Of all human failings, hubris exacts the most poetic revenge. Within days of writing that “100 days is within my grasp,” I was reminded, however pleasurably, who’s really in charge. How long I remain in chastity is not up to me.
This past Tuesday night, as we cuddled in bed, things inevitably heated up with her satisfying her cock hunger with my obedient penis. After 71 days, my ability to withstand full-on, pedal to the metal cocksucking and intercourse was significantly compromised. To say I was a loaded pistol is putting it mildly. Her face and body were painted with moonlight. I trembled with worship of her.
For the past several days, she’d been noticing that I’ve been dealing with a lot of stressful issues, completely unrelated to our relationship. On this particular night, with my throbbing cock nestled deep inside her, she whispered into my ear that she thought I should come. Right now.
I didn’t need any further encouragement, and within three seconds the world inside my brain lit up with the light of ten thousand suns. My entire body spasmed with almost indescribable ecstasy for several minutes, long after I’d emptied what must have been an ocean of come into her.
I’ve read that Navajo women intentionally put a flaw into the rugs they painstakingly weave, because perfection is supposed to be reserved exclusively to God. One hundred is, after all, as arbitrary a number as any other, and this new phase of my life is not about accomplishing feats of endurance; the accomplishment is in our day-to-day acceptance of the truths associated with a husband’s natural place as submissive to his wife. When she tells me not to come, I don’t. When she wants me to, I do. It’s as simple as that. The journey is the destination.
End of day 3
😛