"Well, can't you at least suck my dick?!” my wonderful husband shouted at me in our sleek, muted color, kitchen, which I designed and decorated myself. Proudly, my work has been on every major interior design network, and featured in your favorite décor magazines, while their celebrity hosts get the credit, and the green light, on their cheap-to-manufacture signature lines that land-and-launch out of Tarjét, or some store like that.

So, buyer beware! The sole focus of those products is to part you and your money quicker than Moses did the sea. Allegedly. And trust me, I've seen behind the merchandise curtain. The so-called Home & Heart wooden birdhouse is put together no better than the shoddy ones Jesus abandoned at random, whenever Mary Magdalene showed up to lick him from his taint to the tip of his circumcised cock and make him cry out, "Jesus Christ!" Allegedly.

Please forgive my dark humor. I grew up very religious, and surprised myself when I went the spiritual way about a decade ago. So, at times, I like to humor myself over the thing I once gave so much of my life to.

But yes. Ghost Interior Designers. It's a thing, and I do my job better than most. And it puzzles my colleagues that a curvaceously mature woman as milfy as I, doesn't wish to be in front of audiences on daytime TV platforms, on their overly lit sets that are excessively decorated in (((vibrant colors))). You know the palette. No, thanks.

I don't physically need to be seen. My work does. And I don't need the TV credit. I need the money. I've always been content with being an introverted artistic geek who is great with my hands and happens to be a buxom bombshell.

As for Perry, he's incredibly gifted with his big man hands that for some reason, could never play piano or grip a basketball properly. And yet, whenever savoring both of my primed holes from behind, he's never had a problem sensually palming and massaging my thick natural-and-proud ass that ironically, is about the same size as two basketballs side by side.

My entire life, I couldn't hide it, no matter how loose the garb. And funny enough, I once heard the song lyric, "Ass so fat, you can see it from the front." And of course, my healthy cheeks are extremely plush, and when fucked from behind, they ripple like the lake whenever Perry and I ditch work to spend an afternoon in seclusion, swimming naked, eating fruit, then each other, with nasty sucking and sweaty fucking.

I'm simple for the most part, and I have but few requirements of a man, assuming his foundation is firm. A man must respect me. Fully. He must make me cum. And he must have a great sense of humor.

Fortunately, I married a self-proclaimed square who bought into the being well-rounded racket during his youthful years in academia and lived his entire life checking the right boxes. And God knows, he checks mine. Every time.

Thus, he humored me the first time he referred to his middle and ring fingers as his rod and staff. To which I confess, they often bring me a great deal of comfort whenever they play atop my pearly gate, shimmying down, and entering what I refer to as my holey cathedral. Which is currently closed to the public, but always open for Perry to drop down to his knees, worship at my altar, and act out sinful desires that would make the priest pull out whatever he's packing and spray all over the booth after my steamy confession.

Because yes, the way Perry's elongated fingers reach deep inside and caress the ribbed ceiling of my erect pussy and flick back and forth over my Gspot in a “come here”- motion, it curls me into the fetal position, and convulses my curvy body while I cum myself into a momentary paralysis.

It always brings me to tears. Happy tears. And to be frank, or francesca (gender equality matters), I'm the cliché work-a-holic who has all of the power at the job but wishes to let go and be rendered sexually powerless in the bedroom, or in whatever place Perry's urges get the best of him, and he is forced to tear me apart right there and then. Consequences and voyeurs be damned. God, I love that man.

Which is why I should be fair, and say that he really wasn't shouting per se, when he requested that my warm wet mouth take him in until my nose touched his toned groin and inhaled the intoxicating scent of pheromones trapped inside his soft pubes.

Perry's request was more like a desperate plea with mild bass in his voice, as not to appear like a complete bitch as he nearly begged. His words later that evening. Not mine. But his primary issue during our heated discussion that carried over since the morning, was that it had been nearly three weeks since we last fucked. Or did anything for that matter.

And shit, he was right! I was so oblivious. But I promise, this wasn't some juvenile game where I was withholding my delicious kitty cat from the tail-wagging, tongue-hanging, drooling dog, whose favorite words are, “I wanna bone!” Not at all. I've just been busy constructing something that will revolutionize the way humans fuck, and the unexplored ways we can be fucked. In short, Art, Sex, & Tech. But more on that later!

It's 6:09 a.m., I've got a busy day ahead, and a phenomenal husband, who has no idea that I've already snug fitted his cock ring, and that he's about to be awoken to the sensation of his flaccid fat cock being kissed, licked, sucked on, deepthroated, and aimlessly spurting cum while I simultaneously slurp his draining sack between my big juicy lips.

And naturally, I'll enjoy having my pussy eaten before Pilates.

SINcerely,
Mrs. Perry