Being naked, alone in the semidarkness, a gentle breeze blowing in their second floor window, was a luxury all its own. And her husband, quiet and strong, stood in the doorway, wearing a silk robe he’d not dare wearing any other time, as it would never withstand the loving grabs and pulls of their growing, active children. Her shoulder length blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, her smallish breasts rose and fell with her breath, the sweetest breath in the world, he thought, as he watched her silently touch herself. She ran her newly manicured hands (an affectation, like the silk robe, she only indulged when the kids were off at camp) over her slim nude body, feeling her hips flare away from her still-lithe waist. She brought her hands back up over her breasts, grazing her palms over the rosy nipples so softly, but enough to cause her to gasp sweetly. She heard her husband at the doorway, gazing upon her, taking in sharp breaths as she continued her sensual journey. She let her. He traced it gently with his fingers which made me writhe against him. Feeling his arousal against my buttox, I wanted to redeem myself. I wanted to worship him and give him pleasure. But I thought, I knew better, he wanted my submission more than he wanted my attention. He slipped his finger into my wetness and traced the heart with my own nectar, he laid me back on the bed, and straddled my knees. He leaned down over my face. He looked at me, his eyes dark and piercing, with one index finger held in front of me, he said, "Mine." That word, again, so full of unspoken meaning, then, he slid the finger down over my bottom lip, across my cheek, down my chin across my one breast stopping to pinch one nipple then dragged the finger slowly across to the other nipple, pinching that one harder than the other. I cried out and he let go, dragging the one finger lower to my belly, across my hips then sitting back on my thighs he traced the heart at my loins again. I purred and writhed wanting.
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