Earlier in the day, I text the following: You should remember the word "rhubarb" for later.
The odds of you understanding this, connecting it with later, or even acknowledging it are very low.
*****
We don't have a schedule, exactly, but there are some days where even your expectation of sex are high (read: extant). This night meets all of those conditions: We've actually had a nice evening out, there are no children about, and there are no other biological impediments. You confirm your desire by slipping in the bed next to me, naked. Even more expressive than usual, you come to me, lying on your side, mashing your tits against my shoulder, and look down at me. "So?" You inquire.
"So," I say, as I reach up and kiss you, closed lipped, and look in your hazel eyes with more than my usual level of heat. I roll on my side to face you better and kiss around your cheeks and your eyes. Even though you actually want to fool around, you're frustrated by my additional expressions. I don't care. I make my way back to your mouth at my own pace and lick at your lips until you concede to open your mouth just a little. This is enough for me, for now, and I pull back to look at you.
It's true that you're 35 and not 25; our circumstances have allowed your curves to expand; our endeavors have led to the cloying lips and hands of offspring stretching your nipples the way their sustenance stretched my favorite bags of fun. I exhale gently. You still don't understand how all of this makes you sexier in my eyes. I kiss you again, as your hand drifts down to my already-hard cock; and I think that after all these years, years which normally (if I do say so myself) introduce difficulties in most men, you might finally appreciate that you NEVER have to work for cock. It's always there. Ready. For you, and no other.
I kiss down your neck, knowing that it will cause your too-ticklish sensitivity to squirm your body, but even your frustration at this is less than normal, or you're holding it in. Regardless, you want me. I pull my head back a bit and play with your globes, like a cat might bat at a toy on a string, watching them bounce unevenly, but perfectly. Your hand floats around the head of my dick, stroking down the top gently and then back around, before resting on (and a little under) my balls. There's no question that you've learned exactly how to stroke me down there, gently curling your fingers, with their nails present but not long, cut but not filed, grazing the shaved-smooth skin softly.
I look up at you again and smile, kiss you briefly on your lips, and bury my head between your beautiful protrusions. Since your free hand is busy, I reach mine up and press the top breast down on my face, breathing in the slight aroma of tit sweat, jiggling my face, and licking briefly. You have not yet learned to understand my love of the total spectrum of touches, tastes, smells that you bring to me. I don't push my luck and slide my tongue gently to be near the lower nipple, my Van Dyke beard grazing against your flesh. I lick around the nipple slowly, nipping very gently outside the areola, before engulfing in my mouth as much of you as I can. My tongue is flat against the side of your tit as I draw myself back so that it's right on the tip of the nipple, which begins to expand under me. I bring myself back down and circle it a dozen times or so, until you giggle and push me back. I suckle like a babe, quickly, and pull my mouth away with a brief popping noise.
"So," you say again.
I move to the other melon, dragging my tongue quickly, not taking as much time. I always worry that one beautiful, beautiful breast gets more attention than the other. There's nothing to be done about this. I don't languish nearly as much here, but you don't need it as much; your nipple is taut in anticipation by the time I begin. I look up at you with true longing in my eyes, your words from long ago still ringing in my head ('foreplay is procrastination') and say, "I really want to lick you. I'll make you cum with my cock, but I really want to lick you. Please."
Your protest is definitive. "No."
"Show me your lazy bottom," I grumble, more sternly than normal in a sexual situation. Your hand lingers on my cock for a second before you turn and stick your ass out and up, with your thighs perpendicular to the bed. I don't move my body.
"Well?" you say, some mixture of annoyed and anticipating.
I reach my hand out and rub the closer cheek of your ass. I sigh loudly. The smack shocks you. "Hey!"
"On your back," I say.
"No! That hurt!"
Sighing again, I climb behind you and look down. Your pussy isn't very wet yet. Your cute brown asshole, off limits for far too many years, tempts me more than you can comprehend. SMACK, on the other cheek.
"What are you doing?"
"On your back. Hold yourself open."
"I don't want to." There's a touch of girly whine.
I put my face nearer to your beautiful backside and make my gamble. "These are your choices:
"1. You get on your back and help me taste your beautiful pussy.
"2. You ask me, very nicely, to please fuck your lazy bottom-girl pussy.
"3. I go to the computer and jerk off.
"If your ass is still like this in ten, it's going to get another smack."
"But... what are you doing?" Your soft voice betrays your desire.
