Did My Wife Really Want Me to Lick Her Before Dinner?

I was thinking how I’d be even more worked up at dinner if you were to maybe lick me a little before we go? The words hung in the air, a challenge and a promise. Her eyes, those fucking eyes, they were on me, daring me to refuse. But I knew better. I knew what she wanted, what she needed. And I was gonna give it to her, just like always.

Anticipation in the Air

The room was filled with a tension that was almost palpable. Her body, barely concealed in that sleeveless top and shorts, was a fucking masterpiece. The sunlight streaming in from the window cast shadows that danced across her skin, highlighting every curve, every line. She was a vision, a fucking goddess, and she knew it. Her hand held the fabric close, teasing me with what was underneath. I could almost taste her, almost feel her. And I wanted more. I wanted to devour her, to make her mine all over again.

The Art of Submission

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not yet. She wanted this, wanted me to beg, to plead. And I was gonna do just that. I was gonna get down on my knees and worship her, just like she deserved. Because that’s what she was – a fucking queen, and I was her loyal subject. Her words, her commands, they were my fucking world. And I was gonna make sure she knew it. I was gonna make sure she felt it, deep down in her core. I was gonna make her scream, make her beg for more. And then, and only then, would I let her go to dinner, satisfied and ready to face the world. Her world, where she was the star, and I was just the fucking supporting act. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.