We each work, but you drives against the traffic, and I drive with it. We both drive about twelve miles each way. You get off work at four o'clock; I don't get off until five. The direction you drive means you'll usually get home ninety minutes before I do. Tonight I was caught in traffic and you beat me by almost two full hours.
We love each other. I don't mean an infatuation, or a 'for the time being' love. I mean the real old-fashioned story book love.
You're the light of my life. We're not in our early twenties. We've been together for more than ten years. You have a great figure, the kind that I love. This is not the high fashion figure, and not the 'Twiggy' type. I call you full-figured, but definitely not fat. You have that extra twenty pounds in exactly the right places. You have a good-sized B-cup, great thighs and calves, fabulous butt, narrow waist, and a softly rounded belly. You always dress conservatively when you're away. When you're at home, you almost never wear anything beneath a full skirt and well-fitting blouse. The skirt comes to the knee, and I can't see through the skirt or blouse. Though not transparent, I know and can always sense what is beneath.
When I get home, you're fixing my favorite dinner. You have this way of combining skinned chicken thighs, with a personal sauce distributed over them on a bed of sticky white rice. After about an hour in the oven, the chicken is done to a turn with crispy outside and it falls apart in my mouth. You usually combine it with a tossed green salad and your own homemade salad dressing. A person hasn't lived until they've tasted it. They can't even imagine it.
Tonight, the dish is about to go into the oven. You're turned away from me as I enter, but can sense my presence and whisper 'Hi'. I walk up behind you, take you in my arms and kiss the back of your neck. You stand on your toes, press back, and then grind your cheeks against me. You suggest that I relax while you finish dinner. I ask if I can help and you say 'Definitely not'. I tell you that I'll do the dishes after dinner.
I change clothes into a pair of loose fitting Dockers and sport shirt. I leave the briefs and T-shirt off, and then go into the living room to watch the late news. I hate Brokaw, Jennings and that guy from CBS, and so I select a local station and sit on the sofa. The usual sports, mayhem and scandal, but I watch it.
A few minutes later, you join me on the sofa. You fit perfectly under my arm, curl your legs and feet under the edge of the skirt, and lean against me. You belong there. I can smell your perfume and everything else about you. I kiss you lightly on the forehead, and you respond by wrapping your arms around my left bicep, pulling it to rest between your breasts, and then reach up to kiss me on the cheek. As you pull back, you pause and return to kiss me fully on the lips. You have warm, lush, beautiful lips with a touch of dark lipstick. As I return the kiss, you increase the passion behind them and I feel your wonderfully warm full tongue lightly enter my mouth, and quickly retract. You know that I love to dance with your tongue, and I respond. We have a serious, loving kiss full of deep significance.
Your breasts rest on my arm, and I can feel their warmth, firmness and fullness. Your nipples don't get hard, but they get seriously firm. I can feel the nipples, too, against my arm.