It’s been two years since I’ve fucked you, Melody.
2 fucking years.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever fucking shake thoughts of you.
Or if I even fucking want to.
I remember every goddamn detail of our adventurous life. Every fuck. Every suck. Every thrust inside of you a tiny life of its own. Every orgasm a universe.
The major events of our life always sealed in cum.
You claiming my virginity with one unprotected thrust, filling your hole and the next 12 years of our life.
Fucking you in the church on our wedding day, moments before walking down the aisle with no panties on, my cum running down your leg under your marriage gown.
Afterwards, when the preacher gave us a private moment in his chambers before the chaos of the reception and you suggest that instead of kissing or whispering our loving dreams to each other, that I should choke you with the Father’s rosary while fucking you with the giant Jesus cross on his desk.
Just the suggestion made our love feel otherworldly. Above God. Above establishment. Above rules.
We refrained from the cross fucking (that would come years later), but I did quickly sodomize you over the back of his black leather couch, all those pictures of Christ watching us as I came in your asshole.
We loved being watched.
We loved being alone.
Wedding night monogamy to honeymoon orgies in Thailand, I live them all every day.
Our years of sabbatical from multiple partners spent worshipping only each other. We had had sex most people only fantasize about, but the hottest thing ever was you begging for my seed. Begging to impregnate you.
“I’m going to make you pregnant. Have my baby, Melody,” I would scream as I filled her with sperm.
Remember how incredibly hard we both came?
Remember how incredibly hard we fucked when the pregnancy test came back positive?
For a girl with a cum fetish, getting impregnated was the ultimate rush.
And creating life made us feel even more like gods.
Years of monogamy produced great memories and great bonds. BDSM and D/s exploration fulfilled our desire for adventure and our hunger for heightened things.
I remember every step.
I remember every second.
I remember our return to the open lifestyle. It felt so natural and right.
Everything with you did.
As the children reached school age, the frantic schedule of parenting and monotony of PTA meetings and soccer team lunches made us crave balance.
All those sex-deprived dads constantly staring at your tits, all those weary mothers with their hand on my thigh smiling non-stop as I gave them attention their husbands hadn’t done in years.
Remember how we felt being around all those unhappy couples? Like we were the only ones who truly understood the dance of men and women?
Again we floated above it all.
Gods with bottomless appetites for life and desire.
And I remember it feeling like fate aligned it all for us.
Complications with the last baby left you unable to have more. I got a vasectomy to make it equal. I remember sitting on the operating chair, about to get my balls cut open, but having the largest erection thinking of how popular it makes guys at the parties.
Hell, we were always popular anyway and our return to the lifestyle was met with fanfare.
We could have eased into it. But that’s not our style.
We chose the “private” swinger club. The quotes meaning it wasn’t much of a secret and $30 would buy a night’s membership so it wasn’t much of an exclusive club either.
What it did have though was lots and lots and lots of hard cock. And lots and lots and lots of free wet pussy.
Remember what you said as we pulled up in the car and I asked you how many people were you hoping to fuck that night?
“As many as humanly possible. And then some.”
Your hopes came true. And then some.
Godfuckingdamn I loved it. Both watching and fucking. Relentlessly. Like we didn’t miss a beat.
We were gods. Born again in a baptism of fuck. Never looking back.