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I woke up this morning, with a piss-hard-on.  This is NOT
unusual for me, as I find it harder to hold my bladder all night
long as I get older, and still ignore the call of nature in the
morning.
I turned over, and cuddled up to my wife, Marsha.  At 32
years old, she is no longer the teenager’s wet-dream she was when
I first married her, but she still has a body to put most models
to shame.  Even more exciting, the smooth sexy feel of her skin,
and the heady aroma of her silky long brown hair were always
enough to give me ideas, even when I don’t already have a hard-
on.
“Are you at that ‘thing’ again?” giggled Marsha, squirming
back at me, trying to trap my swollen prick between her legs,
where it would do both of us more good.  Marsha may not be the
incredibly oversexed barely-pubescent little girl who had trapped
a 16-year-old into marriage, with her insatiable appetite for sex
that had swamped even me; but she still liked to fuck almost as
much as I do.  Even two children, and almost nineteen years of
constant sex in marriage had only dampened her sex-drive down to
minor nymphomania.  Of course, the thing that STILL amazed me
constantly, was that this incredible creature’s sex-drive all
centered on ME.  I still can’t believe I’m so lucky, and I
constantly strive to let her know it.
Two minutes later, we were fucking like bunnies.  After two
times the previous night, you might think we would slow down, but
why should we?  Even approaching menopause hasn’t slowed my wife
down, and I don’t expect to slow down myself, until I’m at least
ninety years old.  Probably not even then.
There’s one trouble with a piss-hard on though.  It actually
interferes with the real thing.  I couldn’t get off.  Marsha was
just finishing her third orgasm, when I finally had to pull out
in disgust.  The pressure from my bladder was tickling my
prostate, and interfering with my concentration.  Yes,
concentration.  After getting off twice the night before, and not
being particularly sexually-neglected anyway, it took some effort
on my part to work up to an orgasm.  Usually, I could do this by
imagining I was fucking some cute young teenager, or even pre-
teen, like my wife had been when we first met.  Marsha doesn’t
mind, sometimes even working such fantasies along with me.  Only
as I said, this time it didn’t work.
My prick softened and slipped out of my wife with a soft
“slurp.”  Damn, I was annoyed!
Telling my wife to, “Hold that pose,” I dashed into the
bathroom; trying to get there before the bladder-pressure made me
wet the floor.  I heard Marsha giggle, as she “held that pose.”
Damn, again!  For what must have been the fortieth time, I
resolved to finish the rough-in place for a second bathroom in
the basement.  The bathroom was already occupied by my 16-year-
old daughter taking a shit, and I barged right in on her, as the
bathroom door had come loose several years ago, and I had never
bothered to replace it.

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