Brass Balls

Keeping with the theme of balls. See my previous post – I mention tits and everyone talks about balls; definitely a man's world.

Two days ago, someone called me balls-y. And several, over the years, said I "had balls." Well, what elicited the "balls-y" comment was nothing really – I just called some big shot at the University where I work by his first name. Yes, I work in a school of higher education, but I am in Georgia, people! We are not talking about Harvard. And we are a second-tier school. This is not Georgia Tech or the University of Georgia, for heaven's sake. So I called this man by his first name – by what other people said to me afterwards, you would think that he pooped marble.

I was going to say that all of these comments don't make sense because I don't have balls. True, I was not born with balls, but I married them. And now I act as if I own them.

Dream sequence. It would go something like this:

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Hubbie: Ooo. I like that.

Leesa moving from a now rock hard penis and gently sucking on one testicle dreamily, then moving to the other, cupping each in her warm mouth, not really thinking about her husband at this moment. Just his penis and his two testicles.

Hubbie: Oooooooooo. [My hubbie is that articulate in the bedroom.]

My tongue dances around his scrotum, as if exploring some new life form. My probing is that intense. I pause to smell his penis, its aroma is so animal and it intensifies my pleasure. I smirk as I think of what I will say next.

Leesa: Hun, who do you love?

Hubbie: You.

I move from his scrotum to the head of his penis, and he groans.

Leesa: And sweetie . . . .

I pause.

Hubbie: Ye – s.

I gently kiss his scrotum lovingly.

Leesa: Do I own your balls?

Hubbie: Ye – s.

I wrap my lips around his penis. Conditioning, you see.

Leesa: I want you to say it. Say I own your balls.

Hubbie just now realizes what he said yes to, but since it is the privacy of our bedroom complies.

Hubbie: Sweets, you own my balls.

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And now I am balls-y.