She molded to him, tucking her knees behind his and inhaling deeply at the back of his neck. It had been their tradition for years now. Their bedtime due diligence. First, she would lay her head on his chest and they would chat about their day. She would breath deeply the clean smell of his shirt, think a passing thought about laundry detergent, wonder if anymore was needed to maintain the automatic cycle of their laundry routine. In the past few years, the answer had been a resounding 'no.' She'd set them a standing order with a new, strangely tech-y brand of detergent that left her husbands tee shirts smelling crisp as a spring morning. And with a net zero impact on the environment to boot. No complaints from her.
Then, after a few minutes of chat, he'd press his lips to her forehead, tip her chin up for a kiss-- sometimes it would lengthen into a slow, teasing affair (less than often, and she felt very little about that) -- and say, "Sleep well. I love you.' Having given the words voice, he would flip over, settle in, and she would spoon him. It was their way. And it was a tradition in which she found both comfort and purpose.
She was a creature of habit. She'd been masturbating the same way since middle school, liked her daily egg boiled and jammy (flakey salt, yellow mustard, dry toast), and she paused for a count of three before answering questions. Deliberation and cultivation were her most oft used tools. Something had interrupted her today, though. Something unexpected. For all the hype around surprises, they weren't her favorite. She valued tradition.
Her husband was a lawyer. High powered, high earner. She'd married him before the lawyer bit, but after he'd started down the road. She'd been too young to really know what kind of life an accomplished lawyer husband would bring about. She'd just been too young in general. She was a salt of the earth type. Old fashioned, for some. She'd started to go gray in her early twenties and hadn't 'remedied' the problem. Her girlfriends words. She thought the streak of silver in her dark brown curls made her look accomplished, and (if she were being honest) a little sexy. Her husband had agreed.
That was about the gist of it: she'd gone gray, he'd loved it, and so she'd married him with very little regard for what the future may bring. She liked the little, constant things. He still tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
Silence aside, he still complimented her hair. What had been a cascade of thick and swarthy curls was now a modest lob, curling around her chin and framing her keen face with still-remarkable effect. The last few years her stylist had highlighted her Isabella Rosasellini- rivaling good looks with short, choppy bangs and a brow dye-job. She was a beauty, and she knew it. She was tall, loved to run, and her body craved fiber over salt and fat.
She was a natural made man-eater, though she'd never cultivated that part of herself. For a woman gifted the skill of determination, she'd never valued that part of herself. The part that turned heads. Had since she could remember. She didn't care to remember, if she were honest. Men didn't see age in the face of beauty. Her mothers pronouncement. She'd agreed, then rejected that path of inquiry.
Now, nestled against her husbands broad back, she toed the path. She remembered the gym, after a tennis lesson. In her small, Indiana home-town, she'd spent years playing tennis, and then lifting weights at the local YMCA. She'd started young, spurred on by a military father and union-raised mother. They'd valued hard work, and so she'd worked hard. She'd played a few set and then lifted weights. The tennis started early, perhaps six, or seven. The weights, earlier then doctor recommendations, perhaps twelve.
So at twelve, she'd been in the same room as thirty, forty, sixty year olds. One, a local pediatrician, talked to her every time she saw him. Once, he'd touched the damp collar of her tee-shirt and rubbed the moisture between his fingers saying, "wow, you've worked yourself into quite the lather." She, having been well trained in manners and deference to adults, said, "I work hard." The doctor had looked her in the eye, stepped a bit closer (she can remember the spearmint scent of his breath) and said, "you'll be too old for my office soon, Jane. Let me know if you need a... hard... job. After school, of course."
Gross. She tucked her nose into the lavender smell of her husbands tee shirt and tried to eject the memory. Fairly innocuous, as line-toeing goes, but she can't quite get the image of the YMCA-going doctor out of her mind. Pediatrician. Stringy, straw-colored comb over. The yo-yo-ing weight of a woman. Hawk nose. Tall and authoritative. His hands had been large. He'd seemed, to her at least, infallible. He'd been arrested while she was finishing up her third year of college. A year after she'd met Daniel. A few months after she'd agreed to marry him, her fathers approval pending.
Her father had approved, with a hearty handshake and here she was: a woman behind the scenes. Overeducated, quiet, deliberative. A gentlewoman. Nearly severe in her competence. She was council and harbor for him. They sometimes sat at the dinner table and talked though legal strategy or personality conflicts about the office. She was proficient in many spheres. He valued her, and made sure she knew it.
Today, though, something had been different. Not too, too different, but enough that her agile mind alighted on it as a hawk does prey. He'd hired a new paralegal. Lovely, and young. Steely-eyed as she'd been in her youth, and her young mouth set in a hard line of defense. Jane had spotted her before her husband ran the news past her. She'd seen her parked in her Jetta, short hair styled into a genderless high and tight. Well, maybe more masculine than what she understood.
There was an instinct she was fighting with here. She knew, on some level, that her husband only hired the best. So somewhere, in this vast sea of assumptions, there must be a valid reason for the hire. There must be a GPA or letter of recommendation that bolstered the decision. Lady Jane, one traditional to a fault (she suspected, now, and suddenly), was shaken. The new hires gender non-conforming, non-traditional garb and appearance hauled Jane's many and secreted insecurities, flailing, into the light.
She pressed her taut belly and chest into his back. Snaked her hand up between his languid arms and pressed a palm to his heart. She scooted forward, pressing her pelvis into his backside, momentarily thrilling in the feel of his thoroughly male ass rutted up against her pussy.
She was gratified by a sleepy response. His usually shallow breathing faltered ever so slightly. She searched along the cotton of his shirt to find the comforting shape of his chest, moldered her palm over the peak of his nipple. A low rumble in his chest. Not that this was much of a deviation. She petted him.
She lifted her face, pressed her lips into the back of his neck. The skin there was soft and fragrant. Tulsi, cedar, and tobacco. Man smells, supplied by body wash and natural advantage.
She sensed a familiar feeling coming about. It was a familiar and -- as of nearly nineteen years of marriage-- yet-uninvestigated feeling: that of dominance. By her. She wanted to inhabit him, and grind him to dust. Strange. Alluring. Settled deep in the tight muscles of her abdomen. She felt her stomach pull up in anticipation. She knew what was coming. What always came, when she felt insecure. A rare thing.
Jane did what she knew she would. She petted him. She felt the pebble of his nipple through his thin tee and she teased it. His body was alert. She could feel it in the rigidity of his back, the ever-so-slightly increase of his breath-rate. The mutual, nearly imperceptible, raise of temperature between their sandwiched bodies.
She slid her hand down the flat plane of his stomach-- noticed the sharp intake of breath that sucked his non-existent gut in and tighter against her own body. She paused, laying her palm above his bellybutton. She felt him move with his breathe. She felt color rise in her cheeks. If cheeks color in the dark, did they color at all? Her mind provides irrelevant puzzles.
She moves her hand lower, to find the smocked edge of his boxers. Elastic waist, and reliable. She's bought him the same brand and size for the past decade. The feel of the familiar fabric brings about an unexpected confidence and she works her fingers under the waistband with careful attention. She pauses, listens to his now defiantly quickened breathe. She feels his back raise and fall.
She hasn't felt his hair yet. Beloved pubic hair. So familiar that instead of eroticism, it evokes comfort- another lovely detail in the scenery and stage dressing of their life. But tonight, it is special. Tonight, she'd asserting something. What, she doesn't quite know, but she's ready and rushing towards a new feeling.
Her fingers dip and work their way into the dark hair. Lean, beautiful man that he is, his pubic hair tells a predictable story: Married, with kids. No maintenance. She loves him for this. She loves his body. She scratches him, and feels him release a slow breath.
She clears her throat and says, 'will you be still?'
He nods, and she takes that as an affirmative worth betting on. He'll be still.
She presses herself closer, working her ribs and upper thighs into a contract negotiation with his mid back and hamstrings. She moves her hand, pushes up his shirt, presses her bare belly to his low back. He makes a small, pleased sound and she runs a finger over his hard nipple, through the fabric of his shirt.
