Sometimes, a story starts out as a fantasy - a work of pure fiction. I lie in bed for hours, thinking about it, letting my body tell me what works and what doesn't.

When the story is complete, I sometimes play it out with my husband, making it a reality. But as it unfolds, he adds his own sub-plot, changing my tale to suit his desires.

Then, I write about it and share it with you...

He sat in the living room, on a Saturday evening. It was dark and cold outside and we had nothing planned. As I finished reading the paper, I remembered a phone call from earlier in the day - one that had reminded me of how special he is, that guy sitting in the living room.

Engrossed in the latest book of a series by his favorite author, he didn't notice as I snuck past him and into the bedroom.

He loves nighties of all kinds, and for this particular occasion, I chose a long, white, linen gown with lace insets in bands every so often from top to bottom. It shows plenty of my bare skin, but still has a look of old-fashioned purity.

Nothing had changed in the living-room while I was gone. He didn't notice as I dimmed the lights and lit the fireplace. Finally, I turned off his reading lamp. That got his attention.

Startled, he looked up at me and saw what I was wearing. His book went to the end table without a bookmark.

"Hi," he said, sitting up so I could lean in to kiss him.

I didn't. Instead, I took one of the throw-pillows and put it at his feet.

He sat back and smiled. "What are you up to?"

I knelt on the pillow before him, moved his knees apart, and sat back on my heels. "I had a phone call from Meg today," I told him. Meg is my younger sister. "She and Pel are talking about getting married."

"That's wonderful!" he said. "They're perfect for each other."

I leaned in, between his legs, and traced my finger along the seam at the edge of his fly. "She hasn't told Mom yet. She wanted to know what I thought of their getting married before he proposes. She's going to tell Mom and Dad after he gives her the ring."

"She's not going to talk to your mother until after she says 'yes'?" he asked.

I nodded. Looking up into his eyes, I saw a blurry face until I blinked away a couple of tears. "My advice was more important to her than Mom's. She wanted to know how I knew you were the right one for me."

In silence, I unbuckled his belt, opened the button and pulled down the zipper. "Apparently, I'm the resident expert on marriage."

His pants moved aside easily and his boxers had a nice big opening in the front. Still, he had to lift up so I could slide them down just a bit.

When he's completely soft, he's only about an inch long. At the moment, he was maybe twice that, but mostly flaccid. I took it, and his other parts, out of his shorts and fluffed the bright red hairs all around them, then sat back on my heels.

The front of my gown has several ties from the neck to the waist. I undid the first two and opened it up to show some cleavage.

His hand reached out to brush the hair from my shoulder and scatter it around to the front where he could see it.

Rising up on my knees to my full kneeling posture, I folded my hands, bowed my head, closed my eyes and said,

Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua,

quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi,

et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti

tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus,

Amen

When I opened my eyes, he was ready. The huge purple head was reaching out, trying to touch me with it's full length - enough for me to choke on.

Leaning in again, I paused just above the tip and looked up at his face. His eyebrows were aching, anticipating. "I asked her if she had ever gotten down on her knees and thanked God for the privilege of sucking his dick. She laughed and almost dropped the phone."

Turning my face back to my own privilege, I kissed the tip, opened my mouth, spread my hair all around me, closed my eyes, moved my lips over my teeth and took as much of him into my mouth as I could, licking and tasting him all the way in.

He groaned, shifted forward and reached his hand to touch my cheek. I guided it back further, onto my neck and around behind my head.

There was lint in the ridge under the head, but I didn't care. The rest of him felt so wonderful and tasted so uniquely "him" that I made that little sound we all make when we eat a morsel of comfort food, "mmmmmmmmm..."

The humming sound was enough to motivate his hand to pull me in the rest of the way. The head is too big to fit down my throat without gagging me, but I tilted my chin forward and lined up for it. As it crossed the back of my mouth and kept going into my throat, I reached out with my tongue to try and lick his balls.

It took years for me to get used to the feeling of my throat spasming, trying to cough him back out while his hand held me in place, but the feeling he gets from the gentle squeezing of my throat muscles is more than enough reward for a little discomfort.

He thanked God, less eloquently than I had, for his portion of our ritual,

My nose attempted to get air into me, but the windpipe gets closed off when my husband is down my throat. Choking, and unable to breathe, I smiled and licked, knowing that I was trapped - powerless to pull off of him. His hand is much too strong for me to pull away from.

Instead, I slid my arms around his back and pulled myself even further onto him, fighting the reflex and the wave of panic. As lightheadedness started to take hold, I reached out again with my tongue, and this time found the underside of his balls.

"OOOOOOOhhhh Lord!" he said, releasing the pressure on my neck and gently running his hand through my hair.

I tried as best I could to stay there until he was ready to come. My throat muscles, lips and tongue gave him a full workout as my consciousness drifted into a dazed, floaty state, but he pulled himself back. He didn't want to come right away.

Gasping for air, with the head now in the middle of my mouth, my breath created a wind-tunnel for him. The air rushing past gave him another kind of pleasure, which he told me about by fluffing my hair and then massaging my shoulders.