Made the List! Still Not Getting Sex!

First off: If you're just arriving here from Molly's blog, welcome! You're doomed! There is no way I can live up to the expectations you now have of me! I'm really, really sorry about that! But we can try an experiment. You lower your expectations, and I'll try to satisfy you as best I can. Okay?
There is a joke about sex somewhere in there, but I'm not going to make it.
I HAVE MORE CLASS THAN THAT.
(All my longtime readers--SHUT UP.)

If you don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, I'm talking about this: Molly (of Molly's Daily Kiss fame) made a list of her top twenty bloggers, and I'm on it. Booyah, baby. I've arrived.
You know what it's time for, right?

(It's always time for this.)

NO. It's time for that funny story I promised you!
Saturday night, ten o'clock. Oldest is out for the evening, middle child is downstairs watching a movie, and youngest has been asleep for a while. I'm in my pajamas, camped out in front of the TV. Husband is ready for some fun.
"Let's go upstairs," he says.
"What's on the agenda?" Sometimes we play it by ear, but sometimes Husband has a formation of a plan in his head, and by the look on his face, I could tell he had something in mind.
"I want to fist you," he says, leading the way.
I smile. I always like getting fisted. There's nothing like an orgasm you get from a guy's fist in your cunt. (Men will just have to take my word for it on this one. But ladies...if you've never been fisted...try it.)

We get undressed, I lie down on the bed, we get things set up...lube, towel spread out under me, more lube...and he gets started. It doesn't take him that long to get his hand up there...or maybe it just didn't feel that long to me, cause I was enjoying the process so much. Either way, by the time he got his whole hand in there, I was flying.
And then his cell phone rings.
The ring tone tells us it's Oldest Son, who, as you remember, is out for the night. Husband's cell phone is sitting on the drawer chest, right next to the bed. But it may as well have been six yards away--he couldn't reach it, not with his hand stuck up my cunt. He reached for it, of course. He had to try, much to my chagrin--and pain.
"Why is he calling?" Husband asks me, worried.
"How would I know?" I reply, just as scared. "Maybe it's nothing."
The phone goes dead. For a moment, Husband doesn't move; he's tense, waiting. But after a while, he resumes his careful pulling and stroking.
Just as I'm sinking back into heavenly bliss, the land-line rings.
It abruptly stops, after only two rings.
"He got it," Husband says, referring to Child #2. This time, I'm tensing up, too, which is a very bad thing to do when you've got a fist lodged up your cunt.
And then, to our horror, we hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," I hiss.

We know Child #2 will knock. We know he will not try to come in without permission. But we also know, if he is coming up to deliver a message from Oldest Child, our parental presence is required. Oldest Child would not call for nothing.

But to our surprise, Child #2 does not knock. We wait, listening, wondering what the hell is going on...and then we both realize: he is on the other side of the door, listening to us.

Husband begins to pull his hand out of my cunt.
Here's the thing about fisting: it's a slow process. You've got to devote time to getting the hand up in there; you've also got to take your time getting it out. You can't just go wrenching and yanking; you've got to be slow. Smooth. Gradual.
Husband was pulling his hand out like he was extracting a rotted tooth, and in my distress, my cunt muscles were contracting down on him with a vise-like grip.
"Ow ow ow ow ow." I try to whisper, but the words spill out in a gush. Husband doesn't stop, or even slow down; he continues to draw his hand out of my body like it's hurting him more than me.
As if.
Finally, his hand is out, and he rushes to the bathroom to wash. I am not so fast; I manage to get up from the bed, but I'm hobbling, bow-legged, and wincing with each step.
By the time I get to the bathroom, Husband is already out, and getting decent enough to open the door. I hear him turn the knob.
"Yes? What is it?"
There is a pause. I can tell Child #2 is assessing the situation. Then he says, very carefully: "He wants you to know he has a ride home."
There is another uncomfortable pause. "Tell him thank you very much for calling," Husband finally replies. "It was very considerate of him."
As I hear Child #2's footsteps retreating back down the stairs, Husband comes back into the bathroom.
"We can't just pick up where we left off, can we...?"
"No," I reply, grimacing. "We can't."

I have said it before, and I will say it again: Kids are awesome to have, but they kill your kink.