He stopped breathing. He looked scared.It kept happening. The first time it skipped a night, we thought it was over. The whole next day we celebrated. But it does that. It skips. It doesn't stop. That night was awful, more like the second night again. But he wasn't dead. He was just weird. The fortieth night was like the twentieth again. The fiftieth night was like the hundredth.So nearly every night, a little after midnight, he falls apart. He'll roll into the other room, eventually fall asleep, and when he wakes up, he's a person again. He says it doesn't hurt, but I'm not sure if I believe him.We never called the doctor. What would we say? "Seems I turn into a tentacle monster for six hours every night! It's cured my insomnia, and I don't have cavities anymore!" Worse things would happen if he was believed than if he wasn't. We've tried to figure out what happened on the day he can't remember, but there's nothing. No clue.He's said so many times that he'd understand if I left. I. The sole inspiration I needed though was the delicious prize of Emily Tibbett’s orgasm. With fingers curled into her and my tongue roaming freely and purposefully around her lips, her clitoris and her darker parts I worked; I worked with enthusiasm and total focus. I knew I had achieved my aim when everything about her went tight: her legs around my back, her fingers in my hair and her tunnel around my fingers. I was not sure if she had climaxed when I had ridden her leg downstairs. If she had it had been muted and controlled but this, this was something different. She lifted me bodily as her body rose off the bed, supported only by her head and buttocks. She squeezed me to her with her thighs and hands. She was silent momentarily then emitted a huge groan of pleasure. It was long and drawn out, beginning as a murmur and growing into a growl then a scream, low-pitched and deep in her chest. It seemed to go on forever and all through I continued to lavish attention on her. Her body.
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