Chapter 3

It is so humorous and funny and side-splitting and waggish and jocose that sometimes I feel like mewling and howling and howling my eyes out because of it, don't you? I have a peculiar and eccentric and porangi mania and phobia and hobbyhorse with Stian's underclothes and the alike unmentionables, don't you? Occasionally and from time to time and every so often, I believe that I am foolhardy and idiotic and quixotic for it, don't you opinion and hold that too yourself? The manner and style and fashion that his underwear or smalls embrace and twine round and brace on to his seductive, irresistible, and alluring bottom and thighs and impeccable light-like skin itself—it implodes and splits apart and to nonexistence my senses and aura and smarts all in all. Doesn't it to you?

Yes. Stian and I are tonight going to fuck and funk and turn tail with him dressed in his snazzy, stylish, dashing, and ritzy underwear. That is very good and cracking schmick, aren't you of the similar and alike view? I do so myself; yeah, I assuredly and for certain do. Accept it or not. Hmnnn. Stian's underclothing is the most jazzy and schmick and flashy and attractive kind that I have ever seen. Ever, I mean.

I am peering and monitoring on him as he stands vertical and upright and on his feet not a mile or great distance away from where I am slumped and lolled and drooped on our monstrous, mountainous, and behemoth bedstead or couch bunk. Yeah. He is frocked and garmented in nothing but his sensual and voluptuous and come-hither and beddable underclothes or men's lingerie. Yeah. If you did not have knowledge of it, men have their own sort and type and brand of lingerie and their own frillies or smalls too. Yeah. That is just the fashion and way and style that it is! Yup!

I am spellbound and entranced. In what respect and custom and manner, you may puzzle and cudgel your brains? I don't exactly know; I am just in awe and fascination and stupefaction and wonderment. Exactly. That approach and technique and mode that you can only baffle and bemuse and faze at. Or cannot you do that?

As Stian nestled and perched and located himself—still erect and standing up on his two busy and energetic and bustlingly strenuous feet—in a standpoint and viewpoint where he was capable and qualified to place and set and lay his hands on the expensive, wide, and large window of our spacious and voluminous bedroom itself, he toned and voiced out to me behind, "Does my spartan and unfussy white shirt and raven-shaded underwear every time and unfailingly hold you spellbound and gripped and enthralled at me? Does it, Ragnhild?"

I am overcome and staggered and struck dumb as if hit by a ton bricks that I specifically and particularly have knowledge or the slight hint or clue of what to respond back to him. What is it that I must cluelessly say to him? What literally? I don't know at all ... or do you?

"Why are you day in, day out—on every occasion and aye—fond of putting on black underwear and nothing latest and ultramodern?" As I ask him this, and note him swinging and swerving round his head back to me, I make sure and certain and positive that I switch and wheel round my head to fly the coop and skedaddle from coming face to face and eye to eye with him. And boy, do I triumph and prevail in doing that? Doubtlessly and beyond the trace of a misgiving.

With my head fixated upward toward the towering and elevated ceiling above and my eyes made fast and stuck sideways in a route and track and bearing opposing and adverse Stian, I gulp and slurp saliva down my throat, thinking and questioning myself on what his feedback and counterblast to that will be. What truly and precisely? What veraciously?

"Is not my underwear and underclothing habitually and on every occasion very sensuous and kissable and beddable? We were of the same mind and opinion that things should be this way ... after all, that you have always wished and desired for. I clothing myself in assuredly and positively erotic and bedroom-arousing underwear and smalls. And I in turn get you to wear those flirtatious and titillating and naughty bras and underpants that I very much and without exception want to see you frocked and geared in. Tell me, Ragnhild. Is my raven underwear not arousing and come-hither enough to you for you to ask me that?"

I feel shabby and tattered and scruffy and frayed with myself. Damn it! Why is Stian querying and posing all of this to me? Why?

"I didn't say that, Stian," I retort and counter to him slickly and awkwardly. Of course. What better thing and deed than doing this? What else, huh? I add on, "All I made a comment on is that you are amorous and doting on putting on dark-colored underwear. Why are you so affectionate and indulgent of the color black so much, huh? Why, Stian?"

He scrapes or scratches and claws at his whiskers or mustachio at that. Goodness! What riposte and comeback am I going to receive at him? What exactly? I wonder ... I am only curious and conjecturing. Dammit!

"I will respond to that only after we have fucked and banged early this morning, Ragnhild. Do you understand?"

"Yes, overlord," I reply feebly and effetely. To be decent and veracious with you, I am not truly and in fact ready for this ... another course and round and series of morning fuck episodes and acts ... but it turns out that I have no selection and preference and pick of my own, or do I? Seemingly and apparently not so.

Who-oo-ooh! I sigh in and out, shifting and transposing about my position on the giant, bulky, and ponderous bed. Yeah. I canst not now have knowledge of how I am going to be fucked and spanked heartlessly and cruelly, or do I? Nay—I don't.

"How are we going to fuck this time around, mister?" I query and interrogate Stian whilst whirling and spinning and twirling myself smoothly and softly. I love sex ... but not this time around. This feels like enforced and mandatory or unwilling sex on my piece and share to be trustworthy and decent with you. My husband ... my man and partner and spouse and significant bidie-in other all in all—I can't oppose or rebuff or deny him anything, can I? No way! Even if it means I wound and cut and scrape and gash and bruise myself, I would willingly and contentedly do it for him. My delight and joy lies in seeing him blest and gay and floating on air and stoked; my suffering and discomfort and agony and sorrow and hardship thrives and flourishes and super-abounds so long as I see and note him in pain and soreness and hurt and irritation. And it will habitually and customarily be so as long as I stay and remain in love with him.

I am nude and stripped starkers. Fully undraped and in my birthday suit even. Yeah. If it were not for these coverlet rugs and bed sheets and coatings concealing and screening a great lot deal of my golden and fine-complexioned body, Stian would be by now entirely and effusively feasting his eyes and getting a load of my entire buck-naked self, don't you agree with me.

He strides and wanders toward me from the window where he was taking his stand at inchmeal and leisurely. While still tramping and stepping toward me, he notifies and briefs me, "Peel and take off those sheets away from you, Ragnhild. I wish and fancy to gaze at my wife in her birthday suit and nothing else."

I do like I am told. Submissively and dutifully. As Stian takes a seat and perches himself next to me on the bed, still inspecting and looking over me, he stirs his hand to my vagina and pets and fingers it for a split second. In that split second, my eyes drift and roam up, my body crooning and trilling and warbling in delight and satisfaction. Yeah. Stian is lord and chief and captain at just giving me that ideal delectation and gladness and contentment and bliss that I long and pine for the most. He is so ... amazing and gee-whizz and connoisseur and jaw-dropping at this.

"Shall I provide you with more of this atmosphere and feel?" He questions me while he glances and stares at me in that very sensual and erotic way and fashion. I cannot battle against not giving or surrendering in to this lechery and lust and lasciviousness that is fast bearing down and jam-squeezing itself against me. Yes. The air is lusty and rich and flourishing and overflowing with sensuality and wantonness and thirst and appetence; and canst I do anything 'bout it? Nay!

"Yes," I murmur and speak in hushed tones to Stian. "Yes, Stian. Present and furnish and bestow me with more and more of this. Please do it, my love."

"Great," he says sotto voice and utters under his breath this to me. I have a weakness for his sugary, flavorsome, and lip-smacking voice. I have a preference for its well-heeled and plenteous pitch and tonality. I am obsessed and preyed on in my mind and thrown uppermost deep in my thoughts with its modulation and low-pitched volume and intonation. Aren't you as well?

I wait and pause and tarry and look forward to ... the forthcoming and at hand moment when Stian is going to place and prop and stow his fingers into my vagina and rub and pet it. Yeah. I crave and long for him to do that so very much. And boy, does he accomplish and transact it. Nay—to my shock and turn-up from the books and bombshell. What is he waiting for, huh? What strictly?

He slithers and creeps onto our bed where he writhes and drags himself on all fours until he has his face stationed in the route of my clitoris and his knees and feet and arched and warped and tortuous back farther away from me. Yeah. It seems he is going to scoff and gobble and munch and polish off my pussy and vulva and cunt with his very own mouth and tongue, or will not he?

"Stian," I wheeze and gasp out his name, getting up and making ready myself for what is to come. Tongue sex and taste sex and more of stroking sex. Will it be too nice and pleasing and lekker? Just like before? I am not absolutely sure ... and so are you not certain and convinced about it, I fathom.

Arghhhh ... His tongue is entombed and sepulchered deep into my vagina, brooming and sweep brushing about, flicking and stroking inside. My goodness. This is just too awe-inspiring and impressively intimidating, is not it? What is he singles out and cherry-picks gnawing and tearing and nipping my pussy-cunt with his all-too razor-sharp and jagged and serrated teeth. No, he will not be sardonic and trenchant enough to do that. If he does it, then I without question and assuredly and doubtlessly will avenge myself. I will also rent and chew and gnaw and nibble and masticate his big, long dick with my own keen and cutting teeth. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

As he lolls and reclines down on my bed while brushing and vacuuming and scrubbing his tongue inside of my vagina, I shove and thrust myself upward-like, wholly and effusively and truly delighted and given tickle-turning-pink pleasure and bliss and contentment to. What else could be better than this? What scrupulously and unerringly?

My goodness! He is licking and lapping and clobbering me faster and too faster, grazing and stroking and fondling my rocklike, stony-akin nipples as he does so. I like the way his hands and fingers are making a move and brushing my pimples and gigantic and extensive boobies themselves. It is all too amusing and gratifying and to my liking, isn't it? It assuredly and without fail is.

"Stian," I weep and sob and wail out, all too pleased and satisfied and contented and over the moon.

"You are the sweetest thing ever that I have come to taste and relish and smack in my life," he takes a break and enjoys a breather just for a little while so he can state and assert this to me. Holy fuck! This is bliss and happiness and delectation indeed on my part and portion. If I will not croak and give up the ghost all because of it, then I by all fair means and with clean hands know what it is that is precisely going to take place and ensue up to me, or do you?

Who-ow-wie! In a surely dove-like and benign and mild way, Stian keeps on at beating and belting and slapping and bashing his tongue into my clitoris, initiating and whipping up in me these too sweetened and treacly feelings and sentiments and spirits that I cannot without much trouble put into words, neither can I explicate and throw light to you on what exactly and indubitably they are composed of. My body warbles and blows the sing-song and toneless whistle noiselessly and softly. I cannot breathe in or out for an instant. No, I cannot.

As Stian's hands touch and graze and brush and skim my breasts all the more faster and rapidly and hurriedly and briskly, I icen up and harden and become solid and glaciated for a while, likely and perhaps and in all probability flown and soared off my way into more superior and desirable and design and style and version of an unblemished and impeccable heaven. Yes. This is it. I am in Valhalla; I am in the Happy Valley; I am in the Elysium or Elysian fields. Have you jetted and winged your way here too with me? Have you?

I seek to breathe; I make an effort at accomplishing that so very much hard and laborious; in fact, I break my neck and knock myself out over it. I can't breathe. No—I cannot. What is coming about to me? What exactly? Goodness, I am passing away and giving up the ghost. Presto like a bat from hell and like a flash and at the rate of knots and even lightning itself. Help! Help! Somebody assist me please! Whenever I unclose and gape wide ajar my mouth to yell and shriek that out, I find and detect no vigor and wellness in me with which to hollo and holler that out. What is happening to me? Am I kicking the bucket and popping my plogs whilst delighting and reveling in sex here?

The world around me blurs and becomes smoky and foggy like. Through torrenting and flash flooding tears, I catch a decrepit and effete glimpse of Stian as he slaps and wallops and bashes his tongue in and out of me, feeling and stroking and grazing my bosoms and boobies and tits with his hands the hell lot faster and quicker as he does the earlier and aforesaid. This is the greatest and most long form of big O or orgasm that I have undergo and encounter in my life. Ever, I mean. Holy goodness. When will it quickly and speedily resolve and dissolve back to nonbeing and nonexistence? When precisely? Of course ... I cannot take or bear it anymore.

Whoops. At final last ... the tongue-taste brushing and lapping thing or case is finished and ended with. It sure and without lack of conviction and irresolution is. At least for now it is. Stian has me sprawl and couch and recumbent down on our bed atop an extensive and bulky and stellar pillow, and with my hands hurled and cast and lobbed away from each other, he hurls and tosses and tilts himself on top of me, and the instant that his body comes into adjoining and within-sniffing-distance span and width from mine, I seize and nab and capture his buttocks behind which are draped and garbed and dolled up in so fleecy and velvety like a baby's bottom underwear and under-gear. I orgasm fleetingly and sigh and gasp in deeply and gravely from just that. Yes. It is so lovely and nice and lekker indeed. Don't you opinion so?