My Wife's Super Power

Updated: Sep 15, 2021

If you saw her in action, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming my wife’s super power was oral sex. As her soft lips slide along the shaft of my penis, gentle yet firm, glistening with her copiously applied saliva, she smiles up at me using only her eyes and her true power reveals itself.


You see, my wife loves me more than words could possibly capture- more than any story could convey. She loves me as if she planned to do it for several eternities and never expected it to get old. She knows me better than anyone ever has. She has seen me at my best and my worst. She has walked through the valley of the shadow of death beside me, squeezing my hand to give me courage. She is my constant, humbling reminder that somehow, some way, I am worthy of a kind of love that seems too big for this world.


Her right hand gently cups my scrotum, her left gripping my upper thigh, as she extends her tongue to make deepening her strokes a little easier. Despite the challenging nature of the act, she has a way of putting me at ease about my worry that she is performing a miserable chore, communicating in subtle moans, energetic bursts, and the sincerest of smiles when she periodically comes up for bigger breaths, that she manages to enjoy these gifts she gives me so often.


Her real super power is the intuition with which she has so expertly guided me through feelings of worthlessness and shame. Enthusiastic blow jobs are masterfully well placed brush strokes in the masterpiece of her love for me, painted over the mural of self-loathing and insecurity I brought in to our relationship.


Seamlessly, her thumb and forefinger slip up and around the base of my shaft, gently gliding up to just below the ridge of my foreskin, which she begins to tug up and down with the rhythm of her mouth.


For so many years, sexual sensations and orgasm were inextricably linked in my mind to soul crushing guilt and anxiety. In my moments of desperate, quiet isolation I felt that my frequently intense desire to feel the pleasure of orgasm and the calm and mental clarity of its afterglow were curses, and my inability to successfully abstain had been proof that I was broken beyond repair.


Her mouth comes off of me for a moment and I tenderly brush a few strands of hair behind both of her ears. “I love you so much,” I whisper, feeling her adjust her arm resting on my leg and continue to sensually stroke my erection.


“Aw, I love you too,” she replies, just before planting an affectionate kiss on the underside of my penis. “I love this cock too,” she said, with a cheeky wink, just before allowing a considerable amount of spit to drip from her mouth on to its tip, pulling my foreskin all the way up to distribute it more evenly.


She only uses words like that during sex, which creates the most exquisite sort of tension in my mind. I watch her effortlessly move about in public, interacting with others in such wholesome, kind ways that most would likely be surprised she even knows most of the words she so deftly employs in private to enhance our sex.


(As I recount her confident expression of love for my genitals, a sob escapes me, as her affection contrasts so vividly with my own former hatred of them. Once upon a time, I was convinced it was that same penis that would render me forever unworthy of this sort of unflinching, generous love. Several tears follow as a vivid memory enters the forefront of my mind, uninvited but not unwelcome: a tear soaked hug from this amazing woman, in our therapist’s office, after I shared with her how close I came to self-castration in a shame fueled depressive episode in high school.)


She almost certainly doesn’t quite grasp how profound an impact her treatment of my body and erotic mind has had on my well-being. She tells me she loves me from the hair on my head to the tips of my toes and her treatment of my sexual parts reminds me that my whole self is worthy of acceptance and care.


She has since continued to bob methodically up and down, moving her hand in beautiful sync with her lips, causing my whole body to buzz with pleasure, my orgasm steadily building with each loving caress.


My eyes close instinctively and I reach out to grasp the corner of the dinner table at which I sat. My breathing deepens and quickens as I listen to the intensely erotic sounds of her mouth and hands energetically pleasuring me, feeling simultaneously on the edge of an explosion of pure bliss and emotionally relaxed, knowing that there is no rush- that she sincerely enjoys the process of bringing me to orgasm and relishes the physical exertion it entails.


My reminder of this fact comes in the form of a downward lunge that presses my full length in to her mouth, which results in an escape of air from her mouth that indicates she is on the verge of gagging, but not in a panicked, desperate way; rather, her intensity clearly conveys an excitement that serves to heighten the erotic tension, moving my climax forward by several minutes. When she surfaces after several thrusts, she is out of breath but smiling, continuing her steady stroking.


It is then that she utters the words that will send me hurtling toward release- “Cum on my face?”


It is at this point that I lose control of the depth and quickness of my breathing entirely. Subtly shaking, gripping the table and seat of my chair, I pant through a quick nod and stand straight up.


Positioning the head of my penis just in front of her flirtatiously smirking face, she increases the speed of her strokes, knowing very well I will not take much longer. With perfect confidence she slides her left hand over my hip to grab a handful of butt cheek, squeezing and pulling me in as I fight the impulse to close my eyes while crossing the threshold of orgasmic inevitability.


The erotic charge of watching the first three waves of semen splash across her cheek, her nose, and on to her forehead can’t be overstated. Her eyes were shut tight and yet there was a softness in her facial expression that unmistakably communicated positive anticipation. She delighted in the sudden explosion, the sloppy warmth, and the unpredictable trajectory of the symbol of my climax. It wasn’t dirty or gross. I wasn’t dirty or gross either.


I was, however, shaking uncontrollably by now and becoming light headed. I all but truly collapsed back on to the chair from which I stood moments before and took several deep, intentional breaths, trying to gather my wits.


Her face still wears a grin that is rapidly transforming in to a mouth on the verge of audible laughter, her temporary blindness becoming more comical to her with each passing moment. As she reclines back, resting her butt on her heels, I pull from under her knees the bath towel she had brought with her in to the kitchen. Her smile only widened as she feels me wipe away my semen from her face, her chin up, an unmistakable reflection of pride in her work.


I muster all the strength my exhausted body has left and stand. After helping her to her feet, I pull her to me and wrap my arms around her.


“You’re amazing,” I sigh breathlessly in her ear, “I swear, I can barely stand up.”


“Think that will make it in to the lesson tomorrow?” she teases, eyeing the Sunday school manual on the table, reminding her of what inspired the giving of this impromptu gift.


“Could you imagine THAT sort of story in a Law of Chastity lesson??” I chuckled.

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