A 'Pego'? What's a 'Pego'?

"What's a Pego?"

Tonight, I am feeling especially horny. Not for any special reason. Maybe it's a chance alignment of the Moon and the stars, or just the summer air spilling in through the open windows coupled with the scent of wild flowers and freshly mown grass that's lingering on a cool breeze. Maybe that what's making me go all tingly in my lower regions.

The Hubster, Alex, is here, sitting quietly, watching TV. It's a programme we both enjoy so the atmosphere is warm, cosy and cuddlesome.

Best of all, we're alone. Soovi, our Au Pair, is off with her University friends. Alice, our lodger, is in Newcastle preparing for her dissertation and the smallest person is staying with my Mother for the evening. Hence, the setting is entirely conducive to some good, old sexy fun.

Whilst the programme is good - easily the best thing on Netflix by a country mile - I find myself toying, rather absent-mindedly, with Alex's shirt buttons. This, he likes a lot and, very shortly, and without any major fuss, I find myself lying with my head on his chest and my hand inside his shirt.

It's not long before my hand drifts south and towards his belt buckle. I note that he does not object and neither does he object when I undo his belt and then the button on his jeans. The gentle zip-zip-zip of his zipper goes largely unnoticed as our TV hero, sword in hand, approaches an uncertain fate.

And, well, there you have it. My hand is resting atop a rather large and fulsome penis. The owner of said penis appears delighted with this turn of events and makes no effort whatsoever to discourage my ministrations.

And, oh, well. Look what I've just gone and done. I've released said penis from it's rather tight enclosure although it needs to be said that the owner of the penis is not immediately thrilled because the metal zip on his jeans is cutting into his ballsack.

Best remove the jeans then, eh?

So we do.

And oh, there's that penis again.

A hand job, Sir? Will that suffice? No problem at all. In fact, it's a pleasure. You were watching the TV? Well, there's this thing called the Pause button. Press it. That isn't a request.

Not just yet? Mmm... As you wish... but pardon me if I continue with my explorations.

We leave the programme running whilst I get on with the business at hand. Literally.

Now, what's better than a hand job? A blow job, without a doubt and so, after a slight shift in position, I find myself with a rather agreeable penis in my mouth. And I like it.

I love giving blow jobs. I really do. Always have. Hopefully always will. I love the look in his eye when he realises "Yeah, I'm sorted. I got this." I think blow jobs - even though they're badly named - are the ultimate act of intimacy. Trust is all.

Well, what do you know?

The man I married, my darling husband, does not appear to be wearing anything below his waist and, indeed, seems intent on removing his t-shirt too. "Lucky me," is all I can say. I think he's enjoying this, too.

His cock is looking very big and very veiny but then any cock would look very big and very veiny from this vantage point in that I have my head in his lap where I can also savour the manly aroma arising out of his groin - a subtle mix of lavender body wash and yummy manliness in case you were wondering.

Oh, that's nice. Sir has indicated that he would very much like to see me naked, and I am happy to oblige. I remove what little I'm wearing and I'm happy.

"What do you think of this?" I whisper.

He nods in approval but then he has little choice because I have his cock in one hand and I'm cradling his balls in the other.

I'm a big girl now. I am no longer the svelte, muscular athletic type he used to know and love. I am now a Mom and so I have a Mom-bod. I am big and curvy all over, and I have stretch marks, my 'tiger stripes', which I wear proudly as a badge of honour and distinction. They are a sign that I carried a small human in my belly for the prescribed period and then shot a seven pound canon ball out of my Coochie.

"Would Sir like to cum? Or would Sir prefer to insert his Pego into my person?"

"What's a Pego?" he asks, clearly puzzled.

"It's Victorian Slang," I reply. "For 'cock'.

See? The benefits of a fee-paying private education proves its worth time and time again. Money well spent, I think.

"I repeat, would Sir like to cum? Or would Sir prefer to insert his Pego into my person?"

"Both, actually..." he says.

"Then I shall attempt to oblige..."

We could go for the basic Missionary but whilst it's satisfying, it's not massively adventurous and really don't want to be just nailed to the sofa. I have a feeling, an urge, that I'd like to be in charge of the proceedings on this occasion. Him on the bottom, me on top, replete with my saggy tits, my fat ass and lumpy cellulite. Yeah, the pure 'me' with all of the trimmings.

A Cowgirl or a Reverse Cowgirl is my preferred position this evening. That way, I get to do the bouncing around. I get to hold and direct the penis. I get to control the depth and pace, the rhythm and the energy.

You see, sex has not been especially comfortable since giving birth, which is why girl-on-girl is currently my chosen method of relieving my inner stress.

What does Hubby think of my girl-on-girl adventures? He says he likes them, says he doesn't object that he would far rather I wrap my lips around a nice juicy set of lady parts than play away from home, perhaps with a penis from another team. He says these things but... I suspect he's quietly a little jealous, which is why I do not make a major fuss of my lustings. I don't want to upset him.

Putting any discussion of my Girl-on-girl adventures aside for the moment, let's focus instead on tonight's action, shall we? I have another motivation tonight. I want to try something different, something I saw in a grumble flick the other day. Yes, I watch grumble films... I watch a lot of grumble films...

I sit atop his thighs, my legs hanging over his and pray that his ligaments can take my weight. He assures me that they can. Even so, I have a footstool on hand to provide some additional support.

Direct penetration is presently out of the question. I need to be subtly coaxed into a parting to the pussy lips. To that end, I take my favourite penis and push it hard up against my pudenda and then press down with all of my weight on his cock so that his shaft is sandwiched hard up against my Mons Pubis. And then I start to rock back and forth, back and forth. The result is near instantaneous. It's not the same as fucking but the sensation is supposed to be much the same for him, sort of. I can feel his dick hard up against my clit and the result is significantly more intense than normal intercourse. Actually, it's too intense, and I have to back off lest I come too soon or wear my fanny out before Sir is able to fully appreciate the experience.

Sir is also enjoying the fact that my bush, my pubes, are now greatly diminished. A lack of hormones I suspect, and whilst my chuff is now not quite bald as it was but then neither is it the enormous mound of black curls that it used to be. And neither is it the so-called 'sandpaper challenge' that it has been at times in recent months. Truth be told, a garden weed-whacker would have been better at trimming my Gorilla salad.

I reach down under the couch in an effort to locate a bottle of lube I have secreted there, and apply a tiny, tiny amount to the top of my pussy so that I can continue my efforts without leaving both of us red and sore, which seems to be appreciated. Good.

And now, it would seem, we are ready for the main course. We have not attempted full sex in some months and I expect this encounter to be painful. I am not wrong. The physical act of penetration, even carried out so carefully and thoughtfully, with myself in full control actually hurts more than I care to recall but then I'd be astonished if it didn't hurt. Pushing a cantaloupe melon out of your vagina can be a challenge.

However, the pain does not last too long. I will take that as a positive. We are, at last, having full sex again. I worry that, had we left it any longer then Sir may have (unwisely) stuck his wick somewhere else without my permission. That would be a) stupid because he'd be missing all of this, b) expensive because I'd divorce him and c) stressful because he'd be back living with his mother.

My husband is a thoughtful and caring lover, and senses that I am uncomfortable. "Take it out, if it hurts," he whispers.

"Actually, no. Don't stop..." I whisper. "Just keep going."

"You mean come?"

I nod. "Yes."

"You're not on the Pill, are you?"

I shake my head through gritted teeth. "Just fuck me and come, please."

So he does and rather quicker than I'd have preferred but he's Mr. Two-Times and rarely takes more than ten minutes to get hard again, especially if he's on a promise for some more bouncy fun.

I cross my legs in an effort to jam his yummy stuff up my pussy and then quietly hope that it doesn't just suddenly fall out and leave a messy pool on the carpet. Those stains are getting a little difficult to pass off as spilled yoghurt.

True to form, Alex is hard again in ten minutes (if that) and would very much like to ride on the pony one more time, perhaps from behind.

"Do you want me to go in bareback?" he asks.

"A bit late for that, Mister," I reply. "I'm half full already, and right up to the Maker's name plate too...'

"You have such a way with words," he says. "You should consider a job as a Script Editor."

Cheeky twat.

Okay, so here we go again. I'm on all fours with my ass in the air in front of the TV set, a position we reminds me strongly of the night we conceived for the first time except on that occasion, we were on series one of Stranger Things and my tits weren't rubbing on the carpet. In fact, back then, my tits were just gorgeous, perky little dumplings that poked out front like the Ball Boys on Wimbledon's Centre Court. Alas, these days, they're huge wobbly sacks that leak milk if you so much as look at them.

And... in we go. Yeah, easier this time. Much easier. Better angle too. His dick feels nicer, less aggressive. Some of the raw hardness has gone. He's hitting my G-spot too, a sensation which harks back to those early sessions we spent wearing out the tabletops in the kitchen or the back seat of my old Audi R8. (Trick question. My Audio R8 didn't have a back seat... I just threw that in just to see if you were paying attention.)

I didn't think I would come but I did, and quickly too. And whilst the earth doesn't quite shake, I do see swirls and patterns and sounds that I feared I'd never see again.

Am I pregnant again? That thought lingers at the back of my mind almost immediately. Probably not. Actually, certainly not. My body isn't quite ready yet. I have little or no doubt that it will let me know when it is ready for another child but I will take one simple truth from this encounter. We had sex again and it was nice. Not like the Old Days 'nice' but I'm not really sure we can ever get back to that sweet state of affairs even if I work my Kegel Muscles so they're as strong as Arnold Schwarzenegger's biceps. I think I'm anatomically changed, which is shorthand for saying my inside bits are different.

I've come and, whilst it was nice, I suppose it would be polite to wait until Sir has dumped his load in me a second time before calling a halt to the proceedings.

Actually, bugger politeness. I whip his cock out and encourage him to spray his filthy man-juice all over my back. He says he is happy to oblige but then asks if I might re-consider his application to explore the delights of what he calls my "Bonus Tunnel". The answer is, sadly for him, a defiant and unwavering 'No'.

"You're too damned big for going up my bum, mate!" I whisper. "Not happening."

Doesn't stop him trying though. Just the tip, pressed up and then rubbed lengthways down my butt crack.

"Nope!" I repeat. "Not turning me on at all. And definitely not happening. Ever."

He looks sad, crestfallen perhaps. And then chucks his muck all over my couch and favourite rug. Git. Serves me right for letting this uncouth heathen near my best furniture. I mop up the icky sticky mess with plenty of tissues and we curl up on the couch together in a rather delicious spoon before drifting off to sleep under a carefully placed blanket.

And there we remain, wallowing in our sin, until the wee hours when we are awoken by a minor stampede arriving through our front door. Soovie has returned although she is not alone by the sound of it. Has she brought a man-friend home? Surely not? Not before her divorce is finalised?

I instinctively cover my lower half and wrap the blanket around me before heading, sleepy and bleary-eyed, to the Reception Hall, where I find Soovie and Alice removing their outer clothes. It's raining heavily and they've been soaked just running from the garage.

Soovie wanders through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Alice starts heading towards her room at the top of the stairs but then pauses, turns and heads back into the TV lounge to check on the latest news.

She then turns and heads abruptly into the kitchen with a smirk on her face because she has just discovered my darling husband, asleep and very naked, on the couch. She has somehow lost interest in watching the BBC although the same is true of most of that channel's viewers.

We laugh and smile and giggle because finding Alex asleep in such an embarrassed state is definitely funny but then... Hubster, bless him, appears in the kitchen doorway and waves. He is half-asleep and seemingly unaware that we are no longer alone.

"I'm off to bed," he mumbles incoherently before heading upstairs.

The kitchen is suddenly stunned into silence.

Oh Lord...

Hubster has a large and very sticky lump of tissue paper stuck to the end of his dick and another piece stuck to his ass. It swings and wafts back and forth, this way and that way, as he moves towards the stairs, like he's waving a white flag of surrender towards the enemy's battle lines.

Soovie and Alice laugh out loud but, behind the bravado and the giggles, I sense that they're secretly a little jealous. I had sex. We had sex and they're both clearly missing their respective partners.

Kinda sad but... So it goes.