It Was Perfect

© Copyright 2008, 2011

Autumn Writer

She was well-prepared for his arrival.    Dinner—not a meal, but a complementary pleasure—was already chilling in the fridge.  Jumbo shrimp cocktail soothed down by a chilled Riesling; light, but nourishing—no heavy stomachs pining for naps.  It could be eaten any time it was the right time; no adjusting schedules for meals from the oven.  She had thought of all that. 

She made a final check of the food she’d prepared.  It looked just right—perfect.  She thought of her husband and scoffed to herself.  He’d never appreciate how the light repast would aid in quest for sensuality.  He could go on his fishing trip; she had better things to do. 

There was a gentleman whom she’d come to know; who worked on the third floor in the same building as she did.  She felt certain that he understood how she yearned to squeeze the last ounce—the final drop of perfection from what had become, to her, so mundane.   He would be her dance partner for the stolen weekend and she hoped that ho would please her..

She’d raised the garage door earlier in the day and he drove right in.  It had been prearranged between them.  Who visited on her long-awaited weekend with the house to herself was her business, of course.  It was pointless to pique the neighbors’ curiosity.   She meant to be watching for his car.  Somehow, she missed it.   The sound of the garage door closing made her gasp.  He was right on-time.

It was starting.  Her heart pounded a beat to drive her racing pulse—too late to call it off.  She could have called it off, of course.  It would have been cowardly and humiliating—and such a disappointment.    Convention dictated that she, somehow, come to her senses and send him on his way.  She was beyond convention at her point of mid-life.  Convention was what had worn her out.    

She shook off her surprise and stepped toward the door so she could greet him as he entered the house from the garage. 

“Don’t look too eager.” 

She clutched the countertop in desperation and barely held herself back.  She remained composed in the middle of the kitchen; it would be a better presentation that way.  He would behold her, standing serene, waiting for him; and then, he would rush to her.  He’d wear his eagerness, overflowing, on his sleeve.  She’d accept the offering, measuring ardor with each step as he ran to her. 

A knock—it threw her plans out of kilter from the start.

“He didn’t have to knock; he should have known better.”

 Yet, his politeness pleased her.  She could adjust.  Another knock came, more insistent than the first one, demanding action.  She fluffed her hair. 

“C-come…”  She was hoarse and cleared her throat.  “Come in.”

She watched the slow turn of doorknob, as if he was fumbling with something.  The door opened.  He stepped through it, a single step, and gave her a shy smile.  He brushed his hair back, as though it had been in his face, which it had not. 

“Good, he’s a little bit insecure.  He’s not the only one.”

He carried a leather duffel bag slung over a shoulder.  There was a paper bag containing a bottle of wine in one hand; a bouquet of flowers occupied the other.  She waited for his first words.   

“Well, here we are—finally,” he announced.

The last added word, ‘finally’, also pleased her.  It signified anticipation.  She wondered if anticipation might be prelude to disappointment.  She knew how easy it was for even the most perfect plans to come to that.

What she saw pleased her, too.  He wore brown corduroys and a plaid, wool shirt.  There was no attempt at impressing her with chic wear.  Comfort clothes showed his intent to settle in for a while.  He’d have a chance to impress later—in other ways. 

For her part, she had on her white peasant blouse with the neckline that dripped slightly off her shoulders.  Her shoulders were still delicate, with perfect lines.  She liked to show them whenever she could.  She wore her loose cotton pants held up with a drawstring.  They were navy blue with a fine, white print. 

They revealed nothing, unless he noticed that a tug on the bowknot of the drawstring could send them cascading to the floor in an instant.  He couldn’t have known that there were no panties.  He might he get a hint of it if he saw her from the back, especially if she was walking.  How might she arrange that?

“As he follows me up the stairs—perfect!”

It amazed her that so much of the operation of her plan had to be impromptu.  She had been so elegant and thorough in her planning. 

“Yes, we’re finally together,” she answered in a voice in which she tried to portray optimism, and not worry.

It wasn’t easy.

He set the wine and the bouquet on the kitchen counter.  He should have run to her and swept her off her feet like Rhett did to Scarlet, but he did not. 

“I’ll run to him, throw myself at him, make him hold me.”

Instead, she poured some water into a vase that she pulled down from the cupboard.  She sank the flowers in it and stashed the wine in the refrigerator.  She felt strange; they should be kissing now. 

 “How thoughtful!” she cooed.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

She took a long look at him.  They were much closer than when he’d walked into the house.  She noticed that her heart had stopped beating so fast.  Was the excitement gone already?  Had they become bored with one another before even getting started?  Boredom had ruined her plans more than once.  Perhaps age had eroded away the spaces inside her where excitement used to dwell and blossom as resolve.  She wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. 

“You didn’t bring much,” she said, glancing at the leather duffel slung over his shoulder.

He shrugged.

“It’s only for the weekend.  I didn’t think I’d need many clothes.”

“Didn’t need many clothes?  Was there a secret entendre in the simple words?”

Perhaps so; excitement began to grow again and, as usual, patience paid off.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said and kissed him.

It was only a light kiss, an ice-breaker without embrace or passion, but she let her lip linger on his just slightly longer than necessary.  He said nothing, but seemed to like it.  He could have moved away after the moment of a polite kiss had passed, but he let it continue, and that was a good sign. 

“Yes, it will take some time, but this pot will boil.”

Her pulse quickened with the thought and she was reminded that she wasn’t wearing panties.

“Follow me,” she whispered, “I’ll show you where to put your things.”

She led him to the landing of the stairs and set a foot on the first step and then abruptly wheeled to look at him.  She was searching for a sign that she couldn’t quite define.  There it was; a look unique to her understanding.  Perhaps it was the dilation of his pupils, or some color rising in his cheeks.  She thought that she might have seen throbbing in that vein in his neck.  Whatever it was, she felt sure; excitement was bubbling stronger in its space inside her.  She turned back around.

“Should I take his hand?” 

No, it would be too romantic; she preferred desire.  She began her swaying march up the stairs with him several steps behind.  The position accomplished her to wish that he see all that she wanted him to see.  Holding hands would have ruined it.

The master bedroom awaited down the hallway from the top of the stairs.  It was dark; maneuverable only because of a light shining from inside the master bath.  She took the bag from his shoulder and dismissed it into a corner, ending the preliminaries.  She took his hand and stepped into the bathroom.

“I was hoping we could do this first,” she said.  “I’ve been kind of dreaming of it.” 

She hoped her voice wasn’t quavering.  She needed that dream and his acceptance of it. 

“I hope you don’t mind.” 

“I think it’s perfect,” he replied. 

His approval more than pleased her.

She had filled the bathtub.  A sweating ice bucket held a bottle of champagne and two flutes stood guard on a small pedestal table nearby.  Steam rose from the water; she had poured perfume in it. 

“Your bouquet would be perfect here,” she said, pointing at the counter.  “Shall I run down and get it?”

“If you must, but I’d greatly prefer that you stay here with me.”

She blushed; his words were even more beautiful than flowers.  She would do without the bouquet. 

He placed his hands on her shoulders where the peasant blouse—selected for the occasion—met her bare skin   He leaned forward, first to kiss her, she assumed, and then push the blouse down to expose her—or to free her.  But, she had exposed herself already.

She stopped him with a gentle push.

“You first,” she whispered, “please?” 

It was part of her dream.

He nodded.  It was done without ceremony.  In less than a minute he was nude.  She looked at him.  It made her glad that he had a little spare tire.  It helped make her imperfections acceptable.  There was hair on his pale body, from his chest to his ankles.  She took a look at his most important part.  He stood still, allowing her to view it.  His excitement was beginning to show.  She had little experience for comparison.  However it might rank, she believed that at the critical moment it was going to please her.

It was her turn.  She desired delay, not due to fear or second thoughts.  There would only be a single first unveiling—and so sad to be over so quickly.

“Let me have your things,” she ordered, holding out her hands. 

He handed her his discarded clothing.  She walked out of the bathroom, leaving him there.  She placed his clothes on a chair.  When she returned he had not moved.  He had gained a full erection, though, and she looked at it again.  

“Your turn,” he said, in a voice that was neither demanding nor matter-of-fact.

She kicked off the slippers she was wearing and took hold of the neckline of her peasant blouse.  Then she dropped her hands and lowered them to her sides.

“You do it,” she pleaded.

“With pleasure,” he replied and stepped forward. 

She gasped when his hands touched her shoulders.  She closed her eyes, to allow her sense of touch to operate unfettered.  He pushed the blouse past her shoulders and down her arms.  She expected to feel coolness as her breasts were bared but the air in the bathroom was warm and moist.  She felt no chill at all.  She did feel them hanging free and wished that he would touch them. 

“Beautiful,” she heard him say in a low, deep voice, and then she felt it. 

They were cupped in his hands.  She hoped that he would rub the nipples.  He did, and she gasped again.  The nipples were getting hard just he had as he became aroused.  She drew in a breath and then another.  It felt so good—just as she imagined. 

He released his hold, causing momentary disappointment.  She felt him lifting the blouse.  She raised her arms as he pulled it up and off, over her head.  They embraced and kissed.  It was a very nice kiss.  It started with affection, fast evolving to one that was of sex.  She felt his erection pressing against her naked belly.  Her bare chest pressed against his wiry torso, and even the scratchy sensation on her breasts was fuel for desire.  She kissed him back, pressing in with even more hunger. 

They were finally kissing after the sow beginning in the kitchen.  She inserted her tongue between his lips.  He tasted of mint.  He returned the pleasure.  She knew that she tasted of the brandy she drank not long before he arrived to preserve her courage.

“One more to go,” she said in a lilt as they broke the kiss. 

He loosened his lock on her a bit and tugged at the bow.  As her pantaloons fell to the floor, she wondered if her body would please him.  She reminded herself that she was still quite petite despite a few forgivable rough spots.  If only her husband noticed more often…  It was too late for thinking about that.

“I’ll make myself pleasing to him.” 

And, knowing how to do so, she pleased him with the feel of her body as he leaned forward to kiss her again.  She pressed her full length onto him; stroking him with it from head to toe.  She felt the hardness stab at her.  As she gave it all up she heard him moan. 

They melded, as they stood together on the bathroom floor beside the tub.  She felt slipperiness on her belly; she knew what it was.

“Let’s get in the water,” she said, smiling up at him.

He released her and stepped in and then sat down.  She flipped a couple of switches on the counter.  The water began churning; the sound of Ferrante and Teicher filled the room.  She filled the champagne flutes and handed them both to him.  She stepped into the water just in front of him and eased herself into it.  Her back was against his chest.

The water was just a bit hotter than warm.  He was sitting with his legs bowed out.  She occupied the space they created.  He handed her a flute and she took a sip before easing back against him.  She felt his erection against her back.  He draped a reassuring arm across her chest.  The water closed in over her legs and belly.

“This is very nice,” he murmured in her ear as he sat behind her.

“Yes, it certainly is,” she thought. 

She answered him with an agreeing purr and by easing against him a little more.  She took another sip of champagne.  It was very cold, a counterpoint to the hot water.  It occurred to her that it was a great skill to be able to open oneself to complete pleasure.  She was learning fast.  She took another sip of champagne—a bigger one.

He took a breast in his hand, thumbed the nipple.  He held the breast up a little and poured some of the cold champagne from his glass onto it.  The coldness shocked her and at first she was inclined to hold her breath and cover up.  She forced herself not to and let the sensation sink into her.  He poured some champagne on the other breast.  It was also nice.  He set his champagne flute down and worked her breasts full time.  She relaxed and let him—however he thought to do it. 

He did it in a number of ways.  She especially liked it when he’d grasp her nipple in his thumb and forefinger.  Just as he was about to pinch too hard he released it.  He did one and then the other.  When he returned for another round of pinching, she noticed that the buds were somewhat more sensitive.  As he plucked them for the third time she raised her champagne flute and threw her head back.  The crisp wine flowed down her throat, the sensation at her breasts and the foamy hot water cocooning her body made her feel as if she was in another place—where she’d longed so hard to be for so long.

She thought of her other spot, which hadn’t even touched yet.  It waited below under the water.  She’d rubbed it on him as they kissed before getting into the water.  It pleased her that he had taken his time—so patient and perfect.  She’d nearly forgotten the music playing behind the rumble of the whirlpool jets.  The CD was nearly two-thirds finished.  It was time for him to find his way down there.  He did, as if she had commanded him to do so.  He released her nipples and stroked down her belly.  It made her draw in her breath as she felt his hands exploring her.  She spread her legs more, placed them on top of his.

“Show me how you like it,” he growled into her ear in low volume. 

“How perfect!  I would never have been able to ask it of him.” 

She took his hand—middle finger, actually—and began to guide it to that special spot.

“Your arms aren’t long enough; you can’t reach it,” she laughed.

“Don’t worry; I’ll take of that,” he answered from behind.  “Lift up a little.”

She did and he crossed his legs, forming a kind of chair that lifted her the few critical inches.  She heard him utter a muffled groan and she felt his erection that she’d nearly forgotten poking at her bottom.  She leaned back against his chest.  The pressure subsided but she could still feel him. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked.

“No, it…”  He gasped again.  “It makes me want to be inside you.

“And so you shall be, and soon,” she promised. 

She was surprised how easy it was to say those words, considering all the time spent in consternation over commencing the whole risky project.  She seized his middle finger and slipped it between her folds.  She placed it on that precise spot that she knew would do the trick. 

He took over, massaging it in a circular motion.  It felt good. 

“I think you’ve done this a time or two,” she said—or possibly was a question.  

She relaxed and waited for the crescendo of pleasure.

“Not with you,” he answered.

“Don’t be coy,” she scolded.                                  

“Pinch your nipples while I do this,” he answered as he widened the circle that his magic finger traveled.

She raised her hands to her breasts and pinched her nipples as he directed.  The pleasure roared even louder

“Oh my!  How could he have known?”

The rapture escaped the confines of her vulva and overtook the whole of her.  He kept up the rhythmic circle with that skillful finger.  She pressed her pelvis up to deepen the pressure.  The approach of climax rushed at her. She continued pinching, and pressing.  He kept on with his circling.  It became inevitable: the tightening, approach and then— release.

When it was over and she felt blood flowing back into her brain, she remembered that it was the first climax she’d enjoyed in such a long time.  She wasn’t certain how long it lasted, or if she screamed his name at her apex—or screamed anything at all.  She allowed herself to bask as he held her in the water.  At first, she tried to remember every moment of it, but realized that the orgasm had not been a linear flight, but a journey into reality without tense, and that made it even better.

She felt him, still hard beneath her.  She considered stretching herself over the edge of the tub, presenting her sex to him that he could ravage from behind. 

“No, too vulgar.”

She swiveled part-way around and looked at him. 

“That was wonderful.”

“You did seem to be enjoying it,” he chuckled.

She ignored the glib comment and wrapped her arms around his neck.  She kissed him and then rested her head against his chest. 

“Let’s get in bed,” she purred to him.

They climbed out of the tub and dried off.  She took him by the hand and led him from the master bathroom.  The bed was ready.  In the completeness of her preparations she’d turned the covers down.

“I made something for us to eat for afterward,” she cooed to him.

She let go of his hand and descended to the middle of the bed and lay on her back.  He climbed on and rested on his knees between her spread legs.  She bent her knees and drew her feet up closer to her bottom.  He bent down, his face approaching her sex.

“After what he did for me in the tub, I should be going down on him.”

He licked at her once, but she cupped his face in her hands and pulled him up to her.

“We can do that later.  I’m ready for you to be inside me.”

He kissed her and she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back.  She felt him adjusting his hips as he searched for her opening.  When he got close she moved a little and he was there. 

She felt him at her gate, just wetting the blunt tip.  She lay still and waited.  She wondered if he would thrust in all at once, or ease his way in a quarter-inch at a time.  She hoped for both and neither.  She wondered, too, if she would climax again. 

As she was thinking about it, he chose the later.  She felt the mushroom head open her.  The shaft following behind filled her.  She enclosed her body around them.  He stopped moving when he was all the way in.  He was the perfect partner.

“Hold still—let me do it,” she whispered to him. 

She hadn’t planned it, but the inspiration pleased her.  He said nothing, but she felt him breathing faster. 

She wrapped her legs around his and tightened herself against his length inside her.  She pushed up.  He poured out a groan of pleasure.  She did it again and again.  She made him grunt and gasp and soon he was unable to help but push back as she pushed up at him.  At last, he pressed in hard and then froze.  She knew what was coming.  She felt him spasm inside her.  She squeezed harder and thrust up and then pulsed herself around him.  She knew he was empty; she felt a small climax of her own as he finished.  It wasn’t as big as the one in the tub, but equally rewarding in its own way.

He rolled off her and lay panting for breath.  She laid her head on his shoulder.

Her first act of adultery was complete.  She regretted every moment of guilt and quibble of worry that she’d spent over it.  She’d crossed over the line into a new region of womanhood.  Her body was stretched and opened anew; her spirit freed.  She felt desirable and desired.  She sighed a happy sigh.  She’d get up in a minute and bring the shrimp cocktail and Riesling upstairs to the bedroom.

** 

When it was finished she exhaled a contented sigh.  She lay still, happy with herself at having managed everything to such a fine conclusion.  She wondered if an encore would be a nice idea.  The whole thing had been so delicious and pleased her so well.  She decided not—the artist must sense the moment of the final brushstroke.

She closed her book and placed it carefully in the drawer of the nightstand and pushed it shut.  She glanced to the side at the slowly heaving mass under the covers that was her husband.  He had been sound asleep for quite a while already.  In a way, they were both dreaming.

His dreams were an uninteresting mystery to her.  Her own dreams were flowers in her private garden.  And, even better than a garden, she could dictate the unfolding of each perfect bloom.  She reached over and turned off the lamp, and then nestled herself down under the blankets.

“Yes, that was perfect—just the way I would do it.”

She listened for a moment to her husband’s heavy breathing, telling her that he was still asleep.  Then she closed her eyes, lifted her nightie and touched herself in that perfect spot in a way that pleased her.

THE END