There's a faded childhood scar on her jaw. It shows in sharper relief in the flickering candlelight.
She walks to me, letting her cream chemise spill to the carpet. The beauty mark on the inside of her thigh winks at me as she crosses the room.
I had stripped and laid down on our bed earlier, as soon as I saw the lit candles and massage oils on the nightstand. With her arrival, a massage seems an unnecessary preface to my enjoying my beautiful wife's body.
But she's obviously planned out an evening and I'm willing to play it out. It's usually worth a little self-restraint.
She stops by the bed to pose for a moment or so. The ten pounds that she'd gained over the last few stressful months have been burnt off, but - since I'd never admitted to noticing their gain - I couldn't compliment her on their loss. My appreciation for her gorgeous figure shows all over my face though, and I'm rewarded with her brilliant smile as she gestures for me to roll onto my stomach.
My feet kick involuntarily with mild impatience. She pretends not to notice.
I feel the warmed oil on my back and then her patient hands rubbing soothingly. Knots untie across my shoulders. Tension eases from my neck. My shoulder blades unlock. I sigh as the stress seems to dissipate from my body.
She bends across me and kisses the small tattoo of her name in a snowflake on the back of my shoulder, before she moves down to massage and lovingly caress the small of my back and my firm cheeks. Her amorous hands press my thighs apart purposefully. She wipes any residual oil from her hands onto my calves. Then she runs her fingers up the insides of my legs and feels along the length of my slit. I can picture the self-satisfied look on her sensual face as she brings her fingers back wet with the visceral evidence of my desire for her.
I don't begrudge her the confidence or sense of power she gets from my arousal. She's an amazing lover and it's well deserved. I want her. More, I want her to know just how badly I want her.
My back arches and my hips lift toward those fingers that she's so nonchalantly removed, but she was only stopping for a taste and I'll have to wait for more explicitly sexual attention.
Her able hands return to the backs of my thighs. Massaging each in turn. Relaxing the muscles of my legs. My hamstrings, adductors and abductors. She releases the rigidity and ache throughout my legs, untightening my calves and ankles and making me feel better down to my sore heels.
Her thumbs find the pressure points in the soles of my feet, relieving temporarily the soreness attendant to years of uncomfortable - but appropriate - shoes. Her dictatorial hands twist my feet to flip me onto my back.
Her caring hands rub in the warmed oil from my toes to my hips, bypassing my pussy despite my body's physical protest and my unintelligible groans. Too relaxed by her technique and too confident of her eventual intention to bring me to nirvana, I don't object more sensibly.
She kneads my rather flat tummy, so that I feel the strength of her fingers against my core muscles. My eyes closed under her calming touch to concentrate on the exceptional work her fingers were doing. They pop back open when her thumb breaches my innie bellybutton and sends tingles from my quickened pussy to my wriggling toes. I'd been lulled too far for her liking and her smiling eyes are ready to make contact with mine, knowing my sensitivity. Her eyes hold mine, sending another tingle to my pussy that is wholly anticipatory and without any physical cause.
Having regained my full attention, her suave hands gently disabuse me of the stiffness of my upper arms, elbows, and forearms. She presses my wrists, palms, and fingers, calloused from years of less than ideal ergonomic conditions. So unlike her soft, oil-coated fingers.
Her thumbs play across my collarbone and breastbone comfortingly, before her diligent hands move down to first conventionally and then seductively squeeze and fondle my aching breasts. I'm ready to catch her eyes in turn as she swiftly falls to temptation and envelops a nipple in her humid, eager mouth. I grin down at her, smug in my own way over her weakness for my body.
Her tongue laves my captive nipple. I feel it hardening inside her mouth and watch its counterpart harden in sympathetic pleasure. Her eyes stay on mine. They're filled with lust and intent. I know I'm about to feel a jolt, but don't know what will cause it.
People who complain of boredom in their marriage bed must have dull partners. Like a genius composer with a piano, my wife knows every note made by striking any sharp or flat on my body. She arranges notes and chords - in infinite combinations and with masterful timing - to elevate mood, build tension, and drive
cresendi.
