He stands her in front of the mirror, the only light coming from the master bedroom - the first time he used candles but in the repetition and sexual economy of married life she is grateful even for this. She knows everything he is going to do, every movement, relaxing, waiting, anticipating... from her right he unbuttons a button of her blouse just as her pushes her hair back from her ear and presses her with his lips... down her neck as his hand strokes the back of her neck briefly before circling her left ear, caressing in this unorthodox way of his... another button is undone...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
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