"Stop it," she said as he kissed down her stomach. "I don't like that."
"Every woman likes that," he assured her as he continued lower.
"Stop it!" she said more forcefully, grabbing his head and pulling him upwards. "It's not nice. Don't do it."
He raised his head, looking at her bemused.
"You think it's not nice? You really don't like the feeling of a man doing that? Or you just think you shouldn't?"
"All of them," she told him. "Don't do it. Make love to me. Properly."
"You'd like it if you let me do it," he grumbled, but he did as she asked and was rewarded with her polite little sighs and slight quiver of appreciation just before he reached his own climax.
She slept snuggled against him, her firm breasts pressed against his side. It was comfortable, pleasant, and gave him a feeling of warmth that was so much more than just the heat from her body. He turned slightly, being careful not to wake her, and kissed her on the top of her head as she slept.
He did not sleep for a long time. She was beautiful and, more than that, she was the perfect wife. She did everything he could possibly want around the house, and more. She cooked, cleaned, washed and ironed, made sure everything was in its place where he could find it, and was completely attentive to him when he returned from work. Even when he offered to help as he frequently did, feeling that she already worked far too hard in the house and that he was doing too little, she politely declined his offer and asked instead if there was anything else he wanted.
She never refused him anything. Everything he wanted to do she always agreed immediately. Except, and there had to be an 'except', in bed. She never refused him, but neither would she do anything even slightly different. When he made love to her, as he did regularly and with much enthusiasm, she lay as if tolerating rather than enjoying it. She put her arms around him affectionately and pressed her hips upward to receive his thrusting, sometimes grasping his hips to pull him into her, but then too he felt that her interest was to hasten his climax rather than in any pleasure of her own.
He had asked her more than once what she liked. She smiled and kissed him. "I like you to make love to me in bed," she replied.
"Don't you want to try anything different?" he asked. "You could be on top, or I could kiss you all over. There are lots of things we could do. I'd really like to try something more unusual."
"Oh no," she told him. "It's perfect just as it is. We don't need to do anything nasty, do we?"
He agreed, because he loved her. He certainly did not want to do anything she thought was 'nasty' or anything that might upset her.
"I think you might like some other things," he tried to persuade her, "If you would just try them."
She shook her head. She was just not interested.
**
It was late on a Friday night. For the first time in many months she had been out. It was a reunion with some of her friends who she had not seen for several years, and although she had said she would rather spend the evening at home with him, he told her to go out and enjoy herself.
He was already in bed. He was not asleep, and had been watching a late film on the little television in the corner of the bedroom.
He heard her come in. There was a crash from the front door and then a thud as she tripped over something and fell over. An expletive drifted up to him, startling him because he could not remember ever having heard her swear.
She staggered up the stairs and appeared at the bedroom door.
"I think I've had a little too much to drink," she slurred, swaying from side to side.
He grinned at her. "That should do you good," he told her. "It's about time you let your hair down!"
She put a finger to her lips. "Hush," she said indistinctly, "You're very bad."
"And you're very good," he said sarcastically, suddenly rather annoyed. "It would be too much effort to be even a little bad, wouldn't it?"
He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his lips. It was very unfair. She spent most of her life making an effort to please him one way or another.
She did not seem to mind. She curtsied at him unsteadily.
"Well, kind sir," she said, "Tonight I might be very bad, starting with these."
As she spoke, she pulled apart the top of her dress, exposing her breasts only just contained in a low-cut, lacy, black bra.
"You're drunk," he told her.
"And you're sexy," she retorted, wagging a finger at him severely. "It's very bad how sexy you are. No one had a right to be as sexy as you are."
"Just get undressed and come to bed," he said.
"I thought you wanted these," she said in a disappointed voice, staring down at her partly exposed breasts. "They're very nice."
"Yes they're very nice," he agreed. "Now come to bed."
"Oh. I forgot," she said suddenly. "You prefer this."
She lifted the front of her dress. "Look," she said proudly. "Stockings."
"You're not wearing any knickers!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Aren't I?" she said bending forward to check. "So I'm not. Must have lost them somewhere. Oh dear. What a shame."
She reached behind her and unzipped the top of her dress. She wriggled out of it, letting it fall to the floor.
"I'm right, aren't I?" she asked him, "You do like this best. You like it so much you just want to kiss it and kiss it and kiss it and kiss it, but I never let you 'cos that would be bad and I'm not bad."
He did not answer. He was staring at her. In her black bra, black suspender belt and dark stockings she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.
"I knew you liked it," she said triumphantly, pointing at the bulge in the bedclothes. "And now you're bad, and bad boys need a smack."
She lurched forward, aiming a slap at the bulge. She missed completely and fell forward onto the bed.
"Oops. Missed." She burped loudly. "Manners."
"Come to bed." He reached for her.
"Wait!" She put up one hand to stop him.
"Why?"
"'Cos I want a pee." She clambered to her feet, trying to look dignified. She swayed and looked around as if unsure which direction she was heading.
"Ah," she said, waving in the general direction of the bathroom. "There is it. Back soon."
