I woke and realized immediately that I had overslept.
The clock said 7:42 and I like to be at work by 8:00.
As I rolled out of bed his hand caught me by the upper arm and pulled me back.
"Baby," I said, giggling a little, "I've gotta go."
"No you don't," he said, his grip strong. "Call in."
"Oh David, I can't do that," I said.
"Why not?" he asked.
And in all honesty, I couldn't think of a single reason. I had been working at the same place for 13 years, was the Director of Research and Special Projects, and I figured I probably had something like 200 sick days accumulated.
So I called in.
It was hard to concentrate since his hands were playing with my boobs as I made the call, leaving a message, lying about my imagined sickness.
When I turned to face him he was grinning broadly.
"Good girl," he said, and the way he said it got to me. As I said earlier I'm, well, let's just say 40-something. I literally could not remember the last time I was called "girl."
"Okay," I said, answering his grin with one of my own, "now what."
He was strong and understood the leverage as he quickly rolled me back onto the bed.
"We," he said, giving me a quick kiss, "are going to take inventory."
The question must have shown on my face and he laughed softly.
"For instance," he said, his forefinger pressing my nipple into my breast, "what do you call this?"
"ummmm, my nipple?" I said, the question mark in my voice.
"mmhmmmm," he hummed, "and when it gets hard like this," and he was playing with it, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb and I could feel it tighten to an almost painful hardness.
I giggled.
"Well," he said, giving it a pinch hard enough to draw a little yelp.
"I really don't have a different name then," I said quickly.
"And this," as he traced my areola.
"Just my areola," I said, feeling it tighten and the love bumps grow.
"These?" lightly touching those bumps.
"Love bumps," with a little blush.
"This?" his hand was light on my breast.
"My boobs or my breasts, sometimes my tits," I said, "not enough to qualify as hooters or jugs or headlights or fun bags," and I was giggling.
"mmhmmmm," he hummed, lightly caressing them, "they are smallish, but we can take care of that." He started massaging my breasts, his fingers gentle at first, but pushing harder, getting to the glands, and harder, making me groan, but bringing an electric charge that ran from my nipples directly to my clitoris and then inside, deep, where a sudden need awakened. He worked on my breasts like that for a full minute, making me squirm and groan with the combination of pleasure and pain he was delivering.
"And this," his finger was tickling my navel.
"My belly button," I said as I squirmed a little.
"And this," his fingers playing with the thick mat of my pubic hair.
"Oh God David," I said, blushing furiously now.
"And this," he repeated, tugging hard enough on a patch of that hair to make me grunt.
"Oh God, my bush, my muff, my beaver," I giggled, "my pelt."
He laughed a little at that.
"It IS that," he said, tugging at that little patch again.
His fingers moved a little lower, gently probing and finding my clitoris, drawing a little gasp.
"This?" he said, watching my face.
I blushed again.
"My button," I said.
"hmmmmm," he hummed, gently pressing, "it is a hard little button, isn't it."
I couldn't help parting my legs a little more for him.
"Yesssssssssss," I hissed.
His fingers went a little lower, finding my labia and gently caressing.
"And this?" he said.
I giggled. "My pussy," I said.
"Only that?" he asked.
"Well, sometimes my cunt or my twat," I said.
"And this," and now he was tugging on my labia.
"My lips," I said with a little moan.
Suddenly he slapped my hip hard enough to sting.
