Gender: Male Age: Secret Location: N/A
How much do you know about sex? Oh, I'm sure you know the mechanics of it. It's a rare girl who goes through any school—public, private, home, whatever—who doesn't learn about how it's done some time around puberty. Even in our supposedly "backwards" region of the nation, nobody goes to the marriage bed ignorant of what's about to happen. I'm not talking about mechanics anyway; not yet. I mean, how much do you know about sex? You know that it's what makes babies, I'm sure. You know that it's a lot of fun.
You've probably figured out by now that it causes a lot of trouble too. Most schools don't tell you this much, and may a foul curse fall upon them for this neglect, but presumably your parents did tell you about the STDs, of certain situations that might lead to rape, and about the failings of birth control. Your father probably told you something about what boys are like, and your mother probably warned you about what happens if you give away your dearest treasure too soon and too cheaply. (Ever wonder how she knew about that? Actually, she probably only learned it second-hand. She's right about all that in any case.)
Well, you're a good Christian girl. I presume you've learned all your "thou shalt nots" from the appropriate sources. What about what you are supposed to do? Do you know anything about that? Let's say we're married. Let's say we're safely past the ceremony and the first time, which was probably more painful for you than some of your skankier friends at school told you it was going to be. It was also pretty awkward for me, I'm sure. Hey, what did you expect? It was my first time too. Did your friends tell you no one could possibly go as long as I have without having sex with someone? Well, they lied. Sure, I've kissed a few girls a few times—even groped one a bit more than I really should have. I've also made good use of my hand over the years to keep my urges at bay. Would you even want to hear the details of that? Didn't think so; let's skip it.
Anyway, I knew there'd be blood and pain the first time. I knew everything the books could teach me; Heaven knows, I've read a lot of books. Books about love and sex are just as helpful for the actual event as books about skydiving are. I'm sure I did remember to lay a cloth under us to catch the blood, at least. That's the way of good marriages, sweetheart: along with the pleasure has to come a little pain sometimes. That necessary bit of pain was your first lesson in what that vow about taking each other "for better or for worse" meant in the broadness of its interpretation.
So, as I say, we're past all that now. As for our honeymoon, we're having it at our house, which your parents and mine so very generously provided to us as a wedding gift. That didn't leave them (or us) anything to splurge on a cruise to the Bahamas, but take my word for it when I tell you that kind of vacation is seriously overrated anyway. Besides, did I mention this is a very nice house? It's a bit small, perhaps; or "cozy" to use the realtor's euphemism, but trust me, it's perfectly good for a pair of newlyweds such as ourselves. It should even be able to sustain our offspring. Heck, I spent most of my childhood in a house no bigger than this one.
However that may be, maybe I should also point out the best thing we can do to honor your parents and mine and thank them for such a generous gift is to make good use of it. That's what we're going to do, right? Therefore, we're having our honeymoon at our house. That definitely beats having it in the back seat of my car, though if you ever care to risk the cramped space and general lack of privacy the windows afford us just to find out what it was like for some of your less chaste young friends and their boyfriends back in school, I'll be glad to try this kinky little experiment of yours out with you; all you have to do is ask. Right now, we've got the whole house to ourselves, though, and particularly the master bedroom, darling. Let's use them.
I'm waiting for you there, my love, waiting on the bed with one of your romance novels. I'm not reading it, not really, anyway; I'm just browsing, really, seeing whether it's just a kissing book or whether it's about a bedroom pirate and what he does with his one-eyed trouser snake. Well, there's no mention of marbled steps and canopied beds and heaving breasts, honey, but I can't help noticing there's this one passage where it mentions the guy "felt her bucking under him as they both tried to thrust as hard as possible into each other, as if by doing so they might truly meld into one body." I guess you're not so innocent as you are chaste, eh, sweetie? Watching these authors try to pack as much flowery language as they can into describing the act without really describing it is pretty amusing, though. Maybe these books do something for you, but they don't do much for me. In any event, I'm in no hurry and neither are you; all my clothes are on and they're staying on until you get here.
At last you arrive. Quietly reshelving the book, I roll up off the bed just in time to greet you as you walk in the door. You're a bit apprehensive, remembering what happened last time, even knowing it's not going to hurt that way this time. Well, hey, you're only human! Perhaps you've had a day or two to heal. It's not as if there's been any pressure on you from me for a repeat performance. I'm still kind of embarrassed myself, to tell the truth, that I knew so much and yet so little at the same time. Still, we each have our animal urges; we know what we want.
You're wearing your stylish, but rather plain blouse and skirt. I'm wearing a plain buttoned shirt and casual slacks. We don't have to say much; you and I both know why we're here. You and I reach out to each other and my arms wrap around your shoulders while yours curl up around my back. As I lean down to kiss you, I recall immediately the amusing fact that I'm a whole head—and neck—taller than you. Tallness always did run in my family, and shortness in yours, darling. You reached your adult height at 14. The guys used to rib me about your supposedly being young enough to be my daughter. Do you know I actually calculated the day you were conceived back from the day you were born just to prove them wrong? Actually, according to my calculations, I could have been your father—if I'd gotten up to something really naughty when I was twelve-and-a-half! They were wrong about your being half my age too, which you haven't been since you were thirteen, and never will be again. Ah, my beloved, you are no child, young as you look! Heck, but for knowing my real age, they never would have made such a silly guess; I looked young enough to be in your church youth group.
We kiss, and kiss, and kiss, just short nips around each other's nose and lips at first, then pecks on the mouth, then full, deep goldfish gulps. I've never understood what the big deal is about tongues, but I'll admit it's quite pleasurable when one of my great gulps sucks a bit of your tongue between our teeth and on to my tongue and they squirm together like oysters in a love embrace. As you run the palms of your hands back and forth over the back of my shirt, I run mine up and down the back of your blouse. The fabric's rather slick—polyester, perhaps? No matter. I stop only briefly just to get enough leverage to push my shoes off my feet. You never miss a stroke as you kick off your slippers; we'll make a pro out of you yet, little girl!
We stroke and kiss, kiss and stroke. We haven't even shed our socks yet, and already I feel a certain part of my anatomy rising to attention. The back, so I'm told, is one of the least sensitive parts of the human body, but no one can tell my awakened little friend that; feel free to massage my back any time, baby. From the strength of your kisses—your mouth eagerly arising to meet mine, your lips pulling at mine as if competing with them in a passionate tug of war—I can feel that something has awakened in you as well. Your chest pressing into mine—well, it's not as if your breasts are "heaving" as they proverbially would be in a trashy romance novel, but you are pressing me hard, my love. I can feel two little points in particular pressing against my ribs, and the pleasant warmth arising between us in our embrace has now grown so much in its intensity that it's starting to get a bit uncomfortable.
I can't know, my dear, quite how this feels for you—would that I could—but you must really be in the mood, because I can feel you quivering through the clothing. I'm quivering too, and is that your heartbeat or mine? It must be both, because they're pounding in syncopated time. Funny, isn't it, how this feels so much like fear, even though there's nothing to fear? We're not just quivering, darling, we're shaking. We're getting so hot just from kissing, and yet we're shivering as if we were freezing. Maybe this really is fear—of a sort—that we feel; love's symptoms are not unlike those of an illness, so why shouldn't love be like fear, which also produces fever and chills? I don't know about you, my love, but even after last time, it seems so strange what we're preparing to do. We're going to do it, though; we know we are. Perhaps fear and anticipation are the very same thing at times such as these.
You're getting so hot, my love, and I know it's not just the friction of my hands against your back that's making you so. I can already feel a moistness in your blouse—just a little spot of sweat in the small of your back. Why delay any longer? As we continue to devour each other with our lips, I casually unclasp my arms and start stroking my hands up and down around your back, then over your waist and shoulders, and then over your breasts and on up to the top button of your blouse, which I proceed to unbutton. As I fumble blindly at the buttons, undoing each in turn, you likewise roam your slender fingers over my ribs and chest and up to the collar of my shirt to unbutton it. Neither of us in an expert at this, and it does take some time, but soon we are both open to each other in front. You hold your arms straight out behind you as if in surrender, and I slide your open blouse gently down over your shoulders, over the silky smoothness of your arms, and off your dainty little hands, from which it then flutters to the floor unattended.
Our kissing has slackened a bit while we've been doing this, and I've not been aiming so carefully for your mouth, I must confess, darling. Mostly I've just been slurping at your lips wherever my own happen to land, and you've been doing the same. Now, with your blouse out of the way, my attention turns to your bare shoulders and the nape of your neck. I lay a line of kisses down from the corner of your mouth to your cheek, from your cheek down to where your jaw meets with your neck, and from there down your neck to your collar bone where it protrudes ever so slightly out from your shoulder to form a triangle with the muscles of your pretty neck. You've got a bit of a tan—you always did have a little more appreciation for the great outdoors than I did, always wearing as little as possible above your bust out there when you could—and so it is into the soft bronze of this flesh that I press my kisses while you softly whimper your acceptance.
Your hands, meanwhile, run up over my naked chest and shoulders beneath my shirt as I gobble at your neck, and you peel my shirt away from one shoulder and then the other. Following your lead, I throw back first the one arm and then the other to let my shirt slide off of it, and then it is free and floats away to the floor just as yours did. Your soft, silky hands run up and down my bare chest, over the springy terrain of my pectorals, where there's just enough of the dark downy hair to confirm that I am indeed a man—excessive body hair does not run in my family.
My hands are braced on your waist where your love handles would be if you had any—you have yet to gain the "freshman 15" to which most people are entitled at your age whether they want to be or not, though truth be told, a few extra pounds might do you some good; maybe a few of your curves, captivating as they are to my eyes, could stand to be a little fuller. Your bra, though your breasts fill it well enough to keep it pleasantly snug, has no shoulder straps for support, and needs none. Such was your lot, in addition to being as small as you are, that you would also have smaller breasts. Some of your classmates used to boast of how large theirs were getting, and I remember how you said this bothered you so much that you sometimes stuffed a few tissues into your bra and hid from the others while changing so they wouldn't notice you had, so to speak, fallen behind.
You often overheard the boys comparing you and your friends by their physical attributes—especially the size of your racks—as well, and always had the gnawing suspicion, even sometimes when you were out on a date, that you didn't quite measure up in their eyes, that your boy of the moment would soon turn his eyes upon someone more well-rounded, so to speak. That was before you met a certain aging youngster who told you he didn't care for large breasts, that he might even like you better if you had none at all! Then, much to his surprise and delight, you reached down into your T-shirt and pulled out two wads of tissue right before his eyes... Such is God's sense of humor, my love.
As I was saying, my hands are braced on those love handles you're still too skinny to have, and now, as you run your hands over my chest, I stroke my own up and down over your sides, pausing briefly at the end of each upstroke to cup your little bra in my hands before stroking down along your ribs again. I long for your chest to be every bit as bare as mine, darling. You know I do. I want nothing at all between your flesh and mine when they are joined to each other again. However, at the moment it is your skirt that I wish to have out of the way. Brushing my hands down over your navel, I go to work on loosening your skirt. So enraptured are you by my kisses to your neck and collar bone that by the time you think to follow my lead and start unhooking my belt, I have already worked your skirt down over your hips and thighs, and it has joined your blouse on the floor. As you fumble with my belt, I kiss my way back up to your mouth again, delighting in your moans of pleasure as I run my hands over your hips and around the upper circle of your silky panties, which doesn't quite reach all the way up to your waist.
My belt is a real hassle to get loose from where you're standing, isn't it, darling? I'm just about to help you when you manage to pull its tongue hard enough to unhook it, and it comes loose. After that, it's little trouble for you to unhook the clasp on my slacks and unzip the fly. As my no-longer-quite-so-little friend down there springs out a bit in celebration of escaping one of its confinements, my slacks tumble back over my posterior and puddle around my ankles, where I step out and kick them back away from me in the general direction of my fallen shirt. As my tented undies rub up against your panties and the soft, moist treasure that is already beginning to weep with longing to embrace its manly companion in a hearty welcome home, my eager hands slide up from your hips and around your back to the clasp of your bra.
I'm sure I saw how you undid your bra last time, sweetheart, but somehow I can't seem to figure out how to do the same thing from this angle. You wisely choose not to beak the sweet, sweet silence of our encounter to ask whether I need any help, but simply swing your hands back over your shoulders and undo the clasp yourself. The swell of your little breasts is enough that the bra actually does manage to stay up without any support for just a few seconds, and then it peels away to land at our feet. Soon to join it there are our socks, which we work loose with our feet while we continue to kiss and I rub my hands up between your cleavage and over your collar bones and back down over the softness of your little pillows and the hardness of your pert little nipples. Your arms are wrapped around my waist and your lips almost seem to be jumping up to lock with my own. As we step a bit sideways to get clear of the fallen clothes, we can both feel the frenzy building in our ever-more-urgent osculations.
The time has come to shed our last material inhibition. My hands slide down the sides of your slender waist to hook my thumbs into the thin bands of your silky smooth cloth holding up your panties and release them from the slight, sensuous curve of your hips to tumble down over your cute little kneecaps, dangle there for just a moment, and then complete their journey to the floor. If I didn't know better, my love, I might think you'd had a bit of an accident in your little girl panties, for there's a visible wet spot there around the crotch. We'll have to launder those when we're done. You, meanwhile, have just taken ahold of my underwear by the cloth rather than by the waistband, and are tugging it down. You're really supposed to be using the waistband for this, but I don't bother correcting you; to tell the truth, honey, I kind of like the feel of your little fists bunched up against my thighs. I'm in no position to criticize you for the leakage on your own little panties either, because as my underoos slide down in your hands, a small strand of my seed stretches between the tip of my underling's swollen head and the front of my discarded briefs before reluctantly giving way. Tiny as the spot on them is, they'll have to be laundered too.
Naked we stand, now, revealing to each other what we most fervently desire to let no other but each other see: my long, thick, blood-engorged mushroom of a penis, and the clitoral lips, no less swollen, of your tight-yet-flexible little vagina. We have time only for a glimpse—I of your trickling reservoir and a patch of soft, downy brown, and you of my well-rooted tree in a burnt wheat field—and then we almost slam our chests together in a frenzy of kissing and groping, I cupping and stroking your breast bumps with my hands, you massaging the insides of my thigh, teasing your way closer and closer with each stroke to an area once forbidden to you. I once again take to kissing the nape of your neck, and then, keeping one hand at work on your breasts, bring the other down between your thighs to massage your lower lips and the little bud between them.
You immediately stop stroking, and I feel your hands very suddenly tremble against my thighs and then grip them hard. The flow of your wetness into my hand as it massages you rises from a drip to a trickle, which I carefully spread over your lower lips until they glisten. Your grip loosens, and then as if in retribution for my pleasurable surprise, you bring one hand up to cup the flesh of my seminal sack, and curl the fingers of the other around the hardened shaft of my swollen member. My hands fly immediately to your wrists to stop you. Have mercy, oh my love, have mercy! I see the puzzled look on your face as I peel your hands away, and I'm sorry, but this is necessary. We men are not built as you women are, oh my beloved. Already I can feel the pressure building within. The mere touch of your smooth, girlish palm against my shaft weakens my last restraint on a veritable torrent of desire that is dammed up behind it. Should you begin to stroke me, that desire will surely be awakened before its time; the dam will burst, and once the flood is loosed, it can not be dammed up again. Do you not see how I wince at the pleasure? Even now, I must fight to keep desire from escaping its bonds. A small dribble leaks from the opening at the tip of the mushroom's head, the overflow of a dam that still holds for a little longer.
I have no time to explain all of this to you; perhaps I shall write it all down for you later. For now, I can only kiss away your puzzled expressing and slip my arms under your own to lift you up to me in a bear hug of an embrace as I begin edging toward the bed. I cannot hold you up in my arms like this for very long; small as you are, I am no muscle man, and besides, I dare not allow my penis to brush against your thighs or your loins too much, lest desire awaken too soon. The time is very near now, but it is not time yet. As I set you down, I see the light of comprehension—or is it ravening desire?—dawning in your eyes. Then, suddenly, you leap right up at me, wrapping your arms around my neck and your slender-yet-sensuous legs around my waist. The lips on the entrance of your feminine prize brush briefly over the head of my carnal manhood, sensuously polishing it with their heavenly splashes of dew, but there is no time to register the pleasure of this, for your assault has staggered me, and I stumble backward into the bed, only managing to delay my fall long enough for you to unwrap your legs from me.
You land squarely on top of me, oh my ravenous little angel, your knees planting themselves in the plush softness of the bed on either side of me, your diamond-shaped little opening perched just over and in front of my manly protrusion's swollen conical head. You hover over me like a hungry lioness over her prey, showering kisses down on my nose, my chin my cheeks, my lips, on any part of me you can reach as I wriggle backward to get into a more comfortable position and you crawl right along with me. As soon as my own legs and feet are fully on the bed, I raise my head and return your frantic kisses as much as I can.
As I bring my hands up to stroke your shoulders, I get an idea, and bring you forward just a little bit so that your small, but quite squeezable breasts are right in my face. Then I kiss your chin, your throat, your collar bones, your cleavage, and then your breasts themselves, alternating between them as I work my way down to your pert, swollen nipples. These are usually mostly just tiny bumps on your breasts, a slightly deeper pink than the rest of your flesh, but otherwise hardly any more prominent than the angry bump raised by the angry sting of an extremely angry hornet that was allowed to sting its victim without restraint. Now they are very bright pink, almost red, and turgid with the swell of your desire. These I suckle for several seconds at a time, smiling as you moan your ecstasy, trading back and forth from one to the other. Oh, my heart's desire, I can feel you dripping on my navel. We must delay no longer; the time has come!
Sliding a bit further back along the bed, I place my penis head between your pulsing lips at the gateway to your celestial orifice. Wobbling your hips, you slide just a little forward and then a little backward, once, twice, thrice, and then your vagina's tight little entrance opens wide to receive me. The head slides slowly up into you and disappears. The shaft follows little by little as your settle yourself down on it. You're not as tight as last time, sweetie, and you're a lot slicker—your juices are much smoother than that blood, which got sticky all too quickly. I'm not endowed with an enormous organ either, which for reasons you know quite well now is definitely a good thing for the both of us. I've never measured my penis at full length, and it may even be a bit smaller than average, but what does it matter? We have no basis for comparison, and we need none. All the same, you're tight, my love. It takes almost a full minute for you to bottom out on my testicles at the root of my shaft. Trapped in such a cramped little space, my penis struggles to stay rigid, and I must add the thrust of my hips to your own to keep you impaled.
Your hands are planted firmly on my chest, your knees spread as wide as possible to grant me full access, your head thrown back, and you are panting. My own head is pressed back against the bed as I gasp for breath as well. Your vagina keeps pushing my penis a little bit back out, to which we respond in unison by thrusting our two parts back together. After a few thrusts, I feel the semen rising, the pressure building, desire passing the point of no return... Oh, my precious little angel! Just before the eruption hits, your sweet love tunnel resists its invader no longer as your entrance squeezes hard on the base of my thrusting life-giver. My first spurt of semen jets forth deep into the dark, mysterious recesses of your fertile little womb. We both groan aloud as your vagina starts tugging on my penis seemingly from everywhere at once, and I spray a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth great jet of my sticky seed strands deep into your uterus, followed by a sixth considerably weaker shot. Your hungry love tunnel continues to milk at my spent manhood as you shudder with ecstasy and I ride my own tingling wave of orgasmic overload to twitching and squirming resolution. Then you tumble forward on my chest in exhaustion as if you were a marionette and all your strings had just been cut, and the moment of marital rapture is past.
There you lie for a while, and in the calm following our frenzied activity, neither of us feels any desire to move. Here in the afterglow of our lovemaking comes a contentment that—while it is by no means anywhere so intense as the physical act of love itself—is longer-lasting and actually my favorite part of sex. Would you believe me if I told you that if we could make this gentle warmth we feel in the aftermath of our heatedly passionate encounter last forever, we would never have the slightest need ever to have sex again? Probably not; you're young and passionate and you're still hungry for the thrill of the orgasm above every other part of sex for now. Only time and experience will teach you to appreciate the gentle virtues of being satisfied at last. Besides, this gentle feeling can't last forever, and with good reason: were we humans not driven to have sex again and again, our species would soon perish for lack of children. Still, I do not move for so long as this feeling remains, that it may remain as long as possible.
So here we lie still, your head turned to one side and your cheek pressed against my chest, your breasts pillowed against my rib cage and your vagina still wrapped around my penis as it gradually wilts. My arms are loosely wrapped around you as well, and I can feel the warmth sustained between us everywhere my flesh is touching yours as the sweat dries and our bodies cool. The afterglow now fading as well, I am still careful not to disturb you from your most desirable state of utter relaxation as I think to look over at the clock on the shelf beside the bed. 6:08 P.M., it reads. I remember the hour had just turned over when I was putting your romance novel away right before you came through the door. For all our exercise, this whole encounter of ours didn't last ten whole minutes, dear; maybe not even five, depending on how long we've been lying here and whether that counts.
Somewhere deep in your uterus—roughly the size of your two fists when you bring them together to bump a volleyball, if I recall my anatomy lessons correctly—billions of my little wiggling sperm go squirming on their way to seek what, for them, is your real prize. If anyone's there to greet them, we may soon be having our first addition to the family, my love, and welcome to her—if she's a she. There's not much of anything scientific about it, but having the woman on top as you are right now, my love, is known as riding Saint George in old Catholic idiomatic terms, and superstition has it that this position is supposed to increase one's chance of having girls. We're no Catholics, and we're trying neither to have children nor not to have them, accepting whatever happy accident God may send us whenever it comes to be our firstborn. Still, it's a beautiful bit of superstition to entertain, that we might have a lovely little girl like yourself to bring this tender delight we've just shared with each other to some other young lad like unto myself someday, isn't it? This is sex as it was meant to be—bringing joy, not sorrow.
Of course, boy or girl, this potential baby of ours is certain to look something like the both of us, a most amusing prospect in view of our not looking much like each other at all! I'm just such a hybrid myself: my mother and father were both Caucasian just as you and I are, but that's about all they had in common for looks. It's a bit easier to see how the features of your own mother and father combined in you—his nose looks a bit nicer on your face than hers would have, by the way—to make you so pretty, but they always did look a bit like the proverbial odd couple too. This reproduction of ourselves in a new life should be a most fascinating aesthetic experiment.
Not to be idolatrous, darling, but essentially, the child we may be "creating" (insofar as we humans can truly be said to be creating anything) is made in our image. God, of course, has something on the order of six billion images of Himself running around on this planet of ours according to the last tally, and that's not counting the departed and the as-yet unconceived, so He's got no cause for jealousy. We humans can hardly begin to achieve that much, although I just had a funny thought: if I recall one of those anatomy lessons from my high school biology correctly, enough of my sperm to fill a thimble could theoretically repopulate the whole world.
Pardon me for teasing you, my love, but you women are not so well-endowed in this way. You personally have maybe a few thousand eggs, of which only a few hundred stand any chance of reaching maturity and maybe two dozen—baker's dozens at the very most—might get to be children if we really tried for them. On the other hand, scarcity makes value, doesn't it? We men had to bring an awful lot of you women together with us to get so many eggs as would fill a stage magician's top hat—the amount it took to get our world as populated as it is. For all those eggs they fertilized, so very many more went to waste; you and I were meant to live longer, my love. We all were.
Your lower lips, once so full and richly engorged with blood, now thin out again and relax. My manhood, already released from your tight grip, is steadily retreating as well. The spell broken, I now stroke my hands gently up and down your back again, massaging their warmth into the smoothness of your silky skin as I gather the energy to overcome the inertia in both of us. Then, wrapping my right arm around you, I dig my left elbow into the mattress hard enough to raise us both. You groan, my love, just a little complaint on your part, but a complaint nonetheless. We both knew we couldn't stay this way forever, but I'm sorry all the same it has to end. Planting a few more kisses on your lips for consolation, I wrap both arms around you in a warm embrace, pulling you up just a little, which is more than enough to decouple us in our present state, however.
Once again, the slight absurdity of the whole situation comes to me. Have you ever noticed how none of your romantic novels, even the more explicit ones, ever mention this part? Getting up and getting dressed after making love doesn't make for very exciting writing, I concede, but the stories never mention how weird it seems to be doing something so mundane after doing something so intense. We don't look at each other as we're getting out our clothes and putting them on; it's as if we'd break out into laughter at each other if we did, and that would be disrespectful somehow and spoil the whole encounter. Maybe that'll change eventually. The novelty of anything—even this—must fade away, as experience teaches. I just hope we don't ever get too jaded with the familiarity of it all.
You know, the evening's still young, my love. I don't know whether there's anything good playing at the cinemas right now, but we could check the internet and see. I've got the listings bookmarked on my browser right here. Whether there's anything good to see or not, we could do with a night on the town. Our friends would undoubtedly like to see us again and ask how our marriage is going. Ha! Wouldn't they like to know! Well, we can tell them quite frankly and honestly, can't we? Without going into the explicit stuff, it's going very well indeed so far. Won't they be jealous, some of them? Most of them haven't fared so well as we have and as we will, although as with all marriages, we'll have our difficult times too. In this, as in all things, we'll have some happiness, some tears.
I'll get our coats dear, but speaking of clothes, I'd better get these into the laundry basket. From my bachelor days, I know that if neither of us gets them up off the floor now, we'll just keep leaving more stuff there until we run out of clothes to wear and then we'll have to have an emergency housecleaning session. There; now that's taken care of, and here's your coat, darling. Nothing good on, you say? Well, let's go out anyway. Even in a town this small, there's bound to be something we can do. We could use something to eat, too; it's dinner time. It doesn't have to be a fancy restaurant either. I hear there's a good barbecue place not far from here that serves the good stuff cheap. Let's go eat.
After that, we can cruise around and see if there's anything happening. If all else fails, we can just come back here. I've got quite a collection of DVDs my parents and I accumulated over the years, and we can have our own little movie night if we want.
Heck, we could even do this again.
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