Every Wife Should Sleep this Way

Living in the Snowbelt of Western New York has taught us some creative ways to keep warm.  Our house is old and drafty, and as green Christians we try to keep the thermostat low in order to be less wasteful.  So the bedroom is usually quite chilly, and even with the eiderdown comforters I still get cold.  He sometimes laughs at my racy ankle-length flannel nightgowns, and chuckles over the hand-knit woolen booties I wear to bed, but I don’t recall my sizzling hot winter lingerie has ever stopped him from getting what he wants.

What I want is warmth.

My husband has always felt warmer than me, weird metabolism or something, and he sleeps naked.  Even in winter he’ll come to bed with only a T-shirt on, nothing below the buttocks, says he always wants his body available to me if I need him in the night.  How generous!

What I need is warmth.

One night a number of years ago, after our bedtime prayer as I snuggled into his shoulder, I commented to him how cold my hands felt.  No problem, he said, just put one hand under my butt and the other in front between my legs.  I replied it’s a bad time of the month and I’m really not in the mood for sex, and besides my hands are so cold they’ll freeze your poor nuts off.

Just do it, he answered, so I did as he said.  He laid his left arm out across the pillow and drew me close to his side, my flannel-clad breasts straddling his chest and our thighs draped over each other.  Perfect fit.  With my right arm and hand nestled comfortably in the soft curve above his ass and my head and neck resting on his chest like a living breathing pillow, I moved my left hand down to his groin.  I slid it past his raging hot erection (big surprise) and found the nice warm place under his scrotum between his sleepy thighs.  Aahh, I said to myself.

Aahh, he cried aloud.  Oh Dear, said I, Too cold for you?  No Baby, that’s just right, your cool hands feel absolutely wonderful.  Just hold real still down there.

I still wasn’t sure whether to believe him, I think this man would say absolutely anything to get me to put my hands anywhere near him, and I was way too tired and hormonal to want to risk getting my bones jumped that night, but I the obedient wife kept my hands right where they were.

As expected, his poor little balls shrank back up into his body (I continue to be fascinated by this movement, even after being married so long) and the pouch’s skin got all hard and wrinkly.  I could sense his stiff manhood slowly start to shrink, twisting a little bit back and forth against my motionless wrist.  When it finally was flaccid it rested against my thumb, and I felt the sticky bead of moist pre-come on my skin.  It was a pretty big glob of husband-juice, actually, and after a few minutes I noticed it starting to dry, cementing his soft penis to the back of my thumb.

During those few minutes my hands warmed up, sure enough, I could feel a little furnace emiting heat from his loins into my palm and fingers, and his dickie stayed quite still.  His balls, however, had taken on a life of their own.  Cupped loosely in the curve of my fingers they slowly descended into his sac.  One by one they came, quivering, stepping tentatively down into their little private chamber, slowly twisting, bobbing to a very slow rhythm.

The puckered skin of his warm scrotum relaxed and smoothed out under my touch, giving my husband’s beautiful testicles freedom to move about and grow.  And grow.  How can the balls get so huge while the penis stays so small?  Actually, his cock was no longer small now that my hands were warmed up, sort of half-erect and starting to wobble to and fro like a sleepy toddler’s reluctant head.  And the boys were glowing, hot coals of living manhood radiating their life into my calm drowsy fingers.

Presently I became aware of his deep measured breathing and the complete relaxation of his arm around me, and I knew he was fast asleep, my trusting faithful God-fearing husband whose loving testicles were cupped in my hand.  My warm hand.  Okay, so the guy was right, I thought to myself, I married a smart one, and drifted contentedly off to sleep.

So now this scrotum-clutch has become part of our nightly ritual, no matter what the season, as certain as a goodnight kiss and saying I Love You: I always snuggle in and warm my hands in his intimate place, without fail.  No matter what stress the day has brought, or how hurtful our earlier quarrel, or if the kids are sleeping on our floor.

Sometimes I fall asleep before he does, and he says that my fingers will twitch involuntarily as I drift off, stroking him unawares, causing him to get a delightful spontaneous stiffy.  Other times we’ll drift apart while still awake to fall asleep on our sides, and once in awhile my caresses will lead to lovemaking (in which case I’ll resume the position afterward).

On the other hand, often the hand-warming happens right after some great sex, with the afterglow of several deep shuddering orgasms flowing through the innards of my body–and the wet sticky evidence of my husband’s own volcanic climax dripping all over the outside.  And on my flannel nightie.  And on his groin and mixed in his hairs and on his bare belly.  And of course all over my left hand.  I snuggle in to his chest, my breasts caressing his side and his sweet testicles doing their little good-night dance against my motionless fingertips.

Tonight was one of these nights.  Mmmm…

Sweetheart? he says.  Yes, dear.

My toe is cold…