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Moms need Os too!
Look, Tuck can handle a quick one delivered by himself in the shower, but I’m left to no such liberty due to Lo’s loathing of me having any sort of alone time during his waking hours. The kid willliterallysit outside any closed door and just wait for me to finish whatever I’m doing to play spy with him.
Or do string art with him.
Or study magic with him.
Or swim in the lake with him and Koose Koose – who has his own fowl family now too.
I’d call my son a mama’s boy if it weren’t for the fact that whenever Tucker’s home too, he’s glued to his side while simultaneously commanding my presence join theirs.
Part of me thinks this is what happens when you travel for work as much as I do. For the shortest trips – check-ins and basic piece swaps that have me gone somewhere between seven to ten days – I go alone. Completely. Alone. It was a little scary at first yet so invigorating to be forced to stand on my own two feet. We agreed that ripping Lo out of his world and routines for stretches that size wasn’t worth the disruption, which is why I go by myself. Shorter trips – six weeks or less – we more often than not take him with us. Ensuring he’s exposed to the world at an early age is important to both of us and allowing him to delve into things side by side with us not only builds a stronger bond with him but one as an entire unit. The issue is…I’m usually the one out searching for artists, having lunches or dinners or exploring the rising scene very hands-on – all the shit I am literallypaidto do – while Tuck’s left primarily having only child appropriate adventures – if he’s not working on a new piece for one of the hotels – and those outings are not quite enough for his wanderlust soul. Sure, when his mother tags along to spend time with the two of them or Brandi comes out to meet me for a conference lunch followed by family time or even when Lo’s fulltime manny, Ernie, is brought with us to pitch in, Tucker can have more adult focused experiences – like the middle of nowhere fire art exhibit we went to in Doctenn – but unfortunately, those opportunities are fewer and further between than they once were.
And they’ll be even less with a second kiddo joining our messy art session already in progress.
Okay…so…maybe I’m subconsciously postponing splashing more paint on this canvas we call life?
Does that really make me a bad person?
My bottoms fall lifelessly to the ground in the small corner kitchen at the same time my husband declares, “We’ve got time, baby.” His fingers glide along the roundness of my cheeks, so that his thumbs can skim the crack of my ass. “Let me fucking worship you.” Teasing pushes at my back hole have me thoughtlessly widening my stance. “Let me paint you in my favorite shade…”additional pressure is given in tandem with his final word, “white.”
Whimpers of surrender escape as wetness creates an easy path for Tuck to glide deep inside. His heavy sigh of satisfaction prompts me to smirk; however, it’s the feeling of his forehead landing on my bare shoulder to support him during his shudders that gets it spanning from ear to ear. White hot stickiness sloppily spreads itself around during the first few pumps, wasting no time in coating my husband’s sac and granting him the ability to smear the slickness in circles around the taut territory. The savage, unrelenting stretching of opposing sets of under used muscles summons me to moan.
Firmly plant my hands on the bare countertops.
Arch into the slow thrusting of his dick along with the deep diving of his thumbs.
“That’s it,” he huskily encourages the instant my head lulls backwards. “Take that cock.” Harder heaves precede heavier grunts. “Take all that cock for me like the fucking goddess you are.”
Determination to do exactly what I’m told causes my soaking wet pussy to clamp down.
Squeeze tighter.
Continuously constrict and choke his swelling shaft until I’m not the only one gasping for reprieve.
Tucker drives his side-by-side digits further inward forcing me to endure the delicious discomfort to the fullest extent. Being so full, sounforgivinglyfull, tempts my frame into folding away from the love of my life yet his harsh hold prevents me from going anywhere that isn’t back into him. That isn’t accepting the barbaric offering being delivered on every buck.
“Let me see those tits, June Bug.”
Yanking down the front of my ocean patterned tankini top can’t occur any faster.
“Fuck yeah,” my husband grumbles, speed shifting from lax to impatient. “Lean back. Let me watch ‘em bounce.”
Exposing myself the way he requests inspires much louder, much headier moans and my fingers to busy themselves with tugging at my nipples. I crudely cup my boobs with both palms. And then just one. And then just the other. And then oscillate between using two hands and one. The cycle of erotic self-fondling eventually encompasses sporadic grazes of my clit with each quick brush making me grow greedier for more, pushing my movements to increase in pace.
And pressure.
And desperation.
The more frantic I become, the more ferocious Tucker pounds.
And the more ferocious he fucks, the louder I scream.
Unsure of the last time we were able to be this wild and free and careless about being heard or seen has me anxious to hold onto the climax that’s crying to be released yet resisting the delectable way my husband’s fingers are working my snug hole as his shaft pitilessly splits me in two is impossible.
I anxiously attempt to catch my breath before the orgasm hits, an action my husband interrupts by growling against my ear, “Scream my fucking name while you drip white for me.”
“Tucker!” is shrieked at the highest pitch I’m capable of reaching in a steady repetition that mirrors the one in my pussy. Dripping pulsations pile on top of one another and are almost instantaneously joined by scorching spurts. Every sweltering surge shakes my entire figure and sends me soaring to the tips of my toes. I furiously throw myself into his continuing thrusts, eager to not only be filled to the brim, but to not stop until the promise of being cum soaked is completely fulfilled. Once the trickles begin to seep past where we’re joined, I allow my attention to drift downward to where it’s landing on my bikini bottoms beneath us.
