Where it happened: seaside hotel
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 10
Category: Straight
The First Time I Did It Four Tmes
The first time I did it four times. Actually it was the first time after my first wife and I got married. It was 1964. I was 21½ , Dottie 24. For each of us it was a peak age for raging hormones. And rampaging they were. For one thing we both knew to a certainty: that after the morning pre-nuptials, the afternoon “I do’s,” the seemingly endless reception and the ninety-minute drive from her parents Connecticut farmhouse to our honeymoon rendezvous, we lustfully and with description-defying eagerness wanted to have each other instantly.
In all my life an hour-and-a-half trip has never taken so long. So hot was I, I’m sure my balls ached. Not as visible to the eye, Dottie was equally aroused. Of what did we talk? Oh, I’m sure about this and that of the wedding and reception. But the unspoken subtext was our mutual desire to hurry and get there as well as what we each would do to the other on arrival. As well as how fabulous it would be as we were doing it.
We finally arrived at our honeymoon hotel and following check-in, I re-parked our car, carried our bags up an outside stairway and unlocked our room’s door. We found ourselves in a comfortably decorated slightly over-warm space, the principal feature of which was a neatly made bed covered with a green cotton spread.
So, did we carefully unpack? Fold our belongings meticulously? Put them into drawers and closet? Not exactly. Rather we flew out of our going-away clothes. Tossed every stitch onto the floor and not even bothering to yank back the covers, immediately embraced and impaled ourselves. Our haste destroyed the blanket and sheets’ carefully made symmetry and we were heedless of the wet stains sure to mark our sojourn atop the coverlet.
Instantly and passionately fused this first union of our married life, Dottie and I found physical foreplay utterly unnecessary. Not only had there been the last ninety-minutes on the road, there’d also been ten long days of mentally petting each other! Stoking the bellows of our sexual fires, that fortnight of abstinence had raised our lust to a fever pitch.
So as we made love, Dottie seemed more wetly slithery than she’d ever been. And I knew I was hornier than I’d ever thought possible. Added to this, our months of on-and-off sexual intimacy now paid off both in a certain control of our own physical selves plus a more than modest knowledge of our partner’s body language. The bottom line: we pleasured each other on a sublime sexual roller-coaster.
First I was atop; then we were side-by-side. Did Dottie roll above me for a thrust or two? Who can remember it all? But oh, did we go at it! Hard thrusts hotly, wetly, in and out, back and forth, up and down. Whimpers, moans, sighs, slishy sounds, slurpy kisses; the music of our coupling’s frenzy. Finally, beyond control, what shot forth I couldn’t possibly hold back. My body’s liquid fire spewed and cascaded far into Dottie’s inmost self.
As frustrating as our ten days abstinence had been, as horny, aroused and lustful as it had made me, this climax was sublime. Deep within this hot woman, my first and only love and lover, my dear friend, now my wife, I was pulsating, throbbing and above all, enjoying. With a final thrust came the last pulse. My seminal reservoir’s “gauge” momentarily bouncing against `E.’ Reveling, I savored the sensations that had simultaneously emptied me as it filled her.
Gazing down on my lover, I knew Dottie had climaxed. Her eyes were closed, a warm smile had relaxed her face and for the moment, she was motionless. Her eyes opened. She saw my loving look and wordless wide smile hotly beaming back. Sprawled on her back, thighs spread, legs gently V’ed, Dottie’s arms loosely surrounded me. Lusciously connected, our bodies were flush and aglow.
Hovering, I was equally relaxed, my still-very-stiffness warmly buried deep in my lover. As we both felt my final pulses, we relished this long, lovely, ten-nights-awaited moment. And then we had what can only be described as a moment of simultaneous sensual telepathy. Any other time following such mutual spectacular orgasms I would have gone flaccid, perhaps even withdrawn. But I was still thrust deep, still stretched, still rigid. And both of us as were as ready to continue love-making as when we had hotly began.
Exchanging looks, we said nothing. Did we have to? That first honeymoon go-round had been a tasty appetizer. It momentarily quenched sex’s desperate hunger. Now we were ready for a robust “main course.” With a thrust, I swelled further. Re-stretched, I snuggled against Dottie’s hot confines. As up and down our hips plunged, round and round hotly linked together we rolled across the bedspread. Our tongues darted and swirled, Dottie’s hands and fingernails stroked and scratched. I just held tight.
This second go-round was heated, frenzied – and longer lasting. For me, with so little semen remaining, that small amount took its sweet time coursing through my inner plumbing. As to Dottie, she simply seemed insatiable. Eventually, of course, I came. Perhaps with less volume, but with no less enthusiasm. What a glorious adventure was this first late afternoon of our honeymoon! In any event, after my two climaxes I had to quit. Out from Dottie’s now-cooling wetness I slipped, shriveled to my usual bantam size; hardness temporarily gone. Dottie’s sexual appetite also – presumably – seemed temporarily abated.
Besides exhilarated, how did we feel? My entire self was suffused with the pleasant exhaustion that the vigorous lusty exercising of one’s sexual organ – enjoying its performing heartily and forcefully twice within mere minutes – will bring. And since Dottie too had given her all to our robust love-making, presumably even her most exuberant love machine had to be equally in need of a timeout and energy refill.
So we showered and re-dressed. And realized our lusty procreativity had left us famished. Our accommodation had a nice restaurant. We found it pine-paneled and candle-lit with red and white checked tablecloths. The hostess quickly located a quiet table for two. The dinner was memorable, though hardly for the menu or wine list. It was our wedding night. We’d already had each other twice and there was no doubt we’d soon be at it again.
Our eyes locked. Of course we couldn’t get enough of each other’s joyful ebullient looks. To an outsider – the waitress perhaps – I doubt we looked like first-hour honeymooners fresh from intimate embrace. Of course there was the warm glow of our cheeks, the hotness of our gaze and the fact we devoured everything in sight. That might have been the subtlest giveaway. Whatever. After 90-minutes or so we got up and stretched our legs.
Leisurely we walked through the sea-smelling warm spring evening and found our nuptial chamber far less sterile than when we’d arrived. The bordello aura of carnality pervaded. Dottie’s perfume had mixed with the residual aroma of our earlier encounter. And there was the bedspread’s telltale, almost-dried, wet stain. Relaxed, we again undressed; less hastily this time. Dottie finally getting to put on the lacy white nightgown she’d chosen for our first night together. I disrobed to my usual “birthday suit” attire.
We pulled back the already mussed up bedspread, blanket and sheets and fluffing the pillows turned off the lights. Then reaching toward each other, kissing and caressing, we began making love a third time. Unhurriedly and deliberately, we proceeded at an achingly-slow pace. (Given our vigorous loving before dinner, the aching was as keenly physical as metaphorical.) This time it was sex as dessert. There was the sweetest of love talk, no place off-limits to soft lip’s or finger’s caresses. As our lips joined and while Dottie’s petal soft hand was tickling and making a sweet prisoner of my relentlessly stiffening hardness, simultaneously my fingers, slipping under her gown, deeply felt her up, strumming her soul’s music on her most sensitive flesh.
“Please, darling, no more foreplay” was each of our unspoken thoughts. So as her leg slipped over mine, from the side I entered her. With a languorous plunge I reached her full depth. This time silently, we each lustfully luxuriated in the glorious passionate erotic moments.
Long we remained intimately embraced, gently thrusting, tenderly stroking. This wasn’t the frenzied sex of when we first arrived. Rather it was a sweet, doing-each-other-to-exhaustion. I yearned for release. I hoped Dottie felt the same. Almost unnoticed my last remnants dribbled and pulsed. At the same time Dottie’s motion ceased. We were tightly, biblically and truly one flesh. My now-withered hardness slipped from my lover’s most private place. And as I held her lovingly I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Late in the morning and ache’y from the slumber of being much- and well-loved, we both awoke more or less simultaneously. Famished as if we’d never eaten; was it to be the restaurant for breakfast or a meal on the way? With my morning erection tenting one side of the sheets and Dottie’s firm nipples raising the other, there was a look exchanged. That, plus a few words of love talk pointed toward a better kind of in-room hospitality.
Thus, no sooner had we returned from mutual ablutions than we were at it again; locked in instant sexual congress. As when we arrived the evening previous, there was no foreplay. I was hard, long and eager; Dottie was wet and just as desirous. Kissing as we lay side-by-side, her leg crooked, gently lifted, slipped over mine and instantly embedded my seven inches into her seemingly-endless depths.
Against each other we rocked for what seemed forever. Suddenly, with no warning, I came. And while not as Vesuvian as the previous night’s first eruption, the wet heat had a wonderful energy. Waves of satisfaction shimmered. I delightedly glowed at my bride of less than a day. Then, thinking it might provide her extra pleasure, I slipped my hand into her wetness and gently swirled my still-swollen cock. “Oh Yes…Yes… YES” Dottie exhorted with a mini-shout.
Then, moments later, more quietly: “Stop, darling. Please, stop.” At those words, her thighs clenched and her nipples hardened and I knew absolutely. An unmistakable orgasm had overwhelmed her. An extra tweak brought another – firmer – “No more, please!” This fourth time making love in fourteen hours was morning-after joie de vivre and a shared sexual lagniappe – an orgasmic surprise only we could give each other.
It was certainly an ideal send-off for the rest of our honeymoon! After a most necessary shower we got dressed and went voraciously hungry to the hotel’s restaurant, wolfing down breakfast. But on returning, no matter how thick the aura of sex we had neither the potency nor the energy for a fifth time. Our mutual spirits may have been willing. But the flesh was, at last, unmistakably, too weak.
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