Aarp

I am waiting impatiently for the topcoat on my freshly polished nails to dry. It is 3:23PM. I have spent the day goofing off, so to speak. The house is clean. The hamper is void of dirty clothes. Dinner is finished. Chicken and veggies in a time tested Crock Pot recipe and a salad which is in a bowl, waiting only for dressing and croutons. Later I will make rice and broccoli.

My thoughts of nothingness are interrupted when your key turns in the lock. I wipe the look of surprise off, just in time to greet you. It is rare for you to be home so early. I don't ask why. I am hoping that you left the office because you couldn't wait to see me. Perhaps, you have a polish smearing plan that will begin immediately.

You hang up your coat, give me a quick peck and head to your office. So much for the polish smearing sex. I know that it bothers you when I watch daytime TV and I really don't have any housework left. I pick up a magazine, one that I have already read. It is strange how routine is altered when you are home. I wander into your office, ask you if you would like a drink and then return to the kitchen to make your tea.

I am waiting for the water to boil when you enter the kitchen. I ask you if you want regular tea or one of the herbals that I have received in a gift basket from relatives. You are about to decide when you glance to the sink. You stare, forcing me to look over. That is when I notice the lone glass. I know that having a perfectly ordered household is paramount to your happiness. We both are in agreement when it comes to that. I simply forgot to place the glass from an earlier Diet Coke in the dishwasher. Normally, I would have noticed the mistake when I was preparing dinner, long before you were home from work.

"I have a bit of work to finish. You can bring me my tea and then we will deal with your mistake."

I know, that anyone reading this would think it beyond insane that I allow you to treat me this way. At first glance, it would appear cruel, almost degrading. Like most of life, surface is just that. One must look carefully at all layers of a situation to see what is happening. Your behavior is what we both need.

I leave the tea bag in the mug for five minutes, producing an anti-oxidant rich brew. This gives me time to think. I still get anxious when I do something stupid. My goodness, it was just one dirty glass. Besides, you are the one that came home unannounced. I would never admit to you that I often let the day's dishes accumulate when you are not present.

Walking up the stairs, I notice that my hand is trembling slightly. This is ridiculous. I silently scold myself. It isn't fear. It is something beyond. No, it isn't that. It is almost an anticipation, not the birthday party kind, where you look forward to the attention, even if you don't particularly enjoy being the center. This is a excitement that goes to my very core, both emotionally and sexually.

After admitting that, I would imagine a reader would wonder if in fact, I am not so secretly pleased that you caught the glass in the sink. To that, I must explain. No, I would never do something to upset you. I would not want a life where planning my moves or lack of, would be warranted. I simply exist, attempting to make you happy, pleasing us both. Your actions have always proved the same.

You thank me for the tea. I sit on the loveseat. We talk about your day. I believe you work as if you must prove yourself against your colleagues, men young enough to be your sons. I know that you had imagined you would have retired by now. You are finishing up what has been a huge project. You have asked me to start looking into something that we can do as a sort of celebration. I have bookmarked my ideas. You decide that you will take a look while I place the glass in the dishwasher. I have calmed down completely. I ask you if you think you will be hungry for dinner at our regular time of six thirty. You nod. I give you a kiss before heading back to the kitchen. I am halfway down the stairs when I hear you call my name.

"When you are done loading the dishwasher, come back... naked and crawling."

I hear those words and I can feel more than a tingling in my crotch. I couldn't stop this even if I wanted to, the physical feelings, not your words. There is no force. If I wanted to, I could simply tell you to shut up. You would laugh and continue working. I would complete dinner, maybe surprising you with a quick dessert. At least that is what I picture. Not for a second would I want to interrupt the flow of events.

Back in the kitchen, the tile floor has never felt quite so cold on my bare feet. As I rinse the glass, I notice the warm water on my hands. I think about acting, taking the time to experience life in increments. This is something we don't do enough. I place the glass on the top dishwasher rack, reach under the sink for the detergent, noticing the odor even more than usual. This enhanced arousal is why this works. I need this to feel alive. Without it I feel life is not complete.

I pull down my pants. I have never admitted this to you. I shower twice a day. Perhaps you have suspected. There have been times when my hair is not completely dry when you return from work. I would have taken a quick shower had you not come home early. I ease off my undies. I brush my fingers against my flesh. I needn't bother. I can smell the scent without checking. I wonder if it is too much. I can't possibly detour to the bathroom without you knowing. I tear off a piece of paper towel, wet it and wipe a bit. I finish undressing. I fold my clothes and leave them on a kitchen chair.

As the dishwasher hums, I walk to the stairs and then begin a slow crawl to you. I wonder if you would enjoy watching. Although this is not the first time I have made my way to your office on my hands and knees, it is not a frequent occurrence. I can only recall you watching one time. Still, I feel silly, as if I have an audience of one. You are watching. You are always watching.

I find you facing your computer. I stop near your chair. You ask me if the kitchen is clean. I take that as a cue to sit. I begin to do just that when you touch my back. "No, no, stay in that position longer." That is when I become extremely aware of how I must look. I do not want these thoughts. I can sometimes imagine my body when I was younger. I briefly close my eyes and transform myself into the me of 30 years ago. This takes a ton of concentration.

You turn back to the screen. I am lost in thought. If I come back to the present, experiencing reality completely, I will become self-conscious. You work. I begin a fantasy that I would never act upon. I crawl closer, nestling my head in your lap. You ignore me. I wish you were the type of man who changed into sweats or shorts after work. Who keeps on their dress clothes?

I somehow manage to unzip your pants, belt still buckled...I feel your hand on my back once again. Using your left hand, you rub back and forth. My knees and hands are beginning to ache. Not only is my body not what I wish, my strength isn't either. Your hand has an almost hypnotic quality. I am relaxing. You stand.

Across from your desk you sit on the loveseat. I have been meaning to have this piece recovered. You never did like Chintz. The dark shades in the muted floral don't stand out against the more suitable furnishings in your office. However, it was a poor choice. It is not durable, nor is it thought of as a masculine fabric. It is smooth. I like that.

"Come over here." I crawl to you, not slowly nor quickly. You are remarkably quiet. This is unnerving. If I could will you speak, I would be very happy. Pulling me up and over your lap, I note that being short works well on this type of furniture. I only must bend my knees ever so slightly to not hit the end with my feet.

I think I had better speak. "I'm sorry to mess this up, but I really need to pee." I pull up to sitting, waiting for you to say something.

"Don't worry about it. You'll be fine"

Are you crazy? Is this some sort of quick way of getting me to start looking at fabric swatches? Maybe that is it. If I ruin the loveseat tonight, you will have a great excuse to get it out of your office. "Seriously, I need to pee. I will be right back. I know you hate this loveseat. I swear to you just let me pee and tomorrow I will start looking for a replacement or I can have it recovered."

With a bemused expression you shake your head. "Come to think of it, I have always disliked this sofa. Let's just get a new one. It would be nice if you did bring home some fabric choices that don't feature flowers."

Great, I am going to pee. I could have listed this on FreeCycle. There is no way I will be able to do that if it smells of urine. I should point out your selfishness in preventing some loveseat-deprived person of owning a clean place to sit. I give up.

Your hands have always turned me on. Their slender powerfullness is exciting to watch. I often find myself watching as you lift your cup. That sight is as wonderful as the way your fingers explore my body. I am not quite prepared as your palm makes contact with my backside. I do, after some time, feel the tears. I position my fingers so that I can wipe my eyes as I almost bury my face in the cushion. I have forgotten about my bathroom needs. You stop. "I want you to just stay this way." I don't move. I hurt. The only sexual excitement that I feel is in pleasing you. I don't get anything from the pain of the spanking, only in allowing it to be done. You push my thighs apart slightly. The touch is like fire. I will cry again if you continue to touch me. Your fingers press inside of me. I feel full as my bladder is stretched. You begin wiping my wetness against my clit...over and over again. Then you abruptly stop.

"I want you to pee. Pee and then I will make you cum." I try to take your mind off of the request. I sit up and reach for your penis. "You're not listening. Maybe you need more of this." You push me down, your hand smacking my thigh. The room is spinning. My God does that hurt. Still, I have never been able to pee in front of you. I really have no idea what to do. There is nothing as awful as being on the brink and then having your ass smacked.

You don't say a word as time passes. I know from the past, that you are an amazingly patient man. I can't see the clock. I estimate that thirty minutes has gone by. Then something snaps inside of my head. I let go and the urine flows forever. Well, long enough to soak you and the cushion. When I am finished, you pull me to sitting. You stand and begin removing your wet clothes. After placing them on the soaked sofa, you almost throw me onto the floor. I have never felt you this hard inside of me.