Valentine for My Silent Angel

Sara is my wife. Now, I don't mean to get all in a huff and political, but that's how it is. I changed my last name, moved in with her, and am, in every fashion, for her. My name is Shelby, and I lay each night with an angel.

Sara and I met online. Risky, we know, but it wasn't like we sought one another out in some lesbian single's site or on some horrible chat room plagued with men trying to hook up with lesbians. We met on some message board discussing one remarkably geeky thing or another, and we fell in love. Now, I also mean to be clear about love. I don't mean the 'You're a compliment to my life' love most married people have or the 'You complete me' love young fools think they do. I mean true love. The kind that sees you through my manic depression and her physical weakness. The kind of love that, genuinely, does conquer all.

I am eighteen years old, bordering on nineteen; she is twenty-three bordering on twenty-four. Our birthdays are the same week in April. Where I am toned from being an avid runner in school, she is thin from metabolism and nutrition. Neither of us have much height or chest to speak of, I in the low B's and she in the A-range. It's been commented many times that we look more like sisters in high school than wives in the real world. I like to think of that as complementary. My hair is longer than hers, and I put highlights in it, whereas hers is shorter -- though still feminine -- and a rich shade of brown. What distinguishes my Angel most is not her appearance, but her lack thereof in a certain respect.

My Angel cannot speak. When she was young, an accident claimed her voice and left her communicating with instant messages and sticky notes. But, she doesn't ever need to. Her eyes tell me she loves me, her touch shows she cares... her tongue reminds me that no one can come between us. Ever. I work, attend classes, and am up late into the night, reading, writing, and refining one skill or another, while she tends to domestic issues, finding the workforce hard for a Silent Angel to enter... she tells me, with her writing and her sad eyes how useless she feels sometimes, more so after one of her heart attacks, or a bout of fatigue... but she is my Angel, and that is the greatest use she could be to me.

With that necessary background handled, today is Valentine's Day. A day where couples the world over celebrate love. Sara and I have been together for two years, and married for much of that, and would probably point out that we celebrate our love every day were it not a tradition we enjoy. Being slightly dorky, Sara and I, on the day before, follow Japanese custom and make chocolate for one another by hand. Honmei Chocolate, as it is called in Japan, signifies that the recipient is the 'only one' to the girl who offers it.

Valentine's day being Saturday, I get to spend it entirely with her. Of course, we likely will have trouble waking before noon. My Angel is physically weak, so sleeps often, and I go to sleep remarkably late. But from that moment, Valentine's Day will celebrate my Angel.

Sara awakens to see me, beside her as she enjoys to wake, and gently stroking her hair. Of course, I've been up for a while, made food for us to share. After a nice breakfast, we'll watch a show with some sort of cute lesbian implications; knowing us, it'll be Japanese animation and will take a length of time. After a candlelight dinner with fine pasta and sake, we'll exchange our honmei chocolate and retreat to bed. It isn't about gifts for us, it's about love.

And love is the next item on the agenda. Note that for most of the point leading up to now, we will likely wear little if anything at all, as is customary for us in our little blissful world we call home. Anything we wear for the sake of temperature at this point will be a distant memory as I caress her, and trace the scar over her neck with my finger, to remind her that even her 'imperfections' are perfect to me. Then, softly, I'll kiss her neck, on each side, before progressing down her chest. My Silent Angel is a small person in every respect, and I am thankful for that. She has a quality of innocent beauty that I think only she can pull off. As my tongue dances over nipples stiffened, I know, by me and not the cold of the northern Midwest, I think on these things, and the many aspects of my wife I so dearly love.

Her hands, which until now will have been stroking my hair, will guide me up into a kiss and she'll look at me. She won't need her sticky-notes to communicate that thought; I'll see it in her eyes. Love and lust, desire and romance... it is only fair for us both to be pleasured on Valentine's, but due to the weakness she is plagued by, it can be dangerous to her heart to go beyond one orgasm. With a warm smile I'll nod and lay her down before positioning myself atop her in a standard, staple position -- 69.

I'll moan into her, making my tongue vibrate deep in my Angel's sanctuary as hers plays across my clit. I keep my mound hairless, mainly out of personal taste though I know she's grown to enjoy it, and she grooms hers neatly, which is the only manner in which she actually appears older than me despite being five years my senior. As I slip a finger into her and begin to gently suck on her clit, I can feel her pinching mine and eliciting such lovely feelings.

Now, my wife tastes divine. Were I able to bottle her, which would be what I'd drink with fine dinners in opposition to sake or wine. But this night, I want to give her something we haven't done in some time. I want to lock eyes with her as we cum. So I abruptly reverse my position above her and press down upon her with my fullest of force, our breasts, as small as they are, pressing under the pressure of our bodies and our now dripping pussies pressing together and making such beautiful sounds. I like to think of it as 'kissing' in a way.

She doesn't moan, so I love this position. She shows me her pleasure in her eyes. The eyes of an Angel. I smile and kiss her deeply as our pussies grind together making those beautiful sounds, making us tremble, making us soar. And I break the kiss and increase my tempo, my force, my love. My hand gently rubs her cheek and she nuzzles into it, our eyes locked, as we both feel ourselves reaching greater and greater heights, the sounds driving us on.

In the moment before orgasm, it seems like there is no world. When my Silent Angel loves me, only she exists, and in this moment, the world is merely the venue in which our perfect love is displayed. We know what is about to happen, and neither of us make a sound, save the sloshing of our grinding and squeaking of our bed. Our eyes tell the story. Our eyes say "Forever, only you". And then, I moan. A moan loud and high enough for both of us as we erupt, soaking one another, soaking out bed, soaking in pure happiness.

I roll off her, and she looks at me with a smile. She offers a giggling expression and grabs the pad of sticky notes she keeps on our nightstand and slaps one in the valley of my breasts, meant to be read from that angle reading 'Happy valentine's day'. I smile, and curl up close to her, and whisper softly in her ear, "Every day is Valentine's day, when you sleep beside an Angel."