Daybed
We live on a golf course fairway. Which makes for an expansive view and an extension of our yard that is beautifully and dutifully maintained by someone else. But that comes with a trade-off.
Occasionally, duffers fire errant shots into our backyard. Fortunately, our house set back far enough that it never gets hit. But these interlopers are a common occurrence, especially on the weekends.
They are usually oblivious to everything around themselves, focusing fervently on their frequently futile searches for their elusive five dollar lost balls.
During the hot and humid Southern summers, I spent a lot of time on my screened-in porch, usually wearing as little as possible to beat the heat. Bikinis and sundresses are my go-to apparel, until even those tiny swatches of cloth are too much to bear.
I’ve had golfers within a few feet of the screen, as I recline on the porch couch, sometimes topless, sometimes entirely nude, and they don’t notice me, sitting in the shadows.
It’s quite a rush. The thrill of potentially getting caught is such a turn-on, I can’t keep my hands off myself.
Often times, as they are leaving my backyard, I quickly strip off my panties, if I’m wearing any, and feverishly rub and finger myself to orgasm.
On busy weekends, it is usually only a matter of minutes before the next group plays through, beginning my whole arousal-satisfaction cycle anew, rinse and repeat.
My hubby, ever the voyeur, loves to sit across from me, watching me perform for him, as a seemingly endless procession of foursomes play through.
Fingering myself and twisting my nipples gets him worked up, and his expedient solution is to mount me right there on the porch.
Admittedly, there’s not much room on the couch for much variety in positions, so frequently, he just flips me onto my hands and knees, grabs me by my hips and buries his pulsing rod into me, instinctively carnally thrusting, rutting like a hound, until he blasts my insatiable pussy with spurts of hot jism, filling me to overflowing.
But alas, no cuddles. Just a quick dismount, a gratuitous slap on my ass, followed by the obligatory matrimonial peck on the cheek, and a return to his chair to watch the endless parade of golfers roll by.
There simply isn’t enough room for two adults to lay together on this couch.
Until now.
Our new daybed, with its waterproof twin mattress, proudly sits in the center of our porch, like a raised dais, the center ring of our exhibitionist circus, giving us plenty of room to comfortably indulge ourselves for extended periods, and maybe even a lusty reboot or two, after the prerequisite rest in between, of course.
And for me to enjoy my post-coital cuddles.
Occasionally, duffers fire errant shots into our backyard. Fortunately, our house set back far enough that it never gets hit. But these interlopers are a common occurrence, especially on the weekends.
They are usually oblivious to everything around themselves, focusing fervently on their frequently futile searches for their elusive five dollar lost balls.
During the hot and humid Southern summers, I spent a lot of time on my screened-in porch, usually wearing as little as possible to beat the heat. Bikinis and sundresses are my go-to apparel, until even those tiny swatches of cloth are too much to bear.
I’ve had golfers within a few feet of the screen, as I recline on the porch couch, sometimes topless, sometimes entirely nude, and they don’t notice me, sitting in the shadows.
It’s quite a rush. The thrill of potentially getting caught is such a turn-on, I can’t keep my hands off myself.
Often times, as they are leaving my backyard, I quickly strip off my panties, if I’m wearing any, and feverishly rub and finger myself to orgasm.
On busy weekends, it is usually only a matter of minutes before the next group plays through, beginning my whole arousal-satisfaction cycle anew, rinse and repeat.
My hubby, ever the voyeur, loves to sit across from me, watching me perform for him, as a seemingly endless procession of foursomes play through.
Fingering myself and twisting my nipples gets him worked up, and his expedient solution is to mount me right there on the porch.
Admittedly, there’s not much room on the couch for much variety in positions, so frequently, he just flips me onto my hands and knees, grabs me by my hips and buries his pulsing rod into me, instinctively carnally thrusting, rutting like a hound, until he blasts my insatiable pussy with spurts of hot jism, filling me to overflowing.
But alas, no cuddles. Just a quick dismount, a gratuitous slap on my ass, followed by the obligatory matrimonial peck on the cheek, and a return to his chair to watch the endless parade of golfers roll by.
There simply isn’t enough room for two adults to lay together on this couch.
Until now.
Our new daybed, with its waterproof twin mattress, proudly sits in the center of our porch, like a raised dais, the center ring of our exhibitionist circus, giving us plenty of room to comfortably indulge ourselves for extended periods, and maybe even a lusty reboot or two, after the prerequisite rest in between, of course.
And for me to enjoy my post-coital cuddles.
3 years ago
