When the Sun Goes Down

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The sun had long gone down by the time we went to bed. Our bedroom was cool and dark, and my eyes wanted to shut.

John Brownstone pulled me close.

“Is it awful that I just want to snuggle tonight?” I hate letting him know I’m not in the mood for sex. It makes me feel less submissive, like I’ve let him down.

“It’s fine, babygirl. I’m tired, and it’s late. Snuggling is fine by me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and began humming a song that had been stuck in my head for hours.

“What’s that song?”

“When the Sun Goes Down by a country star I can see in my head but can’t remember his name.”

He was less than impressed (country music isn’t his thing). I started naming out people I could remember, knowing each one was wrong. I’m not sure you can really hear someone’s confusion in the dark, but it was clear to me. He had no clue who or what I was talking about.

“Oh this is going to drive me bonkers! I can see his face and his tour truck, but I can’t think of his name!” I kept humming, and mentally going through the country music of my early 20s.

“Babygirl…it’s time to go to sleep.”

He was right, but that didn’t stop my brain from singing the lines on repeat until I drifted off.

I heard the drawer open before I felt him move. My eyes opened a crack. It was daylight.

Oh good, this won’t be a middle of the night fucking. I like morning fucks.

Right on cue, the song popped back in my head. “When the sun goes down, we’ll be feelin’ all right…”

The first thrust of his cock muted the music in my head. I never realize how much I miss fucking him until he’s inside me again.

He found his rhythm, and my brain got distracted again. “When the sun sinks down…over the water…everything is groovin’ when the sun goes down…”

And like magic, somewhere between a hair grab and his fingers digging into my hip, I remembered.

Kenny Chesney!

I had enough sense not to blurt it out. Mystery solved, my mind relaxed and I sang to myself as I enjoyed a different kind sinking and swaying.

Much later, after he’d groaned out an orgasm and we’d wiped lube and sticky come off our skin, I told him that I’d remembered.

“Do you want to hear the song for yourself? You might actually like it.”

“No, babygirl, I’m good.”

Even post-orgasm he can’t be seduced into listening to country music.

Welcome to Masturbation Monday! I don’t listen to country music now, but my roots are very rural, so it’s part of my history. That damn song stayed in my head for a few days, and even writing this post, it’s back. I have no idea why it showed up or why I obsessed over trying to remember the artist. But there you have it. Okay, for actual smut, you know where to go.