Your Kiss is on my List

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Your Kiss is on my List


Remember how I said I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey and that, while I didn’t think that it was on the road to winning any major prizes in literature, I was still going to keep reading it and the remaining books in the trilogy because, well, there were parts that I (ahem) enjoyed?

Yeah.  I’m still reading the series.  And (ahem) enjoying certain parts of it.  Because these parts are (ahem) inspiring.  Especially to a couple who’s dealing with a baby who won’t sleep and a sex situation so dire that we have to pay our kids to “watch” said sleepless and screamy baby so that we can steal off to the guest room for a quickie.


In any case, last night, after an afternoon where Tim had watched the kids so that I could work and sip coffee and read and restore some of the sanity that has been slipping away over the past few months, I decided to thank him with a small romantic gesture.  Something that was sexy and suggestive and (I hoped) a promise of things to come.

Something that was remotely (though in no way directlyinspired by a recent ice cream scene I had read in my Fifty Shades book.

My idea was to take a piece of the dark chocolate bar that he had given me on Valentine’s Day, place half of it in my mouth, and then bite it off in the middle and give him the other half in a kiss.  Kind of like Lady and the Tramp, but with chocolate instead of spaghetti.

I mean, the kids were awake and only the next room over, so I couldn’t get much kinkier than that.  But at least it was something.

And I thought that I had made my intentions clear to Tim before I placed the chocolate in my mouth.  I thought that Tim knew that all he had to do was kiss me, and then he’d earn a luscious dark chocolate square.  It was a tiny bit of sweet and sexy: a parents-of-three-kids sized bit of sweet and sexy, in fact.

But when I went in for what I thought was my sexy, chocolatey move, I realized that I had thought wrong.

Though Tim pulled away from our kiss with a look of sweet satisfaction, that look only lasted for a moment once he heard me shout:


Dammit.  That man bit me, and he bit me hard.  Like, searing pain up to my eyeballs hard.

Tim’s satisfaction turned to horror, my pain turned to throbbing pain, and the boys’ quiet play in the living room turned to sounds of, “Ummmm!  Ummmm!  Mommy said god dammon!  Mommy said god dammon!

(They think that “god dammon” is some sort of creature whose name is a bad word.  Tim and I have yet to correct them.)

It was madness.  Sheer madness.

It took me about thirty seconds, but I soon culled up enough courage to remove my hand from my face and examine my injury in the mirror.  Much to my pleasant surprise, I discovered that Tim’s vampiric kiss hadn’t broken the surface of my lip.  It left me with a blood blister smack dab in the center of my bottom lip, to be clear, but at least we didn’t have to deal with the cascade of blood that mouth wounds tend to leave.

Yes.  At least there wasn’t a waterfall of blood.  A statement that, incidentally, isn’t the sort of caveat that you want to make after describing your latest sexy story.

And though this story is short, and though it is only partially sweet, I think that its message is clear: even the least kinky kink you can imagine has its dangers.  Dangers that happen so fast that you don’t even have time for a safe word.

Especially when it comes to sleep-deprived amateurs like Tim and me.

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