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Nothing Gets Me Wetter Than A Monotonous Domestic Routine

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Nothing Gets Me Wetter Than A Monotonous Domestic Routine

The libido is a mysterious animal. Everyone’s tastes are different, and what excites one person might be a complete turn-off to another. I’d be hard-pressed to come up with my No. 1 turn-on; there are so many things that can be arousing, from a romantic candlelit dinner, to a kiss, to a loving massage.

But I guess I’d have to say that at the end of the day, nothing gets me wetter than the boundless monotony of the domestic grind.

It’s a slow build that starts in the morning. Just waking up on the same side of the bed that I’ve shared with my husband for 11 years sexually arouses me, but it’s knowing that I have to hustle to drop the kids off at the bus stop by 7:30 and then pick them up at after-school care on my way home from work every single day that gets my juices flowing.

By the time I’ve mixed a half cup of wet dog food with a half cup of dry dog food and thrown my children’s dirty clothing in the hamper, I’m good and slick. It’s only when my husband grabs his keys from the bowl by the front door, gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and asks me if I can pick up his Lipitor prescription that my honeypot starts melting for real.

I don’t know what it is about the ho-hum procession of daily errands and deeply ingrained domestic habits, but something about the way my husband and I go on autopilot for weeks at a time without ever being truly conscious of each other gets me soaking wet.

I’m all flush right now just thinking about it.

It’s like he’s hitting my G-spot every time he texts me at precisely 6:30 to ask what we’re going to do about dinner. Just knowing that it’s Monday and we always, always have spaghetti on Monday is enough to make me drip buckets. But when I’m waiting in line at the same CVS I go to about eight different times a week, I practically have to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle my moans as I buy milk and some poster board for one of my daughter’s science projects.

By the time I’ve picked up the kids, helped them with their homework, made dinner, finished loading the dishwasher, paid a few bills and taken the dog out, I pretty much need two mops to clean up the kitchen—one for the floor and one for me.

My heart starts pounding when I’m wiping the kitchen counter down, but it’s only when I start mentally compiling a to-do list for the next day that my breathing gets heavy and that divine pre-orgasmic tremor hits. Hard. I just bite my lip and quietly let it pulse through me, because it’s only 8:10 and my kids still have 20 minutes of Dog With A Blog left.

I know I’ll be letting loose soon enough.

It’s that moment 30 minutes later, right after the opening credits of American Idol, which my husband and I have tuned into each and every week for the past nine years, that I’ve been fantasizing about all day. The precise instant when my husband nods off like clockwork as the first contestant finishes singing. Boom! Niagara Falls. By the time he wakes himself up and promises he wasn’t sleeping and just resting his eyes, I’m gushing faster than he could even swallow.

Oh, God, I could listen to him snort himself awake right now.

But then watch what he does to me, the sexy bastard: He’ll see that I’m in agony, he’ll see that I’m right there on the edge—and then he’ll push me even further. He’ll respond to a few work emails, check his fantasy baseball on his phone, and then floss.

Bingo.

I’m squirting now. Can’t even help it. Just shaking and spurting like a busted fire hydrant. He’s got me right where he wants me: My mind’s turned to mush and I can barely remember my name. I’m just an aching, throbbing puddle, hoping against hope that he’ll put me out of my misery. And then—sure as the sun rises in the east—he’ll rouse himself to pee with the bathroom door open and take his heartburn medication.

Yes. Yes. Yes! I’m a naughty little nasty girl and he’s giving it to me exactly the way I need it. My God, does that deep, toe-curling climax rock me when he comes back to bed, plugs in his phone charger, and rolls over like he’s not even aware I’m alive.

And if he checks his email one last time before he starts sawing logs? Three words: shuddering vaginal orgasm.

My pussy is just a sloppy, throbbing mess right now.

I guess it’s that going-through-the-motions, etched-in-stone aspect of it that really whips me up into a frenzy. Those identical, humdrum nights, weeks, months—hell, years—all blurring together into the same endlessly repetitive pattern, like a long, expansive gray wall…over and over and over again. Mmmm.

So much hotter than the old days, when we just fucked all the time.

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