The anticipation was killing me. It had been 24 days since we had made love – I knew he was healing and I was doing my best to take care of my own needs, but his body, his attention, and his cock were drugs I needed. No orgasm I could produce on my own compared to the earth-shattering, mind-bending pleasure he helped me to achieve.
We had talked for about a year about him getting a vasectomy. With the state of laws in the US, the uncertainty of many other factors, and all options for my own sterilization being much more invasive, he agreed this would be the best option for us both in the long run. We had sex probably four times in the week leading up to the procedure which definitely helped us through the initial healing process. Once he began experimenting with making himself cum again, I knew I could give him something fun to look at as we built back to our own encounters together. Even with it being the dead of winter, I committed to wearing something skimpy in the evenings every day. I loved watching his eyes lingering on me, his hand would instinctively reach for my chest when I got close enough, twisting my nipples, hard from the cold, between his longing fingers.