Tomorrow Night, I Promise: A sex story from the real world
Sunday night
: It's nearly 10 when we crawl on to the soft down of our new feather bed. We'd purchased it shortly after a quick romantic get-away a few months earlier. The feather bed in the lodge overlooking the Pacific Ocean had done wonders for rediscovering the passion we'd once known, a lovers' passion rarely seen after kids, careers, and real life had stepped in. At least for those three days.
After a few minutes of reading, I put my book down and look over at her. She is still so beautiful to me, even after two children and 41 years, 17 of them with me. Her freshly washed face glistens under the low-wattage bedside lamp. I always thought she looked best without any make-up at all. The clean scent of Noxzema and Colgate floats over the pillows in my direction. In between her clean face and the People magazine resting atop her belly, two taut nipples press skyward, tiny crests under her white cotton nightgown. She breathes quietly, her small, subtly rounded breasts rising up and down in quiet rhythm.
I reach over and slip my hand across her belly, slowly moving my palms across her flat tummy, up over her ribs and settling softly atop her little mounds.
She groans. Not the moan of quiet lust from a woman in her sexual prime, mind you. She groans.
"Ohhh…not tonight," she says with just a touch of whine. Her lip curls to one side and her eyes bunch up into narrow slits.
"Why not tonight," I ask as that all-too-familiar frustration begins building in my gut. "What better way to end the great day we just had?" It's my turn to whine now.
"I just want some time to lay here and read and not have to do anything. To not be molested by you or kids or cats. I just want to relax. Please just give me a little space. Please," she pleads.
"But it's been more than three weeks since we've made love," I inform her.
"No, it's been more recently than that," she answers quickly.
"No, it was after Paul's party. Last month. I remember it distinctly." Her blank face told me she didn't appreciate the ready reminder. "I just want some time for us to be together, time and fun that's just for us."
"Tomorrow night, I promise," she said.
I'd heard that one before. And I knew that that meant sometime in the next week, maybe. If I behaved myself.
"Yeah, ok, whatever," I grunt. I roll over on my side, facing away from her.
"Oh, so now you're pissed?" she sneers.
"No, not pissed. Disappointed."
"Why do you always have to do this? Just because I don't want to have sex with you every stinking night, you get pissed off."
"It's hardly every night. More like once a month. Maybe. Look, let's not get into this again. It doesn't really matter, does it? Whatever I say you're just going to contradict and become defensive. Let's just drop it."
"Tomorrow night," she said again. "I promise," and she rolls over and turns the light off.
Early Monday morning
: I wake up to the sound of the shower running. Lying quietly in bed, I imagine bubbly lines of soapy water running down the length of her long, lean body; the soft suds cascading over her shoulders and little breasts and down across her belly until they entrap themselves the blonde curls between her legs. Though I know it's likely not happening, I picture her fingering herself under the warm stream of water, leaning against the tiled wall, fingers swirling silently around her tiny clit. I wonder what she thinks of when she plays with herself. Will she bring herself to a soft quiet orgasm, or perhaps save that for later tonight when we can be together?
I'm fully hard by the time the water stop running. A few short moments pass and the bathroom door opens. She walks into the room with only the distant bathroom light allowing me to see her. She's barely more than a shadow in the early morning light between our bed and dresser. She drops the towel on the floor and I admire the subtle curves of her ass and breasts in delicate profile. Squinting just a little harder, I see her pointed nipples adjusting to the sudden change from warm water to the cooler morning air. She bends over to slip on her panties. The light slips between her thighs, sharing with me a few fuzzy strands of hair in silhouette
"Come over here before you put those on," I whisper in the early morning darkness.
"No, I need to get to work. I'm already running late. Besides I don't want to smell of semen all day long."
She dresses quickly and leaves. After the door closes again, I stroke myself off quietly, anticipating last night's promise being gloriously fulfilled later tonight.
Monday night
: Lying in bed again, same time and place, long after the kids are down for the night. She has her People magazine. I have the latest John Nichols adjective-frenzied novel.
I gently set the book down on the bedside table and roll over towards her, slipping my hand under the hem of her nightgown. She never takes her eyes off the magazine but I think I catch a quick glimpse of that soft sexy smile of hers, the one that's always turned me on.
I slide my hand over the top of her cotton panties and feel her full, fuzzy bush through the well-worn material. My mind flashes briefly back to the one and only time she'd shaven herself for me. It was so smooth and sexy, so wild and naughty, and so very different for her. But she didn't enjoy the maintenance and I didn't enjoy the stubble, and she hasn't shaved since. And quite honestly I've grown to love, and now I actually prefer, the look of a full soft bush on a woman; the way nature intended it to be.
