On Friday nights, we eat dinner late, just the two of us. He works out of town all week, and comes home late Friday, sometimes on Thursdays, but almost always Fridays. I always cook dinner at home for him, and eat with him when he gets in. It’s a nice tradition, and we have so little time together, it allows us some private time. It’s not especially fancy, but I do cook something I know he likes, and I always make sure the house is clean, and I’m clean and freshly shaved, and dressed the way he likes. In the summer, that’s generally a sundress with nothing underneath. Our relationship reminds me sometimes of something from a 50’s sitcom… we have those clearly defined roles. It’s also something we both enjoy, although I suspect my more feminist friends would be shocked at how we live in private. I don’t think that the 50’s sitcom couples had the kind of kinky sex we do, though.
While he’s gone during the week, I still have tasks to do, some of them routine, and some he specially designates for that certain week. I keep an online journal for him, that he can access anywhere, and in it I record what I’ve done or haven’t’ done for his review.
This week, he got home late, after 10PM. He had called me about an hour before to let me know his route and when to expect him. I spent that last hour working on dinner, and checking through the house, picking up and getting ready. When I heard him pull into the driveway, as always, I turned down the stove and slipped out barefoot to the driveway to greet him.
I can see him climb slowly out of the truck, his body stiff from hours on the road. My heart races, even in the dim light he’s still so incredibly handsome. He spots me, and smiles, holding his arms open, and I fly into them, lifting my face expectantly and he twists his hand into my long hair, pulling sharply as he kisses me, his other hand roaming across my body. I moan into his mouth, hungrily returning his kiss. Slowly he pulls away from me, and nods towards the house. He carries his bags in and drops his suitcase in the laundry room, where tomorrow morning I’ll wash the weeks worth of dirty laundry and repack his bags for the coming week.
He glances through the pile of bills and correspondence I’ve set aside for him, we’ll deal with this later in the weekend in more depth. We chat easily and freely, as I make him a drink and bring it to him. The oven timer chimes, and I busy myself serving him dinner. I sit beside him at the table; we’ve never gotten into my eating separately or on the floor. He eats heartily, complimenting the meal, and I’m filled with pleasure at this. Amidst everything else, he is the center of my world, and pleasing him is my constant goal.
He motions for a second drink, which I bring him, and I clear the table. With just a few dishes to wash, I decide to do them then, rather than let them sit until morning. Suddenly he stands behind me, pressing against me, his lips gentle against my neck. I shudder with pleasure, and he lifts my dress, slapping my inner thigh when I don’t spread my legs fast enough for him. He runs the tip of his finger down my slit, feeling the wetness, and raises his finger to my mouth, watching as I softly lick my own juices from his finger. My body hums with need, and I arch back slightly into him, feeling his hard cock straining against his pants. My very favorite part of Friday nights is the reconnecting sex we have, after a week apart.
