The biting chill of the early morning air, typical of late autumn, immediately made the warmth of my bed irresistible. I slid back under the heavy duvet, having just completed the 2 AM pumping session—a non-negotiable ritual of motherhood that left me feeling wrung out, and functionally done for the night. I nestled the pillows into a comfortable mound around my neck, savoring the immediate return to deep, cozy relaxation.
It was in this peaceful, almost post-conscious state that I felt the familiar, feather-light pressure.
My husband, a deep sleeper if ever there was one, was surprisingly alert. His large hand slid tentatively, then with more assured possession, over the soft swell of my right hip and finally settled firmly on my right ass cheek. He began to rub, a slow, deliberate circular motion that was less a question and more a statement of intent.
I recognized the pattern immediately. I knew how this would be. Once he started, he rarely, if ever, gave up until I offered some form of surrender. His persistence was an admirable quality in most things, but at 2:15 AM, when sleep was a precious commodity, it was a formidable challenge.
I sighed, a sound that was perhaps 60% exhaustion and 40% reluctant anticipation. “Okay,” I murmured, my voice muffled by the pillows. I didn't open my eyes. “But I am absolutely not moving. I have zero energy. So, you are going to have to do all the work if you want some.”
The hand stopped its rubbing, and I could practically feel his grin in the darkness beside me. “Deal accepted, my love,” he whispered, his voice deep and warm, devoid of any sleepiness.
He carefully pulled the blankets back just far enough to expose my lower half to the cool air, which elicited a momentary shiver. I reached over, grabbing the two pillows from his side of the bed. I wadded them up, stacking them one on top of the other, and shoved them beneath my hips. This simple action, an act of pragmatic surrender, instantly elevated my ass into the air, presenting him with easy access and signaling my commitment to the terms of the agreement.
He wasted no time. His quick response confirmed what his initial touch had implied: his cock was already hard, a strong, thick rod against my lower back. That was good, I thought. I was firmly resolved; there would be no energy expended on foreplay tonight, which meant no bending or cock sucking whatsoever. Tonight was strictly for direct engagement, a simple, primal release.
He shifted, reaching into his nightstand drawer. There was the subtle clink of the metal container as he retrieved the lubricant. A moment later, a cold glob of it slapped between my cheeks, the sudden chill making me involuntarily gasp and tense my muscles.
“Relax, baby,” he whispered, spreading the thick gel with a gentle, insistent finger, ensuring the narrow pathway was thoroughly lubed and prepared.
The head of his large cock, warm and hard, began to navigate the slippery channel. It knocked firmly yet gently against my back door. There was a pause, a moment of mutual patience, before he began to apply slow, steady pressure. I felt the initial, tight stretching—a familiar, uncomfortable resistance that quickly yielded to an intense, heavy borderline pain.
He applied just enough pressure until I began to open, taking him in. I focused on my breathing, letting my body accept the intrusion rather than fight it. A minute later, his entire body was pressed up against my back, his chest a warm anchor against my shoulders, and the head of his cock was finally deep inside of me.
He started off with a nice, unhurried rhythm, pushing and withdrawing, his movements careful and deep. For someone who had declared she was absolutely not in the mood for this originally, I quickly realized I certainly didn't mind what was happening. The feeling of my asshole being completely filled, of having my body used as a release point after a physically exhausting night, was a potent form of gratification. It was simple, animalistic, and required zero emotional investment—exactly what I needed.
A small moan escaped me, quickly stifled by the plush pillow beneath my face. To deepen the sensation and improve the angle, I instinctively arched my ass up just a little higher, grinding my hips slightly into the supporting pillows. This small adjustment was an invitation, a silent command for him to fuck away.
A noticeable amount of time passed. The rhythmic thump, thump of his hips against my rear began to feel hypnotic. My initial exhaustion was being slowly replaced by a building warmth, an unexpected spike of adrenaline. He must have sensed the shift in my stillness, because without warning, he picked up his pace.
The change was immediate and electrifying. His strokes became shallower, faster, and much harder. Just what I didn't know I needed! The pillows beneath me were no longer mere support; they were anchors against the violent, pleasurable motion.
My breathing grew noticeably more labored, quick, shallow gasps escaping between my teeth. Low, guttural moans poured from my mouth as he began to ram his cock into my shitbox over and over again with punishing, glorious speed.
Oh fuck, I thought, the rational thought process giving way to pure lust of it all. That familiar, insistent, white-hot feeling began to build inside of me, radiating out from the center of my being.
“More, more,” I whimpered, the sound ragged and desperate, my earlier quiet resolution completely forgotten.
My abs began to tighten painfully, a delicious contraction of muscle that intensified the pressure inside. My legs, though pinned down, started to shake uncontrollably with nascent power. “Harder!” I commanded, a growl tearing from my throat. “Harder!”
It was then that the orgasm rocked my body hard. It wasn't a gentle wave; it was a violent, full-body tremor. Every muscle simultaneously tightened, seizing and shaking me to my core. I cried out, a loud, startled sound that was swallowed by the bedroom silence once it passed.
“Fuck yeah!” he gasped into the air above my back, his own breathing ragged and strained, as he continued to plow into my asshole. The pace, incredibly, picked up even more, harder, faster yet. He pushed himself to the absolute limit, holding nothing back, until he issued one final, powerful thrust into me, pausing as he started to unload his nut juice deep into my rectum.
I could feel the volume of it—a warm, substantial pulse of fluid—confirming he had just dumped a huge load inside of me.
He held himself there, deep inside, his chest heaving against my back, his weight heavy and satisfying. After a minute, with his cock still up my ass, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my shoulder, his lips warm and slightly damp. “That was fucking amazing,” he confessed, his voice thick with spent energy.
I turned my head slightly to look at him. My whole body was still humming from the release, my mind pleasantly blank. “I didn’t hate it either,” I replied, allowing a small, tired smile to grace my lips.
Finally, he pulled out of my asshole, the sound wet and loud in the quiet room. He got up immediately, moving to the attached bathroom. I heard the tap running, and he returned a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth—a gentlemanly gesture I always appreciated. He carefully and thoroughly cleaned me up, a final, tender act of service.
Once he was finished, I pulled his wadded-up pillows out from under me and threw them back to his side of the bed. They landed with a soft thud.
He slid back under the covers, nestling close to me. “You know,” he remarked casually, a hint of mischief in his voice, “you left a pretty big wet spot on one of my pillows.”
I repositioned myself, pulling the duvet firmly up to my chin. “Good,” I told him, meeting his eyes in the dark. “That’s exactly where I want you to lay your head!”
I felt his soft chuckle vibrate against my back as he settled in. The covers were not up for long before the profound exhaustion of motherhood, compounded by the physical rush of the encounter, pulled me quickly and completely under. I was fast asleep, spent and content.
