You can never tell her anything when she gets into one of her moods.
My father had taken me aside on the day of our engagement to ask if I understood what it meant to marry a redheaded woman. I'd assured my father that 28 years of life and a ruthless childhood under the collective thumbs of four older sisters (three of whom were as red-headed as the mother that bore us all) gave me a unique insight. I figured I knew what I was signing up for. He'd chuckled and patted me on the back in what I thought was a gesture of fatherly pride. Of course, ten years of marriage later, I realize my dear old dad had merely been laughing at me, not with me.
A devil with a hellcat Irish temper and angel eyes: that was the woman I married. She was a one-woman army of trouble with regiments of stubborn pride and feisty determination ready to outflank me at every turn. I was just a poor schmuck from Long Island who had looked into her wild smiling green eyes and lost all hope.
In the first year of our marriage I had made the mistake all new husbands make. I argued fairness and logic. I didn't bother to chart her cycle. I attempted to defend myself. Then, naturally, I found wisdom. I fought just enough to make her feel empowered when she won. And then I took her to bed.
It sounds callous and chauvinistic, and perhaps a little whipped. But only to those who have never been married - those who have never been awakened in the middle of the night and made to stand trial for the crimes committed in a dream can scoff as they like. At the end of the day, there is a beautiful, passionate, intelligent woman in my arms and she is there straight through to the morning. And, ninety-five percent of the time she is a rational, compassionate, generous creature - a wife, a mother, an absolute touchstone and gift from God.
The other five percent of the time, however, you cannot tell her anything. You especially cannot convince her of things she shouldn't be doing.
So, as you can imagine, I was not very surprised when the screams began to emanate from the back bedroom. For, you see, I was not only married to what I considered to be the fiercest beauty on the island of Manhattan, but also the clumsiest.
In a heavy, hissing pout, Maggie had declared she was going to wallpaper the back bedroom herself. I'd had 911 on speed dial from the moment I`d seen a stepladder in her hands.
I had stopped questioning how she got into these situations long ago. Explanations rarely made sense and often only served to fan her rampant temper. And, though I didn't dare laugh, it was impossible not to lean against the doorframe and pause a moment to grin.
Her long crimson hair was wound tight in the ceiling fan - which she seemed to have at least managed to turn off. It looked like a hopeless knot of a mess. To make matters worse she had lost her footing on the step stool and the pointed toes of her tennis shoes were struggling to keep balance on the edge of a nearby dresser.
Perhaps a better husband would have run in immediately to rescue and comfort her, and perhaps a man with more compassion wouldn't have felt a flash of quicksilver in his blood at the sight of her in such a predicament.
The cut-offs she had on had been ripped into existence from some ancient pair of hip-huggers - all faded and paint-stained denim now. A few tendrils of tattered threads clung to the moist perspiration of her supple thighs. Granted, the shorts were a little too tight. Just as the green tank pulled over her bra-less chest was a little too short, but she was the type of woman who looked just perfect in clothes that were a size too small.
She caught sight of me in the doorway and began rambling in a long stream of anger and fright. She was covered in a thin sheen of wet adrenaline and panic, all girlish gooseflesh and sweet sweat. I didn't hear her tirade. All I saw was the softness of her exposed belly. The belly that shielded the womb that had produced our children. And I wanted nothing more but to mash my face in the belly of my redheaded wife.
She squealed and squirmed and protested as I lifted her thighs onto my shoulders. My wife was a beautiful woman, but she was one of those females who insisted the few extra pounds their frames had taken on over the years were too many - and the lines that life had etched into their soft skin were an unforgivable misery of nature. This left her completely baffled at my desire to jump her luscious bones every chance I got.
Or taste her luscious bones. Honestly. How many chances did a man get to have his wife suspended in mid-air with her delicious pussy at just the right height to be buried in its succulent depths?
I felt her heels kicking at my back. Heard her growling out my name. She was using the no-nonsense mommy voice she used with the kids when they were avoiding chores. But the kids were across the street playing with the neighbors and I wasn't in an obedient mood.
Quite the contrary. As I unzipped the fly of her cut-offs, I was feeling rather empowered and caught up in the first whiff of her scent. My sweet crimson strawberry of a pussy… I wanted to see it and taste it and drown in it.
She was fidgeting and reaching above her head with her arms, trying to free her long tangled mane, but she wasn't having much luck. And, to stop her kicking I took a small step backward.
She howled as the slack was drawn tight and began to call me every vulgar name she'd ever heard. She did, however, stop kicking.
"I intend to be face down in this sweet red cunt of yours for the next several minutes," I growled, digging my chin into her pastel blue cotton panties as I spoke. "If you're a good girl I might even help you down when I'm done and let you get that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around my cock."
She issued threats she was in no position to carry out, but her stubborn temper was all bark and no bite. Against my face I felt the wetness of her panties and knew her juices were flowing. She wasn't willing to help me get her shorts off - wiggling her swanky ass to thwart my attempts - so I began to poke my tongue at her though those thin panties.
Her back arched and I smelled the musk begin to emanate from her. That feline, feminine smell of sex and lust and perfume and pussy. I sucked at her through her panties, licking up and down with my tongue like a dog lapping his bowl clean.
In the back of my mind I heard her protests - the kids could be home anytime. She had so many things to do. It was silly. It was ridiculous. She was going to kill me when she got down.
And then I stiffened my tongue to a point and pushed right where I knew that little pink button of a clit was hiding - knifing between those juicy lips and cramming her panties up against it as well. Her protests stopped and I heard one moan that passed down her spine in a tremulous vibration straight into my mouth. I nibbled and pulled with my lips, clutching that engorged little clit and shaking my head back and forth. She responded by mashing her hips into my face and moaning out my name.
I decided to tease her a bit. She has always been a saucy wildcat and though she protested, she loved to hear all the nasty things I loved to call her.
"Yes, you little red-headed slut. I know you like that. You love to push that sweet strawberry pussy in my face. It's all wet now, you little tease. You're soaking wet for me. I can feel it and taste it. Your soaking wet little strawberry cunt."
She writhed, tightening her thighs on either side of my face, pushing for more. Demanding little vixen. How I loved her. There wasn't the slightest trace of protest this time when I urged her ass up to peel off her shorts. I hesitated a bit with the panties, rubbed my fingers into the wet crotch of her. Calling her more names. Making her admit how wet she was - how aching her pussy was.
"You like this don't you, you little tease. Come on, let me hear it. Tell me you're my little wet strawberry cunt."
A little more wiggling. Protesting, demanding. I wagged my fat tongue against her clit and rammed my hand up and down her slit, rubbing her panties into her soaking wetness. It didn't take long. She arched her back and began to give me the words I was demanding. She named herself a slut, a tease, a red-headed whore. She pled for my mouth. She even nibbled her bottom lip and managed to repeat it when I told her to beg for me to drink from her strawberry-spiced cunt.
The panties would have easily slid off, but I didn't want that. Instead, I hooked a tiny bit of their cotton in my teeth and tore my head back and forth like a feral animal with a fresh kill. My wife's heat was consuming me. As she wriggled and yelped in surprise, I felt more of her flood toward my lips. And I was going to tear straight through to her sex.
Once I'd ripped a hole in the cotton, it tore clean and I pushed my face into her nicely trimmed red curls. They were soft and damp against my cheeks, a plush little nest of wet fur that was all mine. I got myself sloppy in her scent, grinding my chin up and down her slippery slit, pushing my nose between her plump lips until she could feel my breath and her musk permeated into my skin.
Above me she made those cat-like rolling growls that drove me crazy. Guttural, demanding little sounds that only a tigress like my strawberry could make seem feminine. Her thighs began to squeeze my ears hard and my head was ringing, full of her woman smell, dripping with her heat.
Her hands worked frantically. Reached down to pull my hair, reaching up to tug at her own, flailing desperately for something to hold to. My own hands had been supporting her by the small of the back, but I let one trail down, narrowing the pressure to only the thickness of my thumb pushed between the cheeks of her ass.
Lurch. That's the only word that comes close to the reaction of her lissome form. She lurched against me, all tense muscle and locked sinews. Squirming once more, her prim little mother instincts fighting for control over my strawberry tigress. I ignored all that and let my thumb invade down the sweat-slick crack of her scrumptious ass until it rested right at that little spot of prohibited, puckered paradise.
Without any other warning, I plundered her clit sucking it into my mouth and tickling the tender flesh beneath it with my tongue. She warred within herself, gyrating back and forth between giving in and fighting off. My thumb rotated around, stimulating and teasing nerve endings long left untouched. My thumb dripped from her nasty sweat and I loved the scream of fire that shot through her when I pushed the tip of my thumb inside.
A mouthful of pussy milk rewarded me, as she came in a shuddering bolt of electricity - her body arched and starkly spread open in her wet surrender. Before she had a chance to recover I curled my thumb and rubbed my face roughly into her cunt - working her from in front and behind. My ears were ringing; her thighs were a vise around my head. Her fingernails dug into my scalp, and her body warred between trying to wrench her oversensitive pussy free, or push forward for more.
But I was a driven man. And my stubborn little strawberry was going to take everything I wanted to give her whether she knew she wanted it or not.
When she came the second time, I realized she had somehow worked herself free of the ceiling fan because when she went limp I had to fight to keep hold of her. As it was, we fell together, me cursing into the briny wetness of her pussy while we tangled into a knot on the floor.
Pulling her down, I found her mouth and kissed her hard, excited by the thought of her tasting herself off my lips. I thought about fucking her until she couldn't walk. I thought about pounding her from behind. About slamming deep into her velvet pussy and then breaking in that firm ass she still drove me crazy with. I thought about pounding and slamming and fucking and ramming until the ringing in my ears was a five-alarm siren.
Then my wife reached her hand down my thigh. With the barest touch, the back of her hand grazed my cock and I came in my pants like a teenage boy.
Such were the perils of being married to a red-headed woman. She began kissing down my neck and wiggling that delightful strawberry of a body down my form, reaching into my pants until her fingers were dripped with my spent jizz. To tease me, she smiled like a wildcat and licked a milky clump off the tip of her index finger. I felt my balls reel.
"You're going to have to give me a minute," I panted as she firmly took my softening cock into her long fingers.
"I don't have to give you anything but the cocksucking of your life, fella," she sassed me back, lowering her face to my crotch, leaving me to merely hope and pray I had it in me.
I tried to explain it was too soon. I wasn't a kid anymore. A grown man just doesn't get off that quick and recover that soon.
But you can never tell her anything when she gets into one of her moods.
Thank God.
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