Home Without Him

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It’s 6.20 pm, evening.

She’s sitting on the floor, feet sprawled before her. Her arms stretched backward, palms holding the ground. She looks relaxed, thoughtful, almost dreamy.

She seems as though she’s looking out of the huge verandah with spaces between the railings. She’s only gazing though, her mind noticing, but not captured.

But she’s alert. The slightest incongruity taken in, without getting the least bit edgy or startled. The calm has done it.

In this suspended state, she sits as though as she shall never move. Nothing important enough to make her.

She’s savouring the last moments of her day, before she must get active again. Make dinner, talk to her husband about her day, his, cuddle up, make love, whatever. She loves all this, she adores the nights. But the evenings are hers, hers only.

She must feel this freedom to do nothing for a bit, absolutely no movement, no thinking for herself, anyone else. Just bathing in the moment, the breeze, the approaching darkness.

She lies on the floor finally, in a slow, utterly languid motion, no extra effort expended. A soft sigh escapes her, a smile passes through the length of her body, releasing the tension of her calm, in its wake.

The cold ground feels her back through her dress. She feels the cold ground beneath her calves, and pushes back onto it with her heels. Gently contorting her body, undulating to the unaccommodating surface. She likes that. Better than the bed. Almost tuzla escort like a cold, brutal man. She knows she should be shocked by thoughts like these. But she’s far too caught up in the dichotomy of her body heat, a sexual woman, and flat, hard, cold ground below, impervious to her touch.

Her breasts heave as she breathes against it. She presses back into it, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction. It gets warmer, if only because of her own heat. She loves the unalterable, unforgiving hardness. She writhes against the floor, her thighs rubbing against each other, against the floor, against the fabric of her dress, feeling her panties rubbing against her, a pleasant arousal imminent. She turns to her left side, and lifts that arm, putting it under her head. Immediately the ground grapples her left breast, hungrily, mercilessly lapping away, a cold cold tongue, hard, relentless fingers. Her nipple hardens at the onslaught, and she touches her right breast with her other hand, delving into her dress, massaging, caressing the softness, kneading it as she gets further turned on.

Finally she lies on her back again, and draws her right hand up her thighs, the texture, the temperature, into her dress. She runs her fingers over her panties, feeling the dampness, along the ridges of her bone, across her excited womanness. She feels almost gratified that she can feel this, feel like this. She loves how much woman she is, how much woman she has become. She revels for a pendik escort while, that she is aroused, that this is all hers. She can do anything with her arousal.

She closes her eyes. She decides to think of her husband. The ground lies forgotten. She remembers how his lips feel across hers. How he presses gently, tenderly, and then, passionately, longingly. It seeps through his kisses, resonating with hers. He feels her love, her wanting, her deep deep need.

She aches for his warm, strong hands gathering her up close, aches to touch his hair, smell his rich, nice, wholesome smell, his sweat, his deo, his natural body odour, all pleasantly, uniquely mixed up. She’d know him anywhere. She smells his clothes all the time, lost in the familiarity and the danger of his intense male scent.

Her husband is a nice guy most times. He is mannered, gentle and giving. He’s capable and wise. He is not overly jealous or possessive outwardly, but he makes sure she knows where she belongs. It’s his subtle strength that she fell in love with. It’s his imperturbable stability and unchanging love that holds her to him. She hasn’t seen him very emotional very often, but the few times she has, she remembers. How he looked at her, into her. Demanding his due, his very just due. Wetness courses through her. She yearns for his gentle mouth on her breast, a wilder urge suppressed bravely. And she loves when he can’t take it any more. He lets loose like a pack of dogs released. Nothing aydınlı escort she can control, she is almost fearful at the extent of his desire, his naked need.

She is touching herself rapidly now, her middle finger of the right hand slushing past her clit, again and again, squelching tell-tale signs. She remembers how his eyes rest on her, when she’s naked, with unabashed, wholesome fulfillment, and when she’s not, with unconcealed desire.

And then she remembers, the first, the very first touch of his lips to her wet, throbbing cunt. How she completely gives in to him, knowing her deepest places, her deepest pleasures are his only. That only he can incite and only he can command, and only he must take. She can’t stand it any more. She can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Oh God, she rubs herself harder than ever, willing herself to come. Yet, it eludes her.

She is desperate now, she has stopped thinking straight quite a while back. Her only thought, the only image is of her husband’s face between her thighs, their lips meeting in violent embrace. His tongue lashing at her, his eyes hungry beyond reason, and she can’t control her reactions, she’s toppling over, over, over the edge, and there’s nothing she can do. She tries to measure her cumming, time it out, but it’s not to be, she’s even losing control on her purposeful fingers, slipping after every few strokes. Her body is on its own rampant adventure, and finally she cums, right there, shamelessly on the floor, relief flooding her, along with those juices. She keeps her eyes closed, lying motionless, legs spread out, arms askew, hair disheveled, smile curving her lips. She feels very very sated. It’s 7.35 pm. The doorbell rings.

He’s home.

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