Maybe later.
Big shudders, groaning as if my touch pains him in the best way. I jack him a few times for good measure, watching in fascination as another pearl of liquid pools at the tip.
Quickly removing his digit from my wetness, he grips my hips and forces me to my feet. I lose balance for half a second. Big’s right there to keep me from falling.
“Hurry and take off your pants, Sugar Tits,” he commands before tearing his own jeans and boxers down his legs to give himself more room to move. They pool at his ankles, above his well-worn motorcycle boots. I watch that veiny cock bob in the open air and slap his tattooed stomach as he swiftly removes his cut and shirt so we can be skin-on-skin, just the way we like it. I discard my bottoms, underwear, top, and bra in record time and kick them elsewhere to clean up later. Not wasting another second, I jump back onto his lap in my striped socks like it’s Christmas morning, spread my limber thighs, and slam my pussy down on that dick. Air bursts from my lungs as he’s buried to the hilt, stretching my walls to the max. Big’s mouth drops open in a guttural cry as he palms my ass cheeks to fuck me on his shaft like I’m nothing more than a ragdoll he wishes to extract pleasure from. And I let him. Every part of me willingly falls victim to his expert onslaught. There’s nothing better in the world than having a man own your body, doing what he does best to make you scream his name. So, I do. Embracing ecstasy beyond my wildest imagination.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, my swollen, milk-filled breasts smash to his pecs, and I give in. Up and down Big slams me onto his cock only to lift me slowly off and repeat the process over and over again. Moans of pleasure turn into incoherent mumbles. My nails bite into the nape of his neck on their own accord. Milk leaks from my tits, making a mess between us as they graze his chest. I nip at his collarbone when he hits my G-spot with the most exquisite thrust.
“Big,” I beg, needing him, needing just a little more. I’m almost there.
He kisses the side of my head, lips pressing into my hair, warm breath bathing my scalp, somehow making me hotter for him. “I’ve got you. Come on my cock, baby.”
And I do. As if he lit the fuse with a single, profound command, I fall. Soaring higher and higher until I explode into a billion fragments of never-ending bliss, eyes squeezing shut, chest heaving to catch my next breath. Sweat and breastmilk slickens our skin as I wail his name, tap-dancing the line of reality and a dream world where nothing but happiness and the love of my life exists.
My arms go slack, the orgasm draining everything from me. Turning me into a pile of boneless mush.
“That’s it, babe. I love you so fuckin’ much.” Another kiss is deposited onto my sweaty hair as the onslaught continues.
“And I… I love… you,” I breathe, feeling my heart swell with endless admiration and love deeper than anyone could’ve ever felt in the history of the world.
Big’s movements slow and he wraps those sexy arms around me. I cling to his strong and steady warmth, never wanting to let go. The sudden burn in my nose is a surprise as are the tears that well behind my eyelids. I swallow thickly, refusing to let this intense… whatever, override my system completely, thus turning me into a blubbering hormonal mess. Not today. Not now.
I nuzzle my nose to the top of his pec, to keep the emotions at bay.
Tracing fingertips up my spine, Big slips those wandering digits into the base of my blonde locks, where he takes a firm grip and draws my head back. No sooner is my head pried from his body, do his lips cover mine in the sweetest most sensual kiss. Then I feel it. The release. Big groans, delving his slick tongue inside my mouth the moment he fills me with cum. His hips jerk in shallow thrusts, body trembling slightly as he finishes, drawing our session to a seamless close.
“I can’t believe you’re mine,” Big mutters to my lips, his chest working overtime to catch his breath. A parting kiss is delivered before he rests my head against his shoulder to comb fingers through my hair.
“I am.”
“Always.”
“Yes. Always.”
“Damn. It feels good to be inside you.” Big flexes his still hard cock, buried deep. I squeeze around the thickness in return. You don’t always need multiple orgasms to feel warm and fuzzy. This is nice, too. Perfection.
I kiss his shoulder. “I love it.”
Big pats my bare bottom affectionately. “You can do whatever ya want for Christmas as long as it isn’t overkill.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Sugar Tits. Anything for you.”
Oh, how I love this crazy, amazing man.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
“Shh. Shh. Shh. Harley, please stop crying for Mommy,” I beg at the end of my rope, tears teeming down my cheeks, eyes puffy from the never-ending emotional upheaval.
Cradling my daughter in my arms, I rock her, using a hand to pat her back as she shrieks her hatred for me, squirming against my bare chest. We’re in her bedroom upstairs. I’m sitting on the pink glider, doing my best to get this situation under control. But she won’t stop crying. Won’t stop screaming bloody murder. Her face is beet red, snot coating both her and my shoulder as she smears her nose against me. Everything was fine this morning. Big left to work at the clubhouse and do what he always does. I fed her, changed her, and she played with her toys. Then came her afternoon nap, which went off without a hitch. During her downtime, I cleaned what I could before she woke up. The laundry is still in the washer, dishes need put away, and the kitchen is a disaster of epic proportions. I baked cookies like I do. Two dozen for mid-holiday season snacking. I even added the green and red chocolate chip mix for a festive flair. The next thing I knew she woke up wailing and I forgot to listen for the timer. I fucking missed it! The fire alarm sounded before I realized what was happening. Who does that? I haven’t burnt cookies since I was a teenager. And you can bet your sweet ass they’re charred—black as coal. The acrid smell is terrible as it lingers in the house. I haven’t even had time to scrape the skeletal remains off the cookie sheets because my daughter is losing her shit.
The worst part is… I dunno what to do. This has never happened before. Not like this. Harley’s been inconsolable for what feels like hours upon endless hours. I fed her at my breast and even that was a battle. She bit a nipple in retribution and she still hasn’t chilled out. I changed her diaper, gave her a bath, rocked her, hugged her, and sang, among fifty other worthless things. Nothing has worked. I thought maybe she had gas, so I listened to her tummy and pumped her legs. Everything seems normal, apart from the wailing. There’s no fever. I used a cold washcloth on her gums in case she was teething. She hates pacifiers, so they are of no use. Music hasn’t even calmed her the slightest. This is awful. On top of being a failure at calming my kid down, I can’t keep the house up, or write.
My first book published last month. It did okay. Better than I expected. Working from home is a dream come true, especially since I don’t have to change out of my pajamas to work. To be honest, I thought it would be easy. That I’d write, publish, and be the perfect partner and mom in the process. But I’m not. It’s all wrong. My list for today has been ruined, and it’s my fault. I didn’t plan for this. The icing on the cake is that Christmas is three weeks away and I have no clue what to buy Big. Today was the day I was gonna hunker down to find the best present ever; so he’d fall in love with Christmas like the Grinch did when his heart grew three sizes. That’s when he’d embrace the holidays year after year, and they’d stop being an uphill battle. But I haven’t had a moment to do that either. And you best forget about me calling someone. I don’t need help. I’ve got this. Even if Pretzel doesn’t think so, as he gazes up at me from the floor with that you’re-a-failure look in his mismatched eyes. At least his doggy Christmas sweater offsets the judgy expression that makes me feel like the worst person in the world. We can get through this. I’m a mom. Moms are supposed to tackle everything and be a badass doing it. I refuse to pawn my daughter off on so
meone else, not like mine did when I was a child. Harley has to fall asleep eventually, as do I. I’m exhausted to the depths of my marrow. Our matching meltdowns aren’t helping, I know. But I’m trying. Cut me some slack, okay? Not everyone is perfect. I sure as hell ain’t. Parenting is hard as fuck.
Swapping my baby to the other shoulder, I continue to rock her. Harley kicks me in the stomach, her sharp fingernails scratching at my bare flesh, leaving marks. “Shh. Shh. It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna be okay,” I hiccup, wanting to believe the bullshit I’m spewing. At one point I tried laying her in her crib to cry it out. That lasted all of five minutes before a giant boulder of guilt steamrolled right over me, forcing me to give in, or die a thousand maternal deaths.
Inhaling deep, through my nose, my lungs inflate to full capacity before I hold the oxygen and slowly release it out into the atmosphere. With it, I hope to expel some of this awfulness boiling inside. It does no good. I still feel like hell.
Pretzel groans from the floor, rolling onto his side, unimpressed with my poor parenting skills. That makes two of us.
Harley lifts her wobbly head and uses it as a weapon to whack into the side of my face. Which only serves to make her scream louder upon impact and my jaw to ache. A fresh batch of overwhelmed tears make their descent. My hands are too occupied to clear the wetness. Fat droplets of shame trail to the tip of my chin where they huddle together before swan diving downward, landing on my chest. They don’t stop there. Some soak in, other’s follow the valley to my stretch marked post-baby belly. That’s where they find grooves to make their home.
“Bink?!” Big’s voice booms loud and angrily above the wail of our daughter. Half a second later he shoves her bedroom door open and swallows up the entire frame as he steps across the threshold, entering the war zone. A flash of annoyance morphs his features and is quickly replaced with concern. Ugh, not that look. I don’t want his pity. I’ve got this.
“What’s goin’ on, babe?” His tone’s sickeningly calm, almost sweet.
I look away, staring at the crib, blinking away tears that skew my vision. “Nothing.” I’m resolute, even if I’m quivering inside, desperate for this to end. He needs to leave. I didn’t need Big’s help before, and I don’t want it now.
I sense him moving deeper into the space, hovering close but not close enough that I’ll lash out. Sometimes I wish he didn’t know me so well. “Why are you and Leech havin’ a meltdown?”
“S-she hates me.” After today, I’m convinced it’s true. More liquid hurt trickles as my daughter grips a piece of my hair and yanks hard. I let her. She’s mad at me. It’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s my fault she’s upset. I deserve it.
Biting my bottom lip, I suppress a wince.
“Baby, she doesn’t hate you. How long has she been like this?”
That’s easy for him to say.
“Hours,” I blubber.
“Christ. Why didn’t you call?”
Because I don’t need help.
Straightening my spine, I twist my head to garner unfailing eye contact, so he knows I’m not weak. “I’m her mom.”
Big smirks as if he’s about to call my bluff. “So? I’m her dad.”
“I’ve got it handled.” It doesn’t matter that there’s blood on my chest from her lashing out, or hair missing. I’ve been through worse.
“Doesn’t seem like ya do. Give her to me, Sugar Tits.” Big reaches out to take Harley as his intense blues land on my exposed breasts with interest. “Why you half naked?” A pair of mischievous brows bounce.
Not giving her up, I hug my arms around Harley’s squirmy body. “I tried to feed her, but she didn’t eat much.”
“Can you blame her? Who wants to suck someone’s titties who’s been cryin’?”
What a jerk.
“Fuck. Off,” I snarl, still crying despite my outrage. “I’ve got this.”
“No. Ya don’t. Now give me our daughter and go take a shower. You’re a mess.”
“I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not. You’re bein’ a stubborn ass. Parenting isn’t easy. It’s also not a one person job. I’ve told you to call me if you need me.”
“I don’t need you.”
Reading my foul, brokenhearted mood like the Bink expert he is, Big shoves the ottoman to the side, and kneels in front of the glider, abs brushing against my shins. He doesn’t try to steal our daughter away. Big massages the tops of my thighs instead, imbuing them with his steady warmth.
I kinda hate him for knowing me so well. But I’m thankful for his touch.
Those concerned baby blues crinkle around the edges and catch mine in their mighty web. “I love you, and I love our girl, babe. You had moments like this when you were a baby, too. Where you cried for no reason. Let me take that burden. You’re upset, and that’s only serving to make her more so. She feels you, sweetheart. You’re tense and agitated. But you’re also hurting. Give me our daughter, Bink. You know she’s safe with me.”
I know she is. That’s what makes this so hard.
“But I’m a failure,” I admit. “I wanna fix this.” Please let me.
“You’re not, babe, you’re not. Let me fix this for her.”
Finally hearing her daddy’s gentle albeit deep, sensual voice through her sobs, Harley quits lashing out and twists half her body around. Wanting her daddy, she thrusts her chubby arms out at him. Big doesn’t hesitate to reach underneath her armpits and draw her body to his much larger one. I let her go, having no other choice.
Cradling her in his massive arm, cocooned against his chest, Big rocks her there, whispering sweet nothings that don’t fix everything, but calm it exponentially. Tension bleeds from my muscles as Big climbs back onto his feet, wiping the tears from her reddened eyes with his thumb. He gazes down upon Harley like she’s his sun and moon, and kisses her forehead. A heartbeat passes before Big lifts those lovestruck eyes and looks straight at me as if I’m the universe in which he revolves.
“I’ve got this, my love. When you’re done cleaning up, we’ll be in the livin’ room waiting for you. Take your time.” Big delivers an easy, heart-melting smile before departing with our daughter in his safe embrace. Pretzel, not one to be without Harley for any length of time, follows them out.
What a mess.
I slump in the glider, combing fingers through my disheveled hair, legs stretched out in front of me. Milk leaks from my engorged breasts, joining the tears that have dampened my stomach. I’ve gotta pump soon. Should’ve done it this morning when Big left. Just add that to my ever-growing list of daily failures.
Big’s right, though, I need to shower. No use in fighting it now that he’s home. Part of me appreciates the intervention, while the larger chunk feels… worthless. But I can’t fix that either. What’s done is done. He’s got Harley, and I’m not gonna accomplish anything by sitting here sulking. You can’t always win.
Forcing myself to move, I use the chair arms to heft my tired form from the seat, and pad out of Harley’s bedroom to ours. Where I flip on the shower in the adjoining bath to acclimate the temperature and strip off my pajama bottoms and underwear. The mirror above the sink fogs as I climb under the scalding heat of our rainfall showerhead. This is just what I needed—a silent moment to unwind. Water sluices down my curves as I scrub the day’s sorrows away with my loofa. I wash my hair and the remaining tension sloughs off, swirling down the drain alongside the suds.
Maybe it’s times like these that I need to stop being such a stubborn mule and ask for help. Big is Harley’s father. He loves her and me. Why do I keep biting off more than I can chew? Being a mom is already hard enough. Infants aren’t easy. Ones that are starting to crawl and teethe are worse. Now that I opened a Facebook clubhouse for my readers and I’m writing the second book to my series, I’m stretching myself thinner and thinner. Organizing a Sacred Sinners Christmas is a full-time job in itself. Last week, the Sacred Sisters and Deke helped set up a real tree in the clubhouse common room.
Their kids decorated it with homemade ornaments as Mickey, Gypsy, and Gunz built the larger-than-life Santa throne to sit beside it. It’s fit for a king and perfect for Santa Claus or our biker version of the jolly fella.
I finish my shower and dry off with an extra-fluffy towel from the rack. Wrapping it around my chest, I amble into our adjacent walk-in closet and steal one of Big’s Harley Davidson t-shirts off a hanger. Plucking a hideous nursing bra from the floor, I wrangle it on these too large breasts before shoving Big’s top over my head and snatching a pair of Nickelodeon pajama bottoms out of the built-in drawer on my side. They’re men’s, but way too small for Big to steal. Not that he would. They’re covered in ’90s cartoon characters like The Rugrats and Ahhh!! Real Monsters. Having grown up during that decade, I’m impartial to them. They sure beat the crap on TV nowadays. Don’t you agree? Although, I must admit I love the return of My Little Pony. That was another show I worshiped growing up, along with Care Bears, Gummy Bears, Eureka’s Castle, Fraggle Rock, and The Smurfs.
Aww… the good ole days.
Oh… and don’t let me forget Pee-wee Herman, ALF, and Transformers. My brothers and I used to fight about who the best Transformer was. Anyone who says anything besides Optimus Prime has lost their damn mind. Brew still believes Bumble Bee is where it’s at.
Puh-lease.
I bought him an Optimus t-shirt for Christmas this year. Shhhh, don’t tell him. It’s a surprise. Figured since he won’t wear it his wife can. Or Jizz can steal it. He likes them all.
MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 5 Page 3