring and helpful husband—Stian Elbert. Stian, please fuck me in this inexhaustible and fear-provoking forest about us, will you, honey?

Shit. I can't believe that Stian is going to fuck me real awesome and admirable and butchin' five-star! I would love that. His voluminous and hulking thighs ballet and waggle against mine, his hips or bottom or butts behind swinging and swaying quietly and intensely. Oh my gosh! I love it. It is oh so appetizing and amazingly tasty and yummy and plain damnedest best awesome and beautiful and pleasurable too. I stare down to see how his gigantic dick is pricking and going in and out outside of my hole, and to be truthful and candid with you, I am dazed and beguiled by what I see and observe. Speedily and vividly brutal and stern, his phallus punches and rams into me, making his body to ballet and jig and wriggle in such a very dazzling and outstanding and breathtaking motion. Being fucked is an excellent and fantastically enjoyable thing indeed. He must not stop...he must not refrain or break off from what he is doing to me right this very moment.

For a little, far-fetched while, he removes his massive and fully-jammed and replete penis out of me to stroke and caress it adequately and tenderly just before my not-yet-fully-pleased-and-made-happy vulva itself. Ashoooo! It is an eye-catching and spectacular thing indeed. He jerks and yanks his big John Thomas with his own hands before my very own private eyes, staring gravely and acutely at his oversize dong while slinking a glance at me every little once in a while. Then he tells me, "Set your vagina far and wide ajar. I want to gorge and fill it up with my own cum and jism. Do it before I come. Fast, Ragnhild."

I do like I am ordered and charged to; I position my fingers on my sex and open its rims and flanges broadly and far more extensively and widely apart. Deep inside it, it is all flushed pink and roseate and to some faded extent reddish. Of course! It is all so drenched and dripping and bathed and doused with Stian's cum itself. Poor it! I trust that it is enjoying this too, is not it?

Arghhhh! As I finger and stay wide open the lips and cavities of my troubled and shocked sex, gazing at Stian while he rubs and strokes his vast, littly vermilion-like dick at the same time, he lets loose and fires and spurts out continual and unbounded cum from it, directing and casting it straight into my cherry pink punani that is anticipating so very much to be given and be also furnished with it.

"Yeah," Stian undertones out to me, content and happy with himself and his achievement. "Yeah, baby. That is it. Open it more wider and extensively and happily get my downpour and deluge of sweet rainfall and raindrops of pleasantly cum itself."

Stian's cum is bizarrely lukewarm and enjoyable. Is there anything not wide-off-the-mark with that? I nibble and masticate my lips and tongue as he pours and showers out more and more semen into my powerless and vulnerable punani, filling and furnishing me with too much pleasure and sweetness all in all. Yes. Like that, baby. Keep on doing it. I am liking it so, so, so very much; I am taking pleasure in it so badly and so, so intensely.

Eishhh! Is this enjoyment and sweetness I am taking joy in right now ever going to end? I don't want it to finish and pull the plug on to be honest and earnest with you. Damn it!

All of a sudden and unexpectedly, Stian is inside of my vagina again, prancing and bobbing himself up and down, and rocking up and down and swaying violently and crazily his buttocks behind. Ashhh! I like the manner and style that he fucks me. The sex he grants and bestows and furnishes me with is just plain damn awesome and mind-blasting and splitting in nearly about every means and form. Stian is the world's greatest fucker of our time—if not of all time.

I shut my eyes close while he bashes and whacks and clobbers and clouts and swats and tonks and batters into me. Yeah. I wish to focus and contemplate on nothing else right now but the exceeding sugariness and syrupiness and honeyedness that he is furnishing and filling me with; that pleasantly sacchariness; that beautifully ickiness; that wonderfully cloyingness that materializes and comes into being with him socking and spanking and thrusting and slapping into me. It wings and flutters me straight into paradise and the next world itself in not long than a millisecond. Yah! I love being fucked and spanked and hammered sexually a great lot deal big time as a matter of truth. Sex really rocks, don't you think so? I do opinion and esteem so myself as a matter of authenticity and veracity.

For a second, Stian quits fucking and tipping out a great immense deal of semen into me. My vagina and Isabelita down there is thirsty and parched and dehydrated again. She thirsts for more semen and cum; she is in fact itching and greedy for more kinky and hard fuckery from the great master fucker of our time himself—Stian Elbert. She is desirous what's more and avid and athirst and craving and hankering for more and more sex, sex, and endless sex...and will it be given her? I cannot tell so soon. 

And? What next? I ask Stian why he has abruptly broken off and come to a standstill from fucking and banging me up. He has this to fill in to me, "I am imagining about any probable way that I can make use of in fixing and patching up my car."

Crap! That is what he is cogitating over about? Damn him for it then! We are having sex here. Not just any commonplace and usual sex; but sweet-smelling and sugary and fragrant-like and euphonious fuckery and coition all in all. And he tells me that he has let his mind wander and stray to our contemporary crisis and dilemma? Setbacks and hitches in this iniquitous and unrighteous and morally wrong world of ours never end. They never, ever come to a final and ultimate and absolute ending and expiry and resolution; they never, ever do that; in lieu, they are incessant and continuous and evermore permanent. And if you swear that you are never, ever, ever going to have and appreciate and relish and find satisfaction in sex all of your life and days here on Earth until all is perfectly and brilliantly well with you, then you are never, ever, ever and ever going to have and be privileged with it and the pleasurable and of your body's liking largesse and kohas and bequests and boons and prezzies that come along with engaging in it. There is no such thing as a perfect and ideal moment to have and enjoy sex. Nothing like that at all! Or is there something f that sort and nature in your perspective and standpoint?


Sex du Juor: Dinner Fantasies



I feel bored to tears. I feel fed up and tired with life itself and everything else. I am all by myself here at my house and dwelling, totally and figuratively doing nothing at all. Stian has departed off for work and I know that he will come back any moment in a little while. Yes. I have to cook and steam and heat up dinner and evening meal for him. It is murky and gloomy outside with little if not any slim flicker of radiance and luminosity and the forest bordering our house is all this dreadful and chilling and bloodcurdling. I am not terrified or frightened or worried of it nevertheless. Why, you might probably question. I love this place. It is hushed and belle natural and harmless in every revere and esteem in similarity and dissimilarity with the earsplitting and congested and crammed-full that township house places are. Phew!

In a hurry and hastily—before I start to cook or bake up anything, I snatch and grab my phone that is lodged and put down on kitchen slab and I type this coming wording message to Stian. Of course! He might be busy finishing and wrapping up stuff and chores that he has been toiling and working on since the day commenced, but I don't care in any case. He has to seek out and make up time for me. He certainly and specifically has to do so. Yeah—he has to do it! Oh Stian, my poor love!

Hi, angel! I am missing you. What would you like for ceremonial dinner anyway, huh? 

Before I hit 'Send' to him, I reflect and weigh up things carefully and charily and then in conclusion make up my mind to send the text to him as a Multi-Media Message (MMS) rather. And that is what I vaguely and beyond doubt do. I take a photo of myself while I blow him an indiscernible kiss inside our large kitchen itself and then lay in the words that I typed beneath the snapshot itself and mail and onward over the whole thing to him. It is 165 kilobytes in bulk and dimension and it reaches him in less than ten seconds. Yuppie! There we go...

Five minutes soon after, my phone dingdongs and peals sweetly and I know even without confirm it out that that is Stian Elberd coming back to me. I at last verify the...MMS...and yes, it indisputably and in fact and beyond doubt is him! 

Simmered (or boiled) eggs and baked chicken and fried carrots and unprocessed cabbage sliced and muddle up with mayonnaise and a filled tumbler of strong, sugary juice and a plateful of grapes and cut apples. Will you get ready this for me please, my sweet angel?

I type and note down to him: 

All heard and understood, chief.

He inscribes back speedily again.

What would you like I myself to bring you home, huh? What, treasured one?

I counter:

Come dish up your penis for my exceptional dinner. It is all I really and solely want. Is that plain and elaborate enough to you?

He answers back.

All heard and comprehensible. I will be on my way back there any minute soon from now. Take care please...

I smile to myself cordially and brusquely. Stian will be here any minute now to serve me up exactly what I ordered him to and I must hand him out what he demanded me to as well. Don't you think this is great and brilliant? Don't you? I definitely and certainly and somewhat do think so myself. Dummy! 

I cook. Fast; with awareness; cautiously and with great and lots of care and concern. I slash and hack up the cabbage into tiny and miniature pieces, then merge and mix it up with mayonnaise and a bit salt and vinegar. Having placed and accumulated it into a large and spacious glass-crafted basin, I lay it on a huge tray and only wait for the moment when I am going to serve and dish it out. With this said and through, I get grapes and chock-full size apples, the apples of which I slice and hack them up before I set and put them together with the grapes. The strong, sweet orange juice is not any tricky and complex to make and serve up. I just need two big, magnificently shaped glasses for it. Yes! Tonight, Stian and I will be toasting and whooping it large and big time. Will you come join us as well? Will you please? I stir fry the carrots, then roast the chicken, then boil the eggs and make up a separate bowl of soup to eat along with them. Good! It is all at last deal done and carried through! 

Just when I have ceased serve up the meal, the door pings and dings, and I know it for positive that it is Stian who is already there and waiting for me to open up for him. I dash and speed my way there. When I haul the door open, I see and learn to my thrill and glee and great anticipation that it is in fact him and no one else. Fine-looking and handsomely dressed he may be, he seems a little bit tired and worn-out and dead beat 

`

"Stian," I greet and welcome him, seizing and nabbing up his briefcase work carrier for him. He kisses and pecks me lightly and smoothly on the cheek. I like it! I love it and am so stuck out on it! I smile warmly and benevolently at him as he footsteps into the house, all joyful and famished and energized at the same time. I shut the door...and then we eat and munch up our snack...and then we chat and natter temporarily...and then now to finish with comes the time and hour for me to get a hold of my preceding appeal. Yes! Stian has already showered and changed his clothes. He is all spanking new and full of life and bouncy and cheerful and strapping looking and carefree. My breathtaking and first-rate and dazzling Stian! I love, love, love him! Don't you yourself?

He looks at me bashfully and timidly. Why is he becoming indecisive now to give me my...? I mean I must get what I applied and asked for, or must I not, huh? Must I not really? "Come on," I tell and let know to him, "Don't give me that withdrawn and introverted look, hubby! I want my penis for banquet! I want to devour my fucking goddamn banana penis as my special dinner! Give it to me now already, will you?"

"Who told you it is your penis?"

I toss back at him furiously and heatedly. "Who told you it does not belong to me?"

"You are such a witty girl, Ragnhild. Where do you want me to dish it up anyway?"

"Right here on this very plate." I even shift and move about the salver that is seated on our banquet table right close and nearer to him. He looks at it in stun and astonishment. I tell him, "Put it here already, will you please, Stian?"

"What? You want me to fucking slice my valued and beyond price John Dong and put him here on this plate for you to eat and devour. You are mad, Ragnhild. I didn't know you are this crazy and foolish—"

I climb up on the table straight away and inch towards him silently and inaudibly. He falls quiet and noiseless this exact moment, staring and gaping at me like he has see a living ghost or zombie creep and edge straight after him. When I make it to where he is, I gaze down at him lustfully and raunchily and then brush and sweep and budge my lips against his aggressively and intensely. He is taken back and shaken at the same time. I crash and run and thrash my lips against his all the more brutally and viciously and ferociously. It makes him grunt and weep out, pleased and contented and satisfied deep inside with all this and everything else that I carry out. Stian—yes, yes, yes him; I love and adore him—so, so much as a matter of fact!

He holds me with his hands and pulls me toward himself, smooching and canoodling and snogging me all the more faster and energetically and sadistically. I groan and cry out this time around. This is fantastic...this is glorious and magnificent. Yes. Like that, honey. Keep it going, Stian! Don't make it come to an ending! Don't please, Stian! Don't please!

Hurriedly fast and illogically and crazily, he climbs and mounts up on the massive, gigantic table before he carries on to throw and thrust me down to its facade and face before he eyes and glances at me lustfully and lasciviously. Then he quickly and hurriedly crawls after me and twists and bows himself down to kiss and smooch and snog me down here where I am lying and resting down. Yes...yesss...yessssssssssssss...this is it...this is it for sure and big time! This is it, Stian!

I put and place my hands straight into his hair to feel and fool around with it. He curves and crooks himself down until he is at long last reclining and taking it easy and tilting himself down against me. Yah! With this said and finished, he stirs his hand to the fly or zip of his trousers, which he loosens and unfastens, and then he fetches and heaves and snatches out his penis to toy and doll and game about with his very selfsame hand. This is good...this is awesome and breathtaking...I like it, don't you yourself relish it as well?

"Take your panties off, Ragnhild," he shouts and states to me. I do just that with my very own possessed and individual hands. I remove my panties off, bit by bit and leisurely, and then I let him rub and press and nudge his penis right into and outside my cunt before he to conclude with and at length last rams and bashes and pokes and positions it straight deep inside my vagina. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhh! I am enjoying and delighting in all this. Are you not yourself? Are you not really? I close and shut my eyes momentarily, doing my very best to take in and collect all the immense pleasure and sweetness and contentment and gratification that Stian is bestowing and furnishing me with. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! What is he? Paranormal and mystical or just what in particular? The way his penis makes contact and touch with my pussy twat makes me want to faint and pass out. Really! I am not telling cake lies here but the authentic and indisputable truth!

It is good...so good indeed...I can't imagine and even suppose that anything could be more good and pleasant and enjoyable than this. He is inside of me right now as I put in writing this to you, whipping and spanking and lashing pitilessly about, dancing and jigging and swaying and swinging and bending this side and that other. Yeah. Just like that. I reach for his buttocks behind and grab and hold them harder. It feels so awfully nice and enjoyable and pleasurable too. I mean it. I am about to orgasm...I am about to come. As I hold them all the tighter and more tighter, I draw closer and more closer towards my sexual ecstasy and climax, and the greater and more elevated and lofty my bliss and enjoyment becomes. For sure!

Oh my! This acute pleasure is too, too much; this glee and enchantment is for sure too high and sky-scraping for me to withstand and bear up. I am not cracking jokes here. I am so glad and in high spirits and cheerful I don't even know what will come off next and when and convincingly why. All I know and realize is that this pleasure is too great and grand for me to surrender and lay down my arms on.

As Stian places and sets his huge and immense thing into my pussy cunt, I feel a particular buzz and sort of thrill thump and have power over me. For a while; I am all weepy and howling and sobbing low-pitched and inaudibly. Then following that, as Stian gently and carefully shifts slightly but glowingly about, making a move like he is about to switch his dick out of me and return it quickly again, I shut my eyes, hovering and eating up the delight and delectation and satisfaction that he gives me. Yeah. This is it...this is it for sure.

"Stian," I wail and mewl out his name, mislaid and disappeared in happy and lascivious randy thoughts of my own. Yeah. I don't want to come or revert back into reality again. This is a fairy tale come true indisputably; slightly painful but really and incredibly satisfying and pleasurable indeed. I love it so very much. I surely and definitely do. Don't you? 

Whenever Stian smacks and hits a butt of mine while having fun and frolicking about with my behind—entertaining and amusing himself about with my flesh-and-bones to be precise, or even when he just caresses and cuddles and strokes a boob or titty or breast of mine, pinching and squeezing my mammary glands and nipples themselves occasionally and now and then—I can't help it but go into an inexhaustible, undying phase and state of sweet-most, sugary-like orgasm.

"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 Warringal, 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 treacle-like 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 just don't comprehend it. What is this guy—surpassingly and extraordinarily and truly nice-looking—looking for in a worthless and valueless and rubbish girl like me. Well, if you opinion and think that because I see myself as this chicken-shit and pitiful and rubbishy and wretched, I can be simply and undeniably taken advantage of, then you are far and away and beyond question off target and erroneous and untrue about me. In truth!

He is long-legged and towering high above my steep and lofty stature and highness itself. I mean it...I am positive and confident and free from doubt about it. Other than this, he seems much convinced and self-assured and bold of himself than I can note practicable and realizable. Hmmmnnnnn! No wonder he is the cracking and super awesome Don Juan or lady seducer that girls and misses everywhere chitchat and blether and buzz about. Story and hearsay is it that one noteworthy woman professor and don was come across inside her office by her aider and assistant while self-abusing and touching and masturbating herself with the exploit and utility of Stian's dazzling and gee-whizz photos, which, the gossipers carried on to tot or sum up, she was eyeing and staring at that randy, erotic, and lewd way while yelling and whooping his name out. I don't know how bona fide and factual and true this is...but it sure has made buzz and scandal and dirt news everywhere, even on social media, where it even got conferred about on some well-liked and sought-after radio show with hundreds and hundreds more thousands of listeners and freaks.

The man I am talking about here is Stian Elberd. I am not an aficionada or fan club subscriber of him, though my best friend and china, Brogan Dunn, is—and she would do in and blow away someone's life just to have Stian lust and itch after her, she blurted it all out clean to me. I mean, can you even think that up? It is dumb-ass and meaningless.

Stian is straightened up and on his feet before me, all smirking and beaming and smiling. Hmmnnnn...what is there to be smitten and bewitched and swept off one's feet about here? Perhaps he should cut it clean and share it out with me so that I can in the very end bust a gut and cackle and yell out. Womanizer...lady-killer!

"How can I help you?" I ask gently and mildly nice while I peep and check a glimpse out at him. He is well-proportioned and very nice-looking. This is the generously truth and it hits and batters me up in the face like I have been slapped hard and severely. Damn him for his lady-hypnotizing winsomeness and handsomeness. I do not have to be bewitched and cast under a prevailing, all-supreme spell like the others have. No, I don't have to as well end up this way. No!

"I imagine that I am the one who can lend you a helping hand," he pitches back at me. I aim and strive to be cold-blooded and remorseless and unfeeling with my facial mien and countenance, but he ploughs on being gentle and lenient and unselfish with me, up till I have no any other alternative than to succumb and give way to him. Oh darn yeah!

That was two years rearwards or backwards in reverse. Now I am wedded and hitched to this very selfsame flirt of a man that I quailed and shied away from just at his approach and advancement towards me. He is taking a nap. Soundlessly and sweetly mild in my very own arms and watch care. I look at his hair. It is terribly and for the most part pitch-black and little, if not hardly any maroon and roseate. Yes. It is scantly kinked and coiled and curlicue. I love its stylishness; I adore and savor its dressiness and fashionableness. This is Stian Elberd stunning and elegant; this is my very own Stian Elberd personable and fanciable and comely-looking. I kiss and snog him on the forehead smoothly and rhythmically before I get on to set down my head on his chest and doze there silently and in hushed tones.

These are the hours of heavy and non-stop sunlight outside. Albeit there be sunlight and sunshine, it is somewhat a bit gray and foggy and overcast out there, with liquefying and unfreezing snow evanescing and dispersing slowly and gradually. The trees are alive and kicking, jigging vigorously and actively this side and that other, and furthermore swinging here and there. I am not telling pork pie untruths here. Come see this for yourself if you mistrust and have doubts about it.

Stian and I are butted and stalled down on our vast, snug, and cozy settee, grasping and clasping each other well and lovingly. He is the one who is taking me in his muscular, virile, and well-built safeguarding arms and I am sloping and tilting and heeling myself against his chest leisurely and at my own relaxation and breathing space. He is carrying in his hands pictures of us when we were first falling in love and I am eyeing and scouring through at them in a laid-back and lazy comfortable fashion. 

"Do you guess how far it is that we have come from, Ragnhild?" He queries me coolly and unperturbedly. Of course! How can I ever fail to remember and let slip from the memory all that? I cannot. I mean...we have traveled and tripped and toured a cheerful and joyless excursion and errand all in all. Yes. We have made a move and staggered our footing that deep and long mile away distance indeed. It is true...

Without resolving or answering anything back to him, I go on to kiss and jar and clash and collision my lips against his. At first I do it steadily and by degrees and at my very own leisure and snail's pace. It feels good and wonderful; it is sensational and super and fantastic indeed!

Arghhhhh! Stian is super and mega hot and enjoyable. This man is the awesome and cracking top and smashing great example and specimen and representative case of what it means to be sexy and come-hither and beddable. His blooming and robust and in-fine-fettle muscles are powerful and vigorous and hard-wearing than ever before. I can picture and conjure up them sweating and drudging and laboring intensely hard to cheer and satisfy and gratify and give uttermost pleasure to me. Oh yes! They assuredly and certainly will be doing that. Without a doubt 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 this!




Sex du Juor: Dinner Fantasies



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 loopy, 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!

Back once again to the university days, as I relax in my bed this very night, my mind wanders back to those glorious moments that I have spent with Stian Elberd. His appearance, his excellent smile, his spotless-looking olive skin, his pleasing hair, his insane-like-charming eyes, especially during when they are lit up with that blooming glow and brilliance that lights them up whenever he smiles. Everything about him is to the hilt fascinating and enchanting. Oh yes, it definitely is!

With Stian in my mind, I sleep like a newly born baby, pathetically pitiable and feeling unaffected by anything and enveloped in a protective sheet of whole and guarding love. When I break my eyes open, morning has curtly dawned with the birds chirping and caroling and twittering outside. My custom is as usual. Eat and then wash and finally doll myself up for school. I am not going there to learn. Classes for first year students have not yet began and neither have the results of our interviews come out yet. Meaning that I do not know whether I have been accepted for attendance at the institution or not.

I stroll the library and designing division of the institute like mad. My objective? To find out if there were ample and sufficient Fashion and Design textbooks and property supplies and any other applicable and suitable stuff. There are to my excessive delight and joy. I almost scream and throw myself down to the floor in madness and paroxysm. This morning is one of the happiest days in my entire life! Yes, I have had my very own fair share of unhappy and broken-hearted days and as such do I not deserve to be entitled, even for a split second, to one fortunate and blessed and happy and prosperous day? In my perspective I sure am qualified for that.

They have a library specifically for those who were studying Fashion and Design here at the institute. A massive and elaborate and well-ornamented library, and not a subdivision or subsection within one large library. They also have a practical hall where there are all sorts of equipment and machinery used in the manufacture and designation of clothes; sewing machines; knitting machines; designation tools and gadgets. The list and market, sorry, it should be treasure, is this endless and infinite. Everything is there. Not precisely every little bit of thing. For the foremost part, almost everything required is available.

This is how I had dressed up: Blue cotton pants, a blue blouse, white mid-heels, and a gray farther-reaching jacket. I am this immaculate and stainless, but by no means heavily bedecked and ornamented. No, I am not.

While grabbing away from the shelf one F&D textbook, a manful voice, still and low, addresses me from behind, "Morning, sweet angel."

I turn around as quickly as I can. My eyes stretch wide in endearment and shock, my mouth dropping low, my forehead puckering and creasing up. I am just plain damn shocked and entranced at the same time. Whoowy! Stian is just plain damn...gorgeous and magnetic!

Stian smiles gently and strokes my cheek lightly as he did so. Wow! It feels like...like...like bliss and rapture. As much as I become still and quiet as though I am averse to it, I fancy and crave it like nothing else. It is the most delicate and precious touch in my life. Ever.

"Are you okay?" He asks, having noticed how so quiet and unresponsive I am after a long time.

"I am fine."

He arranges nicely threads of my hair that have been disordered and messed up by the gushing wind. I like that too; even though I do not inform him about it. Being touched by the man that you are lusting after? How many of you know how pleasant and delightful that is? How many of you understand how delirious and light-headed it makes the world around you go?

"What was it that you really wanted to tell me? I am curious to know."

"How really curious are you?"

While we walk, Stian's hand is firm and unshakable on mine. His fingers play and handle mine in such a thrilling and electrifying manner that makes it obvious that he as well has got a crush on me. Whoohoo! Hurray! Not only am I in love with this boy. He is also in love with me on the other hand. Which assures me that things between us are headed somewhere at least. Oh yes, they are!

We chat and giggle and stare and smile as we go on our way. That has some group of guys and girls hovering nearby stop what they are doing and discussing and pay unreserved and unwavering attention to the two of us. The reflection and study of most guys stays and lingers on me. It disturbs and unsettles some even. It sure does. I glare back at them lamentably and woefully. What is it about us that deserves to garner such kind of attention and watchfulness? What precisely?

At reaching his friend's door—located on floor 'Thirteen' of the 'Pine' building—Stian tries it and scowls at discovering that it has been locked up and bolted. He snaps, "Damn," to himself and then flashes me an apologetic smile.

"Is there any problem?" I am alarmed and up on my toes in no time—not specifically standing up on my physical toes but immaterial ones as I am in an apprehensive state of nervousness and anxiety.

"No," Stian quickly replies, granting me another excusatory smile. "All is fine. It is just that Max, Maxwell I mean, has his room locked and kept out of bounds. Don't worry though. I will ring him up to find out if he is nearby or not. Just give me a second please."

"No problem."

He is like flames and combustion and blazes themselves. This is what he verily and genuinely is. He makes me go up in fiery and unbearably hot fire; he flickers and flares me up to sear and char and tingle and glow with lechery and wantonness of sex and him until I am nothing but vulnerable and incapable of rebutting anything come-hither and sexy and suggestive that he says to me. I crave and long for him so much...so, so much indeed...don't you yourself?



Sex Du Juor: In The Sauna



I cannot draw in or gasp out any scanty, insubstantial breath or puff as I relapse and sink myself down the steaming, heated water of the Jacuzzi or sauna that I am bathing and taking a dip in. Water tears and hums and whirs all about me, damping and moistening my eyes as I snap and break them up open all at once and in an instant like a fleet, brisk, and quickie-some shot—ie. My flame brown hair is dank and wringing wet too and I even note and sight its twines and strings and strands inch and ease and pick their way past my eyes. 

Stian Elberd and I myself—Ragnhild Ascwin—are at Cano Hotel here in the town of Rovich in Iceberg, where we have solely and singly come to have fun and be involved in a sport and leisure and junket just for two people uniquely; a twosome thing (for husband and wife) idiosyncratically. Of course! Like you must foresee and think likely, we are going to have sex... shag... bang... and lots and scores more of hump and come-have-your-way-hither-with-me sex.

As I come forth and turn up out of the water, I glimpse and catch sight of him bottomed and assed down there, sprawling and lolling on an elegant and baroque Chesterfield settee that has got downy and feathery and furry and squashy squabs and pads and headrests on it. Apart from having on tenebrous and swarthy glasses, he is gawping and goggling direct at me dumbly and mutely. What is it that he is pondering and brooding his brains about? What explicitly?

I am stark-naked and in my very gorgeous birthday suit in this sauna and hot tub. I love the feel and stroke of the moderately hot and comfy pleasant water as it socks and bubbles up and tonks against my clean-shaven, creamy, and soothing slick skin. My chunky and waterlogged hair twines round and clasps on to my skin itself, trickles and drips of water seeping and running down from it. Funny and absurd enough, I smile quirkily at Stian straight away and without warning.

"Can I come join you, Ragnhild?" He inquires me in a moored and anchored pitch of voice. How must I hit back at him? How exactly? With downright, 'yes'—or absolute, 'no'? How in fact? I am clueless, if not dim and witless on that!

"You are at liberty and on the loose to come and join me, Stian," I find myself acknowledging and riposting back to him cringe-worthy and barro style. Screw me for it! What is there precisely here to be all cringe-making and uncomfortable about? What verily?

Stian picks himself and stands up on his jellified and close-grained feet. He is enchanting and dazzling and drop-dead in slinky and come-hither briefs and underthings that make him look like a godforsaken and god-mirroring Don Juan or Casanova stud. He looks like a gay dog womanizer on the other hand... a ladies' man that all enchantresses and sirens would obviously and without doubt contest and take up arms against just to win and bag him over to their lone and companionless beds. Inevitably! Apart from the smalls and pitch-black underwear, he puts on and clothes himself in nothing else. Not even a brummagem, garish brand of shirt; not even anything that jazzy or flash tacky sort-like.

I am whacked and slugged out of breath. I cannot gasp; I cannot gulp or sigh as I feel like. Stian! He has staggered and swept me off my feet. Is a man alleged and presupposed to be this exquisitely dishy and well-proportioned. Is this up to the mark and so and so? Is it really? Just when his eyes burrow and pierce into mine, I can start to feel my yoni and twat down there become watery and wringing wet. Yes! She cannot curb and countervail against giving way and knuckling over to lasciviousness and randiness. Lustily—with might and main—she is already rapacious and greedy and desirous for Stian's tool and joystick itself. Darn! Won't he hop and leap into the water already and confer and consign it heart and soul to us? Won't he heretofore?

I note and eye him as he brushes and laps his lips with his gluttonous, hoggish, and edacious tongue. Yeah... that's the grit and balls and gameness. Sex, sex, and lots and incessant more of inexhaustible sex, measureless sex, and unbounded loads more sex. He must vouchsafe and grant it to me now—because if he is not indubitably going to do it, I would rather push up the daisies and snuff it for the very last ultimate and final time. Of course! I am not being straight and plain-spoken here. I am merely quipping and gagging jests and one-liners and nothing more.

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!



Sex Du Juor: In The Sauna Ch. 02



It is a little mite jot inebriating and intoxicating and fuddling. Yes. To some measure and stretch, I am all this boozy and stewed up and tipsy and loony what's more. The style and fashion and manner of action that Stian is seizing and gripping and latching on to my chin and mustachio; it strikes me dumb and takes away my breath and dazzles and confounds and overpowers me—everything relating to this, it is all sublime and dazzling and illustrious and gee-whizz and striking. It absolutely and verily is!

Having filched and sneaked and dobbed a two-faced, breakneck hurriedly and swiftly precipitate peek down at my...vulva or vagina...he gawps straight up at me and rams and slams and butts himself against me, bracing and cuddling and hugging and holding me so close and on a grand scale taut towards himself as he does so. Yeah! His legs and feet, they are settled and laid out right against and over mine, smoothing and compressing them in a sweet-tempered and dove-like and benign sort of way. Arghhhhh! What could be faithfully and word to word any fancier better and preferable than all this? What literally?

I sigh out, in a rush and like greased lightning and nobody's business, lurching and throwing and thrusting and jerking and tweaking my head straight up in a rearward (backward) style and manner that feels and is as a matter of fact so, so pearly and tickly and easy-peas' smooth like. Just like the literal and wringing exact emotions that I am undergoing and feeling right now! Yes; Stian is breathing and wheezing straight out into my face, and when I droop and dangle and sag my head down so as to stare and eyeball straight into his eyes, I feel the more happier and satisfied and elated and on cloud nine; verily...

With his very own one hand, he abstracts and pulls out his rocklike, stiff, and prickled-up penis from his sexy, come-hither underwear—which I love and dote on and think the world of so very much—and having played and toyed and dolled about with it care-freely and nonchalantly all thanks to the wield and utilization of his disengaged hands, he rubs and scours and strokes it on my pussy that is easy-going and insouciant and laid-back and downbeat in the water beneath there...I whine and sniffle and bleat out happily and excitedly; I am wholly stirred and whetted and whipped up both carnally and sensually even right spot-on pretty damn second!

"Did that give you immense pleasure and furthermore delight and enthrall and thrill you up?' This, Stian queries and enquires me in a comparatively titillating and pink-tickling accent of voice that to some grade and extent sounds as though it is heaven-sent and rapture-inclined. I am enthralled; I am amused and absorbed and bewitched and engrossed and bedazzled solely by this. Is he human or some freaking divine angel? What verily?

"I feel that my eyes and face are clear and downright frank enough to make that explicit and cut-and-dried and blatant plain and besides, incontrovertible and unambiguous to you, or are they not that patent enough?" With a fairly mild and benignant expression, I upturn and topple over the matter and thesis back to him—doing it all generously and topsy-turvy jumbled inside-out mixed-up style. 

He smiles at me brusquely and systematically; then for one terse and synoptic moment, or maybe two or three, he slithers and slinks and skitters his John Wang and plonker right undeviating into my cunt and twat, and I give my word, if I have not sailed and flitted and mounted my way farther high up past the piers and torchbearers and vaults and mainstays of heaven, then I doubtlessly and beyond the shadow of any irresolution and dubiety am in life to come right now and the abode of the heavenly Begetter itself! Possibly... and seemingly so...

After Stian draws back and pulls out his Willie from where he has laid it—in my punani hole that is—I retrocede and regress back to realism and corporeality and exhale out heavily and delightfully. It has all been a fleetingly booshit and out of this world moment, I swear. As he cuffs and smacks and whacks and batters my bum right then and abruptly and all hurriedly at once, I wheeze and rasp and cough out another time. Before I even become aware of it, his lips are moving and skimming right over mine, pleasurably and enjoyably lackadaisical and tortoise-like, his teeth raking and sweeping and dragging them amiably and scrupulously and meticulously; thrilling and delighting and giving me pleasure in just 'bout every tack and tenor and wont and practice and approach odds-on. 

"Stian," I rasp and whirr and sibilate his name out, wholly inflated and swelled and ballooned and packed and loaded with just the ideal bliss and contentment. Aren't you yourself whooping it up and larging it big time with all of this stuff existent here as well?

At a snail's pace and taking his time, inchmeal and in his own breathing space and spare moments, and lazily in a laid-back way and feel sort of comfortable and relaxed fashion, he sticks on at flouncing and sailing and breezing his lips over mine, licking my face fungus or whiskers, pinching and nibbling and clamping sweetly and pleasurably my genteely, finely, and subtly balmy lips, all up till I am cooking and simmering and blowing up a fuse with licentiousness and salaciousness and libido and concupiscence...I have a fancy and unquenchable craving for all of this...I yen and would eat out my heart over anything just to win possession of him to myself and do anything with him that I feel like transacting off. Yes! Indubitably!

While Stian budges and switches about his legs, I pull and tow back apart mine so that he can make a moored and staid entrance straight into me with his eyes closed and shut and without experiencing any hardship or painfulness. He is congenial and genial and complaisant and pleasant and kindly in his motion and advancement toward me. Then, as time whisks and flashes by, he prods and lunges and taps John Barry Thomas direct into my poor dear old helpless muff and starts tonking and slamming and beating seven bells out of her briskly fast and at full speed and like quid pro quo lightning. I sob and grouch and whinge out straight away. He bleats and carps and bitches out too obstreperously, but it is only for a little bit tad nom-de-plume like while and even then his voice is as not as all that rowdy and clamorous and sharply piercing and cacophonous as mine is.

Having made clear this, I place and lay my hands straight on his buttocks behind and clasp and grip them all to myself and for myself solely. Arghhhhhhh! The feeling, the sensation, the stir and commotion of it—it implodes and demolishes and crushes my senses and apprehension and understanding to non-being. I come clean out of the closet: I have never been this pleasured and thrilled and given bliss in all my good old days, or have I been franchised and honored and privileged with just that? Categorically and frankly speaking, not by any chance so!

Stian whacks and clobbers and sledge-hammers level into me—at just the ideal and point-blank perfect and foolproof and blamelessly exemplary speed and velocity. I don't know what to think of this. In fact, I can't even rack or brood my brains on just about any fast-track form of subject matter and thesis as regards this. No—I in any way and under any would-be circumstances cannot! Because if I haply and plainly smooth could, there would be no more any of this paradise and heaven and happiness and nirvana of mine! Irrefutably not so!

Ashoo-oooooh! There is no any modest or slight or bit of pain or throe or soreness in the tack and approach and style that Stian is romping up and shagging up and banging up into me. If there was, then I would by this particular moment be shedding tears of hurt and grieving and howling my eyes out fortissimo and uproariously and at full volume at the crest and vertex and pinnacle and height of my voice; but then I definitely and veritably am not!

Minutes roll on and slip by...Stian seems a bit done-in and drooping clapped out and zonked dead beat and tuckered out. Sweat, heavy and thick and freshly full of beans, drips and streams and dribbles down his bleached-pale, subtle-colored forehead and smooth-shaven, flushed rubicund face. I can plainly an incontestably tell it. He is dog-tired and ready to drop; he is clapped out and drowsy and flagging whacked on his feet. But he ain't stopping bashing and tonking and battering into me! Why, you may hit or retaliate back at me inside your top secret mind? Perhaps it is all because the extravagant and over-the-top sweetness and sugar that we are rejoicing and finding satisfaction in on our part makes up for all the fatigue and debilitation and enervation that we are suffering and withstanding and submitting ourselves to right now, or does it not seem so to you?

I tap and cuff and box and spank his smoothly soft, voluminous, and drop-dead virtuoso backside and butts behind. The feeling is gee-whizz and mega cracking super and brill and boffo and chillin' beaut! If this was some fuck-off leisure activity and mere avocation pursuit, I imprecate and vow to you—I would by this time and twenty-four-seven and incessantly be working and effecting it out all day long without getting any pretty damn dead zonked and fucking fazed up. I love it! I Njoy it! I am so keen and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on it!

The sweat in Stian's higgledy-piggledy tangled up and chaotically messy hair gathers ad pools and stockpiles up right on his head. I can see and eye it soak and drench and souse and steep a large mass and bulk and better part of his massy but slash-notched flourishing and in good shape and form hair. His hair is a mite or speck scarlet and so dingy and murky and dreary and bedimmed at the same time. It is like he is a chap or geezer dude who has got very light blind hair otherwise and by way of alternative hued and tinctured and tinged a substantial and heavy and deep black—and slightly roseate—that really natural and run-of-the-mill way with some naturalism and inborn artless but real type of hair varnish and polish. I am gagging and joking here please! And what if this is the sheer and thoroughgoing deep-dyed truth, huh?

The water is all balmy and fine and fuzzy and snugly comfortable hot. In its zing and tang and penchant-ly comfort, Stian thrusts and elbows me to the sauna's edge, dredging and loading and scooping and shoveling inexhaustible, bulky semen straight into my cunt unceasingly and perpetually. That is what I literally and scrupulously fancy and desire about him. He won't ever call it a day or quits—appeased and gratified and like the cat that swallowed the canary he himself be—up till he has pacified and pleased and tickled me pink such that I can no longer be any more smug and easy in my mind and fulfilled than I already am. Men get filled up and slaked and sated when it comes to business and issues like sex and coitus hasty and brisk enough than women do. Of course! Tickling and contenting and cheering a woman sexually is not child's play and some piece of piss a métier or office as it may seem. It is somewhat uphill work and toilsome and like getting blood out of stone. Yes. As Stian clouts and clobbers and whacks deep and more deeper into my pussy, I look up at him here and then, all nonchalant and imprudent and negligent and happy-go-lucky, and I grin at him lickety-split and briskly and hastily. This is so bitchin' awesome and fantastic and tit for tat gee whizz. Promptly and without delay, Stian grotesquely and latently smirks and twinkles back at me. There is no misgiving and perplexity and dubiety that we are both relishing and loving and liking this. No lack of conviction or dilemma or suspense as refers to it. 

"Should I keep on coming more and more faster into you? Or would you rather have me be anchored and level-headed and on an even keel?" This, Stian asks as he twinkles and grins at me from one ear to another. Regardless of the sweat trickling and oozing down his fanciable and comely dishy face, he is as incredibly and overpoweringly attractive and well-proportioned as ever before. I am fortunate and blessed to have gotten hitched to a man this greatly gorgeous and well-lavished in both appearance and stance and even posture, or am I not? I don't stake or bet so!

While Stian nudges and jabs and pricks and goads his jumbo, Brobdingnagian penis into my wide open, helpless cunt all the deeper and deeper and more deeper, he kisses and snogs and canoodles and necks me straightly on my lips, fluttering and taking wing and piloting me to the towering and soaring most extraterrestrial and seraphic and paradisiacal statures or heights. Yeah. This is good...good indeed...so very good...this is mind-boggling and jaw-dropping and breathtaking mind you...this is smash cracking and topping and phat excellent!

With the service and utilization of his hands, Stian slaps and cuffs and spanks and lays one on my slap-bang buttocks behind; he even goes as far as lapping and brushing and tasting my lips with his own while massaging and kneading and smoothing and stroking my booby breasts below...I breathe in and then at length out, grieving and moaning and wailing about from the heaven and gladness and blissfulness that is blanketing and engulfing and enwrapping and swaddling me on every hide-out and hidey-hole. I cannot explicate or interpret it into words overtly and distinctly. No, I incontestably and comprehensibly cannot. Can you yourself?

Arghhhhhhh! Stian! He is the mega super awesome jim-dandy master overlord fucker of our time! The sex that he stocks up and purveys me with—it is as electrifying and eye-popping and lurid and spectacular as his buck naked and starkers self. Why in any way? I don't truly and precisely do not know...I don't by any means realizable. Do you yourself?

We are over and done with and ended and finished at long last...ultimately...at the last moment. Stian is still putting on his bedroom provocative, slinky, and come-hither style of underwear. His thighs and ass or derrière, are just as much good-looking and gorgeous and alluring and drop-dead as his entire self is. I bash and tonk and lay one on it for the final time before I smirk and twinkle with gaily lief when he gapes and gazes at me to clasp and hold my silky-like cheek charily and punctiliously so as to osculate and peck me auspiciously and gaily too. Damn us for everything we have accomplished and broke our backs on in this shitty damn Jacuzzi! Damn us for it a measureless more times!



Sex Du Juor: Porn Games



It is so humorous and funny and side-splitting and waggish and jocose that sometimes I feel like mewling and howling and yowling my eyes out because of it, don't you? I have a peculiar and eccentric and porangi mania and phobia and hobbyhorse of Stian's underclothes and the alike unmentionables, don't you yourself? 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? 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 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 energetically and diligently and funk and turn tail with him dressed in his snazzy, stylish, dashing, and ritzy underwear. This 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 are the most jazzy and schmick and flashy and attractive kind that I have ever seen. Ever—I mean it. 

I am peering and monitoring 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. Certainly! 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. Sure. 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 nestles and perches and locates himself—still erect and standing up on his two busy and energetic and bustlingly strenuous feet—in a standpoint and viewpoint where he is 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 tones and voices 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 no 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 this? Doubtlessly and beyond the trace of any scanty 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, this is what you have always wished and desired for customarily, or isn't it thus? 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 from him? What exactly? I wonder...I am only curious and conjecturing. Dammit!

"I will respond to that only after we over and done with fucking and banging each other this betimes 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 am nude and stripped starkers even right now; fully undraped and in my birthday suit. 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 is taking his stand at inchmeal pace and leisurely unhurried and sluggish; and 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 do definitely fancy as a matter of fact to gaze at my wife in her birthday suit and nothing else than that."

I do like I am told to; 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 this 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 all lusty and richly 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 him. "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 this his breath 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 he is going to place and prop and stow his fingers into my vagina and rub and pet it what's more. Yes. I crave and long for him to do this 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 that 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? Why is it that he perpetually and consistently singles out and cherry-picks tickling and amusing and titillating gently my pussy-cunt with his all-too touchy and ticklish and delicate teeth? Why? I idolize and think the world of it too, I must come clean out of the closet.

As he lolls and reclines down on my bed while brushing and vacuuming and scrubbing his tongue inside 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. What else could be better than all 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 don't know what it is that is precisely going to take place and ensue on 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 this 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! Which is an excellent and dope emblem and ensign of going through and submitting myself to that world-class and GR8 sphere and caste of orgasm. Whenever I unclose and gape wide ajar my mouth to yell and shriek that out, I find and detect no willpower and doggedness in me with which to hollo and holler this out.

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 undergone and encountered in my whole 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 oppose or hold out against 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, I 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 this now? Has it?

He builds up and snowballs speed as he carries on with the 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 a 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 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 uptight and raving with me for that, "How dare you have the balls to refute me of my officialdom and government over you, you charm and symmetry of a woman? Good. I will pull of that myself. You believe I am bedridden and incapacitated to not be qualified to do anything, right. Well, if this is what is going on in your mind, then you are absolutely and unquestionably misled and wide-off-the-mark touching 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 by means of theurgy and black art spells."

He rolls and twirls his eyes, rustling and sighing out raucously 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." 




Sex Du Juor: Porn Games



He gulps and pants out irately, "Women! What the hell is in-error and even unsound with you creatures?"

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 ever 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 humping all the way through."

The 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 off. 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 am curious and nosy-parkering on what Stian's riposte to that will be. Like I do not forecast and think likely, I am unbearably and terribly awe-shocked and rude-awakened and blow-staggered by the mode and course-of-action that he utilizes 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 inside 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 this. His feedback insinuates it. 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...



Sex du Juor: The New Chair



Stian has obtained and purchased and scored a state-of-the-art and modernistic and an all-singing chair and stall in his study that appears and seems like a lush and grand and unstinting throne all in all. Yes. We are going to have sexual intercourse and shag and rumpy-pumpy here. I cannot wait or cool my heels any longer. We have to get started; fast; like nobody's business; and at full speed and presto. Will you too come affiliate with us and have fun as well? Will you?

I am dressed in nothing more than a glamorous and irresistible and tempting and prepossessing coal-black brassiere or solely bra. Down there I clothe and put on nothing other than sensuous, naughty, and sex-suggesting duo and twosomes of Gee String. My extensive, spread out and far-reaching light brown hair is waved and curled and corkscrewed fashionably and voguishly and natty mirroring. Yes. I look gorgeous and alluring and drop-dead. Mirror, mirror—talking mirror, made that pretty known unto me.

As Stian makes an entrance into the room and steps and marches towards me, I quietly and smoothly and properly haul and wrest my G-string off and downwards for an instant and little while so that he can sight and eye my scarlet, unshaven, stubbly and undisturbed in-the-pink vulva and clitoris. His mouth plummets and slumps open at that scene and sighting solely, his tongue stirring and wiggling and oscillating in sheer and thoroughgoing exhilaration and ado and elation. He looks like he is going to gorge and enjoy and guzzle me real crackers and crazed. Will he? I imagine and expect so, don't you?

If you have been meditating and was so curious on what Stian himself is wearing, then now is squarely and smack on the precise and literal time to take the wraps and let slip off as pertains to that. Yes! He looks yummy and lekker and nectareous. Just by making sheep's eyes and giving him the glad eye, my vagina and pussy gets waterlogged and all drenched and soggy indeed. Imagine? Holy goodness! Tonight seems like it will be the best fuckery night ever, don't you reckon so?

Cramped and snug and hence close-fitting, his underwear and smalls are fixed tight and fast so that his great, heavy, and whacking bulge penis and testes are taken the wraps off and laid bare and uncovered to coherent and obvious and recognizable and incontrovertible view. Just the seeing and eyeballing of this bulky and irresistible swell and puff out of his makes me slurp and swallow hard. I would give my eyeteeth just to sleep and have sex with him right now; I would do just about anything that is withinmy capabilities on the face of this Earth if doable and de rigueur or mandatory for me to fulfill and bring off that. Oh darn yes! I would surely and without any second brainwork or cogitation do that. Wouldn't you work out the same if you happened to be in my shoes? 

Whenever Stian swerves and reverses about, I get bewitched and hypnotized and I am furthermore hold spellbound greatly and transfixedly with the engrossing and enamoring and infatuating way and style and manner that his large, gigantic, and gargantuan arse and butt behind is dangling and swinging and drooping and sagging charmingly and enjoyably and pleasurably in that come-hither, arousing, and suggestive way that his underdaks or broekies are fitted and shaped. Am I the only chick and gal in the entire world who is so possessed and find irresistible and bewitching men's large, soft, curvilinear bottoms and ass and hindquarters as well as their arousing and kissable and beddable underwear and undies? Am I?

After Stian has plonked himself down and taken the weight off his feet on the sumptuous, plush, and ritzy chair, I carry on to stir and budge myself after him, and with a leery and heedful and chary hand, I nab and seize his underwear; and doing apace and at high speed, I remove and take them off marginally and a shade speck so as to strip naked and peel off from its liar and hiding place his extensive, humungous, and ginormous cock and penis. Having fondled and caressed and stroked and petted it tenderly and charily so that it straightens up and picks itself up erect and firm and uptight, I pull down my Gee-string too, and having stroked and patted and caressed my sopping and wringing wet pussy as well, I at last and in the fullness of time perch and settle and ensconce myself on his perpendicular and elevated and standing John Thomas so that it inchmeal and gradually and steadily ghosts and sidles into my pussy and cunt, tickling and contenting me. 

I revere and cherish the feel and sense and impression that the conk and cranium or head or noddle of his elevated and pricked-up cock and joystick whisks and spurs and kindles about inside of me. As I ricochet and resile and spring up and down his lap and thighs, punching and cuffing and tonking and swatting his mountainous, sweet, and mammoth penis inside my dwarf, Lilliputian pussy, I get all the more pleasured and flushed and electrified tingled and titillated. This is perfectly and one hundred per cent gee-whizz and breathtaking, is not it? Yeah. It definitely and doubtlessly and come what may is. I cherish and adore and worship sex with Stian as much as I have and do feel affection for him. Don't you yourself?

As I mount and steer and climb and clamber on him, he grasps and grips and clasps his stubbly, unshaven big and Herculean hands on my mammary glands and large, giant breasts—pinching and squeezing and nipping them pleasingly and pleasurably but yet strongly and firmly as he does so. I have a preference for that...I cherish and savor it as a matter of fact. In no time he unshackles and unfetters and unbridles a great lot and illimitable deal of jism and jissom into me, ultra delighting and to the nth and very topmost closing degree making me come and reach my big O. Yeah. I orgasm and unearth and ferret upon my greatest sexual pleasure and satisfaction; don't you yourself accomplish and effectuate the same?



Sex du Juor: The Parking Lot



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 acutely 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 is—I without question and definitely want to have sex with him right here inside our car, inexorably and beyond the shadow of any doubt. He is my spouse and hubby after all. And I am his revered and cherished and intimate wife on the other hand. We both have a rightful place and fit in with each other, don't you believe so? Obviously! 

"Now, slip off your panties off you, will you, my most favorite and dearest sweetheart," Stian lures ad entices me in a very playboy and lady-killer like tone and power of speech. My goodness! That on its own is sufficient and as much as is needed to get me all damp and soaked and drenched inside of my vagina. My emotions and sentiments themselves are all sugary and sweetened and icky. Yeah. For real! 

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 sole 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 not his hand that I feel stirring and budging up my thighs and humongous, attractive legs themselves? Yes. It surely is his hand beyond any misgiving or lack of conviction, 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 jollies and beers and skittles. My goodness! I pray that his catch-napping and come down on me like a bolt from the blue turns out to be treacle and honeyed and icky like the dingy and darksome sky and heavens about me...I entreat so...

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 inside and outside of my contented cunt pleasurably and enjoyably—buzz-kicking and flushing me with just too much excitement and stir and titillation and vibration. As my womb auspiciously and gleefully and blithely vibrates and fluctuates and oscillates and judders, my remainder and rest entire-self pulsates and throbs and reverberates too—all in counterblast and response 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 greased lightning, shivering and vibrating and palpitating as I do that. 

"Ragnhild, how delectable and delicious is this thing inside 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.

"Stian," for a stretch and interval of time, I lament and howl out my eyes at him, all thrilled and glad and delighted and ecstatic. Please take note that at this specific moment my eyes are still shut and fastened close. Yeah...they sure are! 

"Yes," he retorts back 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?" I ask this question merely as piece and bit of my gag and practical joke to get him leaking and letting out to me as regards what he is fucking and romping up my damn and sweet cunt with...all without me snapping and breaking up my eyes open. And boy, conjecture what? My gag surely turns out to be a mega success!

"You mean...the banana?"

Goodness! There is no more puzzle or teaser or uncertainty about it, or is 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! Yet I still love and adulate it, don't you yourself?

At this 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 virgin and alien kind of surprise that you are having and keeping for me? Is this it, you childish...goofy...dumb-ass boy?"

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 beyond doubt 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 cannot 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."

"And with regards to my surprise? Did you like it?"

I chime and peal and buzz with wellbeing and beatitude at just that. I assuredly and for certain loved that banana of his having fun and frolicking freely and blissfully with my vagina. "Yes, Stian. I absolutely and positively loved your surprise package for me. I undeniably and come hell or high water did."

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.



Sex du Juor: The Parking Lot Ch. 02



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, moderately 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.

The delectation...the contentment and enjoyment. I revel and savor in this. If every moment and instant and second in our life was certainly and solely like this...life itself would be so goddamn foolproof and blameless and impeccable. Yes. It would be all that and so much more what's more. 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 shakes and trice—or moment in other clashing but homogeneous words, I am taking joy and finding satisfaction in this. Aren't you yourself?

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 accomplish just that, because, to be ethical and decent and upright with you, I was starting to become by any feasible 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 colliding 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 toasty 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 damping and moistening my punani itself, then sweet dear elderly Vagina is going to mewl and howl out her eyes for good. Certainly!

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 that 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 assets and the tips and head 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 all 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 whines, 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 firm and risen up straight too. And it is showing or exhibiting no any manifestations or gesticulations of plummeting and tripping down frail and decrepit and anaemic anytime sooner from now. No, it is categorically 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, my 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 this entire world of ours. I have not. And I will not ever do such kind of a thing, will I? Hell-way no!

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 a bit and chunk 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 against me in other words?

Goodness! This sex and rumpy-pumpy is steadily but assuredly and unfalteringly 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 fierce 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 it into my stomach once I hoover it all 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 feels like inside my mouth. All yucky! And fantastic again on the other visage!

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 am I seriously? And how have I jetted and sailed and winged my own way here? How truly and precisely? How exactly?

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 and more deeper into me; I want him to do that and nothing else. Seriously! 

Just when my breathing and wheeze becomes ponderous and heavy and concentrated and intensive—just like Stian's himself in addition—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 so? 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 copious and wholly. Oh yeah...I certainly and absolutely and sure thing am...



Sex Du Juor



I scowl and make an irate face at Stian. That is the problem with men. They are full of nonstop and solemn and somber thoughts and theories and philosophies and intelligence. Cannot they at times be emotional and physiological and spiritual driven like we women are? Is it that tremendously and massively difficult and easier-said-than-done thorny and complex to do, even for a very concise and epigrammatic second? Stian must be grim and staid with whatever it is that he is doing. Fatally speaking!

"Stian," as I affirm and mention out his name to him, I take hold of his chin and direct and steer his face straight and unswervingly to mine. He seems to be in a quite pensive and brooding state of mind; which I detest and am repulsed by so very much. We have some unfinished and not-whole dealing here and he dares and even has the courage and nerve to do this to me. Damn him for it! 

"What is it, Ragnhild?" His tone sounds irritated and a great deal annoyed to some degree.

"Why do you have to act like this now that we are still pursuing on some sweet, unfinished trade of ours? This is not any fair and reasonable, you must know."

"Come on, honey. Don't you want us to get to the seaside shore and fuck up each other there some more?"

"I want that to happen. But we are doing something here already, or aren't we, Stian?"

"We sure are, sweetheart."

"End of story. Let us continue with out incomplete business and let the repairman, who must promptly be on his way here—I deduce—take care of the rest of our crisis and dilemma. Fuck me again now."

It works! Hurray! That has Stian smash raucously and thump madly and frantically into me and with a racketing and banging alike sound. I like it. It...is...oh...so...scrumptious...and...delicious! It definitely and unquestionably is...

I am slanted and lounged down on the windshield of our car, thoroughly tired and exhausted. Stian is trinketing and toying without purpose with his big dick by rubbing and stroking it over my open-yawning pussy. I love it. He has his eyes fixed straight at me; and I have my eyes fastened up straight on him as well. I ask him affectionately, "How many cars have passed by on the road, Stian, while we were busy and actively amusing and twiddling with ourselves here?"

"Seven cars, I conjecture up."

Oh!! So roughly about seven or even more people have wend their way past us on the road and become alarmed and horrified at seeing us have sex and rumpy-pumpy right here with each other? Who cares? I don't give a damn myself. Duh! 

"Are you not bothered by it?" Stian questions me while he beams at me in a very wicked way.

"Bothered by what?" I query back—and for your very own piece of facts and details, he still has his giant and sweetly dong dolling and fiddling about with my fanny. And I am delighting and reveling in it so very much. I surely am.

"By the concern that we are having sex in this forest in such a way and manner that everyone who is roving and journeying by is able to catch a glimpse of and clap eyes on us. Doesn't that upset and scare and alarm the hell out of you?"

It doesn't. That is just it and nothing more. 

Once more again, Stian moves stealthily his massive and enormous dick into me and once he is inside of me, I almost lapse out and go out into unconsciousness from too maximum-most and highest pleasure and enjoyment. Even without making the slightest budge and shift and stir, he sploshes and throws off and sloshes about a great deal of spermatic fluid inside of me, warming up and hardening and heating up my entire self for a little bit while such that I cannot not stir or budge or make a move about as I feel and desire like. My goodness! I am not able to inhale or exhale for what almost seems like an eternity. I blink and stir back to realism only after Stian has cuffed and boxed and slapped hard and agreeably nice my ass behind. Oh no. I have almost pegged it out—all thanks and in gratitude to a very long and long sexual climax and orgasm. Shit! I didn't know that the big O's and comings are capable and able to do away with one's level-headedness and clear-sightedness itself. What the heck? 

While sighing out to himself from grave fatigue and lassitude and exhaustion, Stian informs and notifies me, "Have I informed you, Ragnhild, that I have not ever fucked anyone like this in all my entire life?"

I didn't know. How was I supposed to know all that when he had not apprised and acquainted me with it? Anyway, now I have knowledge of it and it is all that matters really... 

"Roll around now quickly, will you, Ragnhild?" While the words issue and come out of his mouth, I exactly know what he is scheming and even plotting to do with me; which is fucking and battering my anus real hard and good with that massive phallus organ of his until I feel so creature-from-outer-space and no more of myself any longer. To be sincere and forthright with you, I dread and find objectionable anal sex so very much. Why—you may wonder? I am scared and I also find it really horrorful that my anus is going to be hurt and sting to the point and extreme where it cannot recover and pull through back again from the raw, fuckery tribulation. Well, what the heck this all for sure is. Crumby-pumby!

Nevertheless, I do as Stian instructs me to. He shifts about my dress further up so that my buttocks and behind is entirely and fully exposed and uncovered to his reach and sight and after getting that done, he insert sand pops in his finger into my taut, stretched and slumbering anus so as to have fun and amuse himself about with her. I shudder, dreading that moment when he is going to push and slide his immensely giant thing into my cherished arse itself. How am I going to handle that?

"Stian," I cry out, whooping and yelling out his name to be precise. 

He answers immediately, "Yes, Ragnhild."

"Are you going to fuck my arse too? Is that what you think out to do? Is that it?"

"Not today; and don't ever fret or worry about it either, I beg you. That is not going to take place now or sooner from now. I know and I also am aware of how much badly and truly you are scared and frightened of that. I wouldn't take joy and pleasure in tormenting and torturing and harrowing you."

At least; that makes me feel good and better about everything. At least the butt suffering and soreness and throe on my part is not coming about any moment now—it surely seems so. Not up till I am ready and geared up for it... 

Phew. I exhale out noisily; all glad and pleased about everything. It all makes perfect sense now. Stian was and still is just trifling and fooling around with my ass and nothing else. What an alleviation and comfort and remedy it all is to me. Hurrah!

"And are we over with the fucking thing and dealing for now, Stian," I ask him—verbosely and benevolently.

He responds while still gew-gawing and gim-cracking and knick-knacking about with my ass as he feels like carrying out. "Yes. We will pick it up from where we have at the moment left everything once we are on the seashore. The repairman will show up any moment from now. It is almost two hours now since that gone moment when I last rang him. Shit. My phone is even now buzzing and chiming and pealing and tolling about. It is him calling. For sure! Let us dress up quickly, shall we, Ragnhild? We have an unanticipated visitor pending by."