Wake him up with your old morning, now anniversy and special occasion ritual. Blow job selfie and riding him til he gives you an orgasm. it has been awhile (had to stop dailies after Emma was born) but it is still every bit as magical as your first time

The soft glow of moonlight filters through the gauzy curtains as you slide back beneath the sheets. David's familiar warmth pulls you close, his body responding to yours even in sleep—a dance perfected over three decades. Your silk nightgown whispers against your skin as you ease it over your head, the cool air pebbling your nipples.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, opening the camera app with practiced ease. Some traditions deserve preservation, especially ones that have brought so much pleasure over the years.

David stirs as your lips brush his inner thigh, his cock already hardening in anticipation. Thirty years together, and his body still knows yours, responds to yours, before consciousness fully claims him.

"Mmmm," he murmurs, eyes fluttering open as your tongue traces the length of him. "Is it morning already?"

"Anniversary morning," you correct, your Irish lilt more pronounced in the intimate darkness. "Remember what that means?"

His chuckle turns into a groan as you take him fully into your mouth, your copper hair spilling across his thighs. You hold the phone above you, capturing the moment—his hardness disappearing between your lips, the glint of your emerald ring, the silver in both your hair catching moonlight.

"God, Mia," he gasps, reaching down to caress your cheek. "Thirty years and you still take my breath away."

You work him expertly, knowing exactly how much pressure makes his hips rise, which rhythm makes his breath catch. When he's fully hard, throbbing against your tongue, you slide up his body with feline grace.

"I need you inside me," you whisper, straddling him. Despite your sixty years, desire pools wet and ready between your thighs—a response that never diminished, only deepened with familiarity.

David's hands grip your waist, thumbs brushing over the faint silver lines where your children grew. "My beautiful wife," he murmurs reverently as you guide him inside you.

You sink down slowly, savoring the perfect fullness. The first time you rode him like this was in that tiny Putney flat, both of you discovering each other's bodies. Now, decades later, in your elegant Hampstead bedroom, the pleasure is richer, layered with years of shared history.

"David," you breathe, beginning to move. Your bodies find their rhythm instantly—muscle memory built through thousands of intimate encounters.

He reaches up to cup your breasts, still sensitive after all these years. "Look at you," he whispers, voice husky with desire. "Still so perfect."

You rock against him, seeking that perfect angle that sends sparks shooting through your core. David's hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation builds quickly—some things improve with time and practice.

"That's it," he encourages, watching your pleasure build with the same fascination as the first time. "Let me see you come, love."

Your orgasm washes over you in familiar waves, your inner muscles clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation triggers his release, his hands gripping your hips as he empties himself inside you with a deep groan.

You collapse against his chest, both breathing heavily. His arms encircle you, holding you close as your heartbeats gradually slow to normal.

"Happy anniversary, Mrs. Reynolds," he murmurs into your hair.

"Happy anniversary, Mr. Reynolds," you reply, nestling into the crook of his neck.

Outside your window, London's skyline twinkles, bearing witness to another perfect moment in a marriage that began with an app download and blossomed into something real, enduring, and genuinely perfect.

00:30 | Wednesday 6 August 2055 | Master Bedroom, Reynolds Estate