When I married my husband, sex changed completely for me. Completely.
I'd read many, many times that once two people tie the knot, sex becomes sparse and dry. Boring. Periodical. I never wanted that to happen to me, and I could never understand why wives suddenly became stingy with the pussy. I didn't understand why husbands suddenly became stingy with the dick. The tongue. The passion.
I have, since I turned 30 (I'm 33 now), been hot between my legs and wetter than I've ever been, which is saying something. I've always been hot and wet. But when I turned 30, I started to understand why all our health teachers swore women peaked sexually in their thirties. All I want to do is fuck, and suck, and be fucked, and be sucked.
I digress, though.
When I married my husband, sex changed completely for me. It actually became meaningful. I mean really meaningful. It became better. His dick felt even bigger. Harder. More urgent. His intensity became more, well, intensified. It hasn't stopped. Not for me. And we've been married for two years.
When I spread my long brown legs for my husband and show him my softest place, I feel so pretty. When I feel his hands on me, touching my breasts, my thighs, my pussy, it sets such fire to me that I can barely articulate the experience. This happens every time. He doesn't even know it.
His tongue is my drug. When he pleases me with his mouth, I can't focus, I can't function, I can't do anything but moan, and show him how I want it; how very MUCH I want it...how much I desperately need it. How much I need HIM.
When he pushes into me, it is a splashy Utopia of delight; a cornucopia of deliciousness and euphoria the likes of which I've never encountered in all my 33 years of life. I want nothing more than to fall on my knees and drink from him, all the time, and look him in his eyes, and hope that he can see in them how much I love pleasing him with my body.
My favorite is to lay on my back and show him all of me. My long, brown body, my curves, my hills, my swerves, my valleys. I want him to see what he does to me. His hard dick throbbing just for me, straining against his boxer-briefs, is a sight that I cannot resist. He, in all of his male lack of intuition, has not the foggiest clue how his sex makes me feel.
I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. But it is so much more in-depth than that. I feel like velvet cocaine. I feel like drugs. I feel as though nothing on earth can hurt me...the cruel words of outsiders, the bullet, the blade...none can touch me, because I am in the arms of my beautiful, poetic Nowhere Man.
Sex with my love is literally everything. I cannot understand why human beings don't fuck like rabbits when they're sexing the ones they love. Every time some idiot posts "Would you give up sex for $900 million?", I shudder to think of what life would be like without my husband's touch. His mouth. His member.
I'm aware of women using sex as punishment, but in my life experience, more men withhold sex or sexual acts out of spite than women. I can't fathom it. Withholding sex from my love hurts ME. His attentiveness is my addiction. The personal way he worships my body...I cannot live without it.
That's all.
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