This story features consensual, joyful sex between two adults in love with each other. I hope you enjoy it! - Lily
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I tied Thomas's tie for him this morning.
I always tie his tie for him. The opportunity doesn't come up often, of course, only for specific events. He jokes that the best thing about working for a landscaping company is that he never has to wear a tie. For the first year of our relationship, he didn't even own a suit.
We started saving for a suit when my mother got sick knowing that, unless there was a miracle, there would be a funeral to attend within the coming months. I barely remember us buying it, now. Buying clothes specifically for a sadness that you know is approaching and you cannot avoid is such a bewildering ritual.
I tied his tie for him the day of the funeral because I was despondent, frantic about not being late, and because if I didn't do something with my hands, I knew I'd break down. He let me do it, quiet, solid, supportive. He thanked me, hugged me hard, said that it was a relief that I had done it for him. He said that he had been worried that it had been so long since he had tied a tie that he wasn't sure if he even remembered how. He was probably exaggerating, but it was exactly what I needed at that moment. I felt warm and loved and necessary. I was grateful. The rest of that terrible day passed in a combination of searing detail and blurry sadness.
After the funeral, I went about the work of rebuilding my reality, Thomas anchored me, and the suit went back into plastic until it was time for us to get dressed for our friends' wedding the following summer.
I was not prepared for my reaction when I saw him in the suit again. We had booked a crappy motel room, too far from the reception hall for both of us to be able to enjoy the open bar, but it was all we could afford at the time. He had gone back to school for a landscape architecture program, in the hopes of furthering his career and eventually starting his own business.
I had been applying my makeup in the bathroom, and when I came out and saw him in the suit, tie still untied around his neck, I was awash with emotion. Details of my mother's funeral I had long since forgotten came flooding back: Thomas holding my hand during the service, bringing me coffee and water throughout the reception afterwards, quickly introducing himself to far-distant relatives so that I wouldn't be embarrassed when my muddled brain couldn't place them. All over again, I was overwhelmed with love and gratitude for this man who had taken care of me when I needed it most.
But this time, I noticed how absolutely gorgeous he looked, all dressed up. The suit itself was nothing special, but it showcased his broad shoulders and strong physique. Only his calloused hands gave him away as someone unaccustomed to a suit, but even they were softening a little as he now spent more time behind a computer, rather than a mower. I walked over to him, carefully tied his tie, and then pulled him into a lingering kiss.
He held my hand during the ceremony. During a musical interlude, while the happy couple signed the registry, the thumb of the hand holding mine began to move. Thomas slowly caressed my thumb, the palm of my hand, the inside of my wrist. Up, around, over, under.
Suddenly, I felt faint with arousal. It was as if my hand was transmitting the sensations to my entire body. I was overwhelmed with the knowledge of two truths: the first, how completely we were going to satiate ourselves on each others' bodies that night; the second, how many hours separated this church from our motel bed.
During dinner at the reception, while we were chatting with the other guests and while Thomas was pouring me a glass of white, he reached under the table casually and put his hand on my leg, just above the knee. It was on top of my dress, but right at the hem. Then his thumb started to move again. Slowly, gently.
After a few minutes, he lifted his hand and moved it under my dress and resumed his ministrations. His hand was in the same place as before - there was nothing remotely scandalous about it - but I could feel my neck get hot and it was all I could do not to grind my pussy into the chair. When the food arrived, he withdrew his hand and made pleasant, bland conversation with our tablemates while I tried to regain my composure.
We circled the room separately after dinner ended, smiling, chatting, hugging old friends. I would glance up periodically to find him and he'd be looking back at me with a smile, or the ghost of a wink. When we came together in the room, he'd put a hand on me, around my waist or on the small of my back. That hand was never still; sometimes he would stroke me gently, other times press the pads of his fingers into me, a tiny massage that promised so much more. He brought me another glass of wine, telling me that I should enjoy myself, that he would drive us home at the end of the night.
By the time we were on the dance floor, his hands slowly moving up and down my back, up under my hair to the nape of my neck, down to the base of my spine, was practically leaping out of my dress for him. He was murmuring into my ear about how he was going to take me back to the motel and open me, first with his fingers and then his tongue. How he was going to make me come.
I pulled him even closer so I could feel him hardening against my stomach and, buoyed up by wine and desire, whispered to him how I wanted to feel his cock in my hands, rub it over my face, push it into my mouth.
That night at the motel we fucked for hours. As soon as we got into our room, I dropped to my knees, unbuckled his pants, and sucked the head of his cock into my mouth, using the tip of my tongue to gather up his precum. My hands stroked his stomach, his ass, his balls, until he groaned, pulled me to my feet, lifted my dress off over my head, and laid me on the bed.
Despite how desperate I was, he teased me relentlessly, running his hands over my body with just the tips of his fingers, kissing his way down my stomach until he finally touched his tongue to my clit, bringing me over the edge over and over until I thought I might expire with pleasure. We wallowed in each other, switching positions again and again, until I rode him to our final climax and collapsed, drained and sated, onto his chest.
"Mmmmm. We should get dressed up and go out more often." he had said, as I nestled myself sleepily into the crook of his arm.
"You look really, really good in that suit," I murmured, kissing his chest.
So when Thomas came into the kitchen in his suit this morning and asked me to tie his tie for him, my body reacted instinctively, my nipples hardening, a familiar thrum beginning to beat between my legs. But I knew he was nervous and preoccupied; he was on his way to two different job interviews.
When he graduated, he told me that he didn't want me to buy him any gifts. "We'll wait," he said firmly, "until we have more money."
But on graduation day, I gave him a second dress shirt and a second tie. The tie was blue silk, to match his eyes. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"You'll need these," I said, "for when you meet with all of your fancy clients."
He grinned, running his fingers over the tie. "Thank you, sweetie. I love it."
"That tie is going to bring you luck," I told him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "I can feel it."
And he's worn that tie to every job interview he's had. But the interview this afternoon? That's the job he really wants. He'd be working with the city, helping to design their parks.
"If I get this job," he keeps telling me, "we can probably move out of this shitty apartment within a year." I don't mind our apartment; the only thing that matters is that he lives in it with me. But I know that this job would make him happy, and I want it for him.
So I kept my lustful feelings to myself. I made him a coffee to go while he wolfed down a slice of toast and grabbed an apple for the road. I kissed him goodbye, tidied up the kitchen, and then drifted restlessly into the living room.
If only we had the money for me to surprise him by taking him out for a really nice dinner, I thought. I have the next few days off, and he deserves it.
I let my mind drift to everything I would plan for him, if we had the money. A new, sexy dress to excite him. A taxi to a fancy restaurant, where we'd order cocktails and then wine with dinner. Then a different place for dessert: some chic little overpriced café.
I want to do something really special for him. I thought, a bit morosely. If only. But there must be something... what could I do...
And that is how I find myself here now, soaking in the bathtub, brimming with nerves, an hour before Thomas is due home.
I spent the day preparing.
I went out this afternoon to get takeout from our favourite Thai noodle house and put it in containers in the fridge to keep it fresh.
I dragged our most comfortable armchair out of the living room and into the bedroom. I have placed it at the foot of our bed, carefully measuring so that I know there will be room enough for me in front of it, so that there won't be any need for adjustments later.
I have put a note on our apartment door, another on the kitchen counter, and a third on the chair.
With each movement, each preparation, I became more and more excited and nervous. And now that I'm in the tub, going over and over the plan in my mind, my heart is racing, and a dull pulse has begun to beat between my legs.
My hands float through the water and up over my breasts as I think about Thomas. I think about his body, his hands, his smile. I think about how he teases and plays with my body with his lips and his fingers and his tongue until I am shaking, begging, coming over and over. He has studied me, mapped and catalogued each sensitive place on my body so that he can return to it again and again. I think about the number of times I have lost myself under his body and I am washed away in sensation.
My right hand has drifted down to my pussy; it is slick even beneath the bathwater. My left hand teases my breasts; my hard nipples buoyed to the surface between the bubbles. My feet press against the end of the tub so that I can rock my hips against my fingers. The water moves over my body as my pleasure builds, but before I take myself over the edge, I reluctantly take my hands away. I want my first orgasm tonight to be with him. For him.
I step out of the bath and pull the plug. Towelled dry and in my robe, I check again to make sure that the blinds are down and the window is closed.
I might be loud tonight.
I check my phone. He'll only be ten minutes away now. I pad down to the kitchen in bare feet and pour him a glass of white. It's cheap, but drinkable. I place it on the counter next to my note, and go back to the bedroom. I change out of my robe and into my clothes for the evening, and then slip into our tiny second bedroom. And I wait.
The minutes tick by. My nerves are jangling. I'm excited, I can feel my thighs growing wet with my juices. He's not even in the house yet and I want him so badly.
But it takes every ounce of strength that I have not to abandon my plan, rush around the apartment, make it look normal, and put on my comfy sweats and wait for him on the sofa, like I always do. I've never done anything like this.
What if he doesn't like it?
But he will like it, won't he?
I wait.
Finally, I hear the key in the lock. He must have seen the first note under the key hooks, directing him to his drink on the kitchen counter. For a moment, I panic: what if this is a mistake; what if the interviews didn't go well? But as he calls out for me, I can hear the laughter and curiosity in his voice.
"Sarah?" he calls. "Sarah, sweetie? Where are you? What's all this?"
