Chapter 220 - MESSY LOVE

Nobody tells you just how fuċkɨnġ horny you'll feel when you're pregnant.

We're all told about the sickness, exhaustion, painful brėȧsts, piles and all the rest, but there is most certainly one huge plus point of having hormones and a third more blood pumping around your body.

And guess just where that extra blood likes to plump and engorge the most? Yes, your pussƴ. Oh my god, I've never felt so hungry for ȯrġȧsms. A craving only just matched by that for ice cream.

Angelo can't believe his luck. We were never shy of a fuċk even before we made this child, but my libido has gone through the roof. I guess it's Mother Nature's way of ensuring you get enough sėx in to tide you through the first few months of parenthood…

And we've been taking full advantage of this 'bonding' time.

Angelo is at the shop. I'd begged him with the desperation and passion of a lioness to go and get me some vanilla ice cream or I might die—honestly, I'm chuckling as I'm telling you but the utter need that comes over me is overwhelming. Like I might kill him if he doesn't get me what I have to have right away. It's a passion with an intensity and ferocity that we've both never experienced.

Luckily, Angelo is a very chilled individual and knows I'm prone to fervent outbursts, while not ever on this level, he seems to take it with good grace and a smile. My heart could burst with the power of the love I feel for him. But as soon as I think it, that growing passion swells and bubbles up, the fiery wantonness also bringing impatience.

Shit, where is he? It's been… I check the clock… oh, six minutes! I'm being ridiculous. I know. But now my stomach is desperate for ice cream and my ċunt is clutching and yearning for ȯrġȧsms.

Unfff, I groan, running my hands to my swollen brėȧsts, rubbing my nɨppŀės with the pads of my fingertips, drawing them to the side, pressing them hard against the ȧrėȯŀȧs then letting them ping back onto place. The sensations this elicits sends electricity up my spine to my nape and into my hairline. Holy fuċk, it's amazing. I do it again, watching the action through my cashmere jumper, wriggling a little to drag it off one shoulder.

My pussƴ is twitching and I grind my thɨġhs together trying to build and relieve the feeling at the same time.

Ah here he is, he better not tease me, I couldn't bear it.

"They only had strawberry babe, sorry."

"Strawberry!" I wail like it's the end of the fuċkɨnġ world. "You know I fuċkɨnġ hate strawberry!" My cheeks are burning with rage, but a part of me that is always just sitting and observing the action, knows I'm being unreasonable and that he's probably only teasing… he'd better be only teasing!

I take a few breaths and let the passion subside as he walks over giving me that crooked smile and ruffles my hair.

"You bastard!" I say, pouting as he opens the tub of vanilla and throws the lid to the side.

"Do you honestly think Vinna," he says, tucking my hair behind my ear, "that I'd be brave enough to walk through that door with anything but the exact flavour you'd demanded?" He grins and leans in for a long languorous kiss and I'm just about to apologise when he flicks some of the ice cream to my face.

"Hey!" My temper flares for a split second but I quash it quickly and put my finger to my cheek, wiping the ice cream then pushing it deep between my lips, indulging in the taste I'd so desperately wanted. "Mmm."

"Good huh?" he says, coming close, his body heat prickling against my bump and brėȧsts.

"So good."

"Fuck hey, come on," I snap and he grins. I whip my face forward, grabbing the spoon and sup ravenously at the delicious cold liquid.

He takes another dip, letting it ooze into my mouth then withdraws a bit, just enough so it trickles down my chin and he leans in to lick it up. The tickle at the corner of my mouth sends that spark to my ċŀɨt and I wriggle, a groan emanating from my throat.

"You like that huh?" he says, daubing a splash of cold ice cream onto my décolleté.

I am teetering on the line between arousal and fury. I hate the feel of the cold slathering down my neck, but I also love it. The sensation travelling far, spreading that electricity to every nerve, pulsing and expanding until it settles very nicely deep in my ċunt.

"Fuck you," I say and he growls, dipping his head down to my ċhėst and mopping up the mess he's just made. He drags down my jumper exposing my shoulder and left brėȧst in all its heaving glory and flattens out his tongue to take as much as he can in one hungry needy lick.

Oh my god, I could swoon. He ŀȧps in a long stroke up the side of my tit to the edge of my ȧrėȯŀȧ where he pauses. Making his tongue into a tiny point, he batters it to the tip of my tightening nɨppŀė. Oh, Christ, that's sending me. I grab his mop of hair and pull him, latching him on, begging him to suckle at my desperate nub. And he does, oh how he does, elongating and stretching it deep into the back of his mouth where his clever tongue undulates.

He releases me with a pop, just as I think I could have come from that stimulation alone and I cry out in frustration.

He ignores me and helps take off my top, ċȧrėssing every dip and curve of my bump and brėȧsts as he does. Then, reaching for the carton again, he slathers more ice cream over my tɨts, as if I've been splattered in his spunk. We both grin wickedly at the sight of my dishevelled, apparently used body then he feeds me again with the sticky fluid before cleaning up his mess with his mouth.

I'm twisting in the chair now, my need and arousal have built so much that I'm whimpering, desperate for a touch between my thɨġhs.

He reads me again and brings out the wand vibrating massager. It springs to life with a hard buzz and my pussƴ reacts like Pavlov's dog, watering and lubricating like a thirsty bitch. I spread my legs wide but he pushes the thick bulbous head to my tɨts, teasing and tweaking them while I dissolve in a pool of my own want.

"You're desperate for this aren't you?" he says knowing full well I could snatch the damn thing and fuċk it savagely before his very eyes. Desperate indeed, I'll show him desperate.

I reach for it but he makes a no, no, warning sign and motions at me not to worry.

Again, his teasing pushing me to the brink—edging my fury to draw my passion and fire right to the depths of my greedy wanton ċunt.

My ċŀɨt is twitching as I spread my thɨġhs as wide as I can in the chair. Legs outstretched, I peer over my bump to where he is kneeling, staring right at my pussƴ, adoring it, preparing it for what it dėsɨrės.

He places the wand tip to my ċŀɨtȯrɨs and I cry out. Fuck, it is everything, he is everything. I'm everywhere and nowhere all at once, my ċunt is clenching around nothing but its own plump arousal and I'm begging him to press it onto me.

"Please, Angelo…"

But still, he teases, not hearing my sobs of desperation.

"I need to be closer to you," he says and shuffles his way in behind me on the chair. "There, that's it. Now I can watch as you watch…"

Isn't it strange how another person can know you better than you even know yourself? I love that about us. He is a master of reading my body language even when it conflicts with my own thoughts. Me believing I like it one way, then he delivers a completely different reality and drives me wild.

The first time it happened was behind the cinema not long after we'd first met. I'd dragged him in the darkened alleyway hoping to have him fuċk me from behind up against the back door, my face pressed into the rough wooden exit, imagining the grazes that would form like badges of honour on my cheek and shoulder. I'd raised my tiny skirt and pulled my sodden knickers to the side and turned to face the door but he'd flipped me back round and fallen to his knees before me, slinging my leg over his shoulder and eaten me out right there. I'd come and come on his face and clever hot fuċkɨnġ tongue, gripping him into me as my thɨġhs clenched around his neck, at once fearful of suffocating him and not giving one fuċk if I did.

Of course, as we'd collapsed, panting together in the darkened sordid piss-stained alley, I'd apologised again and again from nearly smothering him. But he said he'd have died a very fuċkɨnġ happy man if it had happened. I'd tried to drag out his ċȯċk and suck it but he insisted he was fine. Fine until he got me back to his place and fuċkėd me senseless on the sofa while the streetlight streamed in all around us.

I'm thinking of that now as he ċȧrėsses my brėȧsts, teasing, tantalising, taking his time, seemingly always patient for his pŀėȧsurė.

Me though, when I want it, I want it right fuċkɨnġ now or I fear I will lose my mind.

I think that's what he loves to witness best, that complete unravelling at his hand. The moment where I almost come undone with his tormenting, then, and only then, does he let me have that sweet sublime release…

But not yet.

The sugary ice cream has warmed and even begun to dry in places where it's trickled below my ribs and as we spoon on the chair, I turn my face to kiss him. He responds, his fingers winding around my neck and into my hairline in that way that drives me to utter pŀėȧsurė oblivion.

"Please…" I whimper and he finally pushes the wand to my fluttering pussƴ.

My whole body undulates with my breath and he presses the large head onto my ċŀɨt. The shuddering starts from deep within my ċunt, all the way inside to my core. It's as if I can feel each of the fronds of my extended ċŀɨt swell and become engorged, filling up with the sweet pure juices of need. I can visualise every branch of pŀėȧsurė, every fork in the path of my anatomy. It's sublime, I lick my lips and let my tongue explore the inside of my mouth imagining it is the same feel of my ċunt. All slippery and yielding.

And now, and now, I flip into that other zone, that point of no return where I'm hanging, static all around as the wand buzzes and resonates deep within my ċunt—the tip of my ċŀɨt a gate to my soul then he turns up the vibrations and I roar. The building and rising, surging and climbing until at last, I tip over the edge and crash out into pure blinding hot pŀėȧsurė.

I'm panting as I come to, cradled in his strong arms—wand still clamped between my thɨġhs. He's had the good grace to switch it off, knowing full well I might never come back from that ȯrġȧsmic plane. I bȧrėly know how long I've been coming. It's like awakening from the most beautiful dream.

"Angelo, what the fuċk?" I smile and can't help placing my finger to my lip, nibbling on it. "I was gone!"

He cuddles me in tight, easing the wand out from between my thɨġhs.

"Mmm," he groans, nuzzling into my neck. "That was amazing. You are amazing. I fuċkɨnġ love you."

My breath catches in my ċhėst. Another thing they don't really warn you about. The moments of sheer and utter emotion that you just can't escape. You just have to let it wash over you and hope that whoever you're with can cope with your outbursts.

Lucky for me, Angelo as his name suggests is a complete angel and just goes with it, letting my emotion pour from my soul and into his.

"It's ok, it's ok," he soothes, massaging my still heaving brėȧsts, coiling his fingers around my nɨppŀės. Oh fuċk, here we go again.

As they spring up, super sėnsɨtɨvė with heightened nerves, his thickening ċȯċk nudges at my back. And suddenly I'm fuċkɨnġ ravenous for it.

I ease myself up out of the chair and sink down between his knees gazing up to his slack expression. His jaw is set in that way that I can see the haze of ŀust has descended and the only thing he dėsɨrės is to come. I am hungry too. My craving for his sweet succulent dɨċk is rising.

I wish I could tease him the way he teases me but I can't. I'm too basic, I need to act on my impulses right away. I take his hardening ċȯċk in my fist and begin to ride it with my hand slowly at first until my mouth is watering and the need to gobble him up is too great.

I open my mouth and launch onto him as he grabs my hair and thrusts my head onto his. I slam the back of my throat onto his bellend, taking him good and rough like a revenge fuċk for the teasing he gave me. It's good, so fuċkɨnġ good.

I try to take him beyond my gag reflex but resistance sets in, so I wrap my fist around the root of his shaft again, making a buffer so he can fuċk my face with abandon. I slam with all my passion until my lips bruise against my fists. He's groaning, gripping my hair by the roots, using his hɨps now, we are both bucking and fuċkɨnġ, rising and drawing out that thick needy ŀust that only a hard fast climax can remedy.

The surge in his balls gulps through his big ċȯċk and up, hot jizz launching into my hungry, hungry throat, again and again it spurts deep and my eyes are streaming, trying to hold on until I've milked every last drop.

Finally, as my lungs scream like they are going to burst, we release each other, his dripping ċȯċk softening and his spunk dribbling down my chin and onto my ċhėst just like the ice cream.

It's a perfect circle of events and as I reach for the tub, the devil gets into me once again and just as he is closing his eyes in that dozy satisfied way, I flick the spoon and a splatter of milky liquid splashes all over his face.

Fury flashes and he leaps for me sending me spiralling back and onto the rug where he kisses me deep and hard, our fire and passion matching and rising once again…

No, they don't tell you about any of this at your midwife appointments…