She fucked me and I slept well.
Yes, she crawled in my bed with me after a couple of days of affection. She lay next to me enjoying her sleep, having her rest. And there in a presence of “maybe he’ll wake up and we’ll have a passionate three-day fuck and love fest”, I did wake up with a throbbing hurt. It seemed so proud like a blurred vision for some and sharp for others of an ever-lengthening Priapus moment. We celebrated each other. I knew her every inch, passionately in touch, smell and the vision and sounds of her writhing in ecstasy.
She had little use for my compassionate masculinity of well lived in BALLS.
She held tightly and kissed perfectly. She grasped the explosions of my innermost fuckIloveyouandyouknowitastrue.
When she isolated and separated temporarily I got busy for my day like always. It always worked in the end and at least served as a reminder about keeping on and moving forward no matter what. In good faith, it didn’t work to take anything to do with her personally. Both of us did what we thought we wanted to do almost regardless of consequences which got fewer and fewer in keeping our word to ourselves. Yes, there occurred anger and consternation. Yes, we argued at lower and lower volume. Yes, we planned better than make up sex.
I got to act like a force field around her vulnerability. Just presence and appreciation makes it work.
It generates in parts from both of us.
She came through the field with creative action enthralling everyone in various ways.