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Sheldon finds rhythms for his hands and tongue with ease. Tongue-tip flicking Penny’s clitoris while his fingers curl inside her, back towards himself. He marvels at how women have so many secret switches. When she makes her needy frustrated more-noise, he moves his tongue flat against her, lapping at her, and his fingers twist inside her as her hips lift off the bed. She scrabbles at his hair and the quilt with her nails and can’t catch her breath between repetitions of his name. He takes delight in giving her no mercy.
And giving.
And giving.
Friday nights are the best for this, because either she will be annoyed at him for beating her at whatever video game they’ve dragged out and he’ll need to placate her, or she’ll be a gloating winner and he’ll need to remind her that there are other things at which he can best her.
The rumbling machines down in the laundry room are not what he would have considered a suitable venue, but after the first time Penny kicks the door shut, drags her shorts down, and pulls him into her as she sits atop one of the dryers, he finds it exceedingly difficult to argue. He learns to keep his balance though his legs want to give way, and to let her wrap her legs tight around his waist so he can push – in – deeper – although sometimes they’re not thoughts he can keep in his head simultaneously, and then it’s lucky that they do have the machines there to lean on.
After all, one ought not leave one’s laundry unattended.
There is a strange eroticism in the way Penny straps on her ammunition belt and hefts her gun. Sheldon can’t decide whether it’s the feral gleam in her eyes as she prepares herself to hunt, or the camouflage uniform. He’s heard that uniforms can enhance sexual encounters. For now it’s enough to watch the fabric pull tight against the curve of her buttocks as she does a couple of stretches, readying herself, and to look at the spot where not all of her golden hair has stayed tucked under her helmet, and to allow himself just a few seconds to think about getting home and showering the paint off with her.
Paintball is every third Sunday. The other Sundays vary between normal costume Sundays, naughty costume Sundays, and Penny-has-a-hangover Sundays.
Sheldon is surprised by just how... interesting the naughty versions of some of the costumes can be, considering their inauthenticity.
Penny is not.
Nobody’s tongue goes anywhere near anyone else’s tongue, mouth, or genitals – especially genitals – after Thai or other spicy food until both parties have brushed their teeth with an approved toothpaste and toothbrush and gargled with an approved mouthwash. Penny is not to brush her teeth with her finger. Sheldon is not to harp on at her about this unless he purchases an approved toothbrush and she fails to use it.
Usually the guys come over on Thai food night anyway, just to hang out, and Penny and Sheldon end up going to bed with only one thing on their mind: sleep. Somehow, spending a large stretch of time with Howard Wolowitz has that effect on one’s libido.
Tuesday nights, Penny’s always at work. Her schedule changes a lot, but she’s persuaded her boss to keep her on Tuesdays, because she’s petrified of what would happen if Sheldon were to look up from his menu and see someone other than her standing there. So by the time she gets home, after a day on her feet, all she really wants to do is sleep.
Tuesday mornings, after a full night’s sleep to refresh them from Monday night, are usually shower sex mornings, but they can be sleepy morning sex mornings where they mess up the bedclothes and Penny tries not to open her mouth for fear of morning breath, and Sheldon kisses her anyway.
Penny doesn’t have a hope in hell of getting Sheldon’s attention on Wednesdays, not between new comics and Halo. She usually just sidles off at about ten, showers, changes into one of his bathrobes and not much else, and yells goodnight down the hall to the four of them. Then she goes to their bedroom and opens her toy drawer and gets comfortable with her egg or bullet or whatever catches her fancy.
The first time she did it, he didn’t come to bed until after she was done and had gone to sleep. He figured it out anyway and woke her up, plaintively worried that he wasn’t satisfying her. That took five hours of discussion and a three-page addendum to the relationship agreement to resolve.
These days, sometimes he gets up off the couch as soon as she makes a move for the bathroom. Sometimes he’ll wait a little longer, though, just so that he can come in and stand there, leaning against the closed door, watching her pleasure herself.
There have been a couple of times where she’s been taking her turn at Halo and he’s been the one to get up, pleading exhaustion. Then she’s walked into the bedroom and he’s been waiting for her, stretched out pale against the dark quilt, one hand fisted around his cock, the other hand teasing his nipples or down between his legs or just clawing into the quilt, and it’s all she can do to keep herself from making a flying leap onto the bed from the doorway.
The third Thursday of every month is still Anything Can Happen Thursday.
Except now some of the others are as well.
And so are some days that aren’t Thursdays.