One Again {Redman} {MF Rom}
(c) November 2000
Comments welcome at redman@seductive.com.
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Redman/

Author's note - Thanks to: Morgan for copyreading, 
Maggie for her low key suggestions, and to a certain 
Canadian Muse whose e-mails inspired many parts of 
this story. If anyone is interested in more stories 
about Annie and Richard, please let me know. 
Inspiration is always welcome.

More stories about these characters can be found at:

ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Redman/Waking_Annie.txt
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Redman/Sunday_Evening_with_Annie.txt 



                    One Again


It's days like today that remind me why I enjoy being 
married.

As I drove home from work, I remembered all the 
frustrations, missed deadlines, and aggravating co-
workers.  After twelve years with the same company I 
was beginning to carve out the niche I really wanted. 
That's a good thing, but with increased responsibility 
comes more headaches, more job hassles. It's easy to 
let these things get out of hand, to allow them to 
swallow up my life and make me lose perspective.

Then, there's Annie. As soon as I walk in the door, I 
am welcomed with the smell of home. I always like to 
open the door quietly and linger over the smells that 
greet me on the threshold. A home smells different if 
there's a woman there. Every scent that welcomes me 
reminds me of Annie. Tonight the primary fragrance is 
red beans and rice, so I know where to find her. 

As I look around the corner into the kitchen, I see her 
for the first time. She's a sight for a hungry man's 
eyes. She's doting over the red beans and listening to 
TV news coming in from the other room. She's stirring 
the beans a little aggressively, so I guess the news of 
the moment isn't good.

I love to look at Annie. She's wearing my favorite 
denim jumper with a white cotton top; she's barefoot 
with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. I 
set down my briefcase by the door and try to steal up 
on her from behind to give her a hug, but I know I'll 
never make it. Not unless she lets me.

"I hope you remembered to pick up your dry-cleaning, 
Richard," Annie says without turning around. But I can 
hear the smile in her voice when she says it. 

"It's good to see you too, dear," I whisper into the 
nape of her neck as I draw her into a hug from behind. 
I nuzzle around her ponytail and nibble at the base of 
her hairline as my arms engulf her. Annie leans back, 
melting into me, telling me with her body that she's 
glad to have me home too.  

I feel her breast, large and unrestrained against my 
forearm. Her soft, generous buttocks mold against me, 
wiggling just enough to press the growing bulge in my 
slacks into the cleft of her beautiful backside. Best 
of all, I catch the gentle flowery scent of my favorite 
perfume, the perfume I gave her on our anniversary. We 
save that perfume . . . for special occasions.

On smelling it, I immediately look around for the kids, 
only to hear Annie chuckle. It's a deep, throaty 
chuckle of promise and desire. It's the kind of chuckle 
that would warm any man's heart.

"They're gone and won't be back for hours. It's just 
you and me, Richard. Think we'll know what to do with 
ourselves?"

"Well Annie-my-dear, I think I may have a few 
suggestions . . ."  

The reason I love the denim jumper is because it's made 
something like overalls. There's a bib in the front and 
the sides scoop deep. The open sides beckon my hands 
like an invitation to explore. On the one hand is the 
lovely fullness of her breasts. On the other is a whole 
world of mysterious possibilities down below. 

I know that we are both of the same frame of mind 
because not only did the left hand confirm she was 
braless, but as my right hand slips down to rub her 
gently rounded belly, I find out that she isn't wearing 
panties either.

After leaning back and giving me a kiss on the cheek 
over her shoulder, Annie begins to stir the red beans 
again. My own hands move to the rhythm of her gentle 
stirring, only mine are stirring Annie.

"How'd your day go, sweetheart?" I whisper into her ear 
as I lean against her, both of us enjoying the warmth 
of the stove and of our love.  

"Hmm . . . same as always. Josie didn't do anything all 
day except complain."  Josie is Annie's secretary and a 
source of constant aggravations.

Neither one of us is listening though. We both know 
what kind of day she had and what kind she'll have 
tomorrow. It's all just banter; vocals set to the music 
of my hands moving over her soft skin. She could just 
as easily be talking about the kids or about church or 
anything else that fills our lives. My brain would hear 
it and I would process it somewhere inside my head, but 
my concentration and her own were both on what I was 
touching and what she was feeling.

My hand snakes even deeper and plays through the 
familiar grove of her pubic hair. Annie parts her legs 
a little more and presses backward with her bottom ever 
so slightly.

"I finished a newsletter today," I say as my finger 
slips between her labia. There's just the hint of 
moisture and I hear her moan softly as I begin to 
wiggle my finger gently to and fro.  

Annie slowly sets down one spoon on a paper towel and 
picks up another to stir the rice. While she did, I ran 
my hand underneath the cotton top, lifting her breast 
away from her body as I began to squeeze it soothingly. 
Annie never enjoys nipple play, but she dearly loves to 
have the undersides of her breasts stroked and 
massaged. As I begin to stimulate her breast in time to 
the finger slowly caressing her vagina, my wife gives 
her bottom extra pressure against me as her way of 
saying she is enjoying my attentions.

"Katy's getting all A's on her report card, by the 
way," Annie says as she sets the spoon down and tries 
to turn around to face me.  

As I disengage my hands reluctantly, she turns and 
comes into my arms. Now we're able to greet each other 
fully. For a brief moment, there is no TV, no food on 
the stove and no kids underfoot. There is only Annie's 
lips on mine, Annie's tongue dancing with mine and 
Annie's luscious, familiar body moving against me.

It's a long, sensuous kiss that only long familiar 
lovers could share. When we were young, our kisses were 
hot, smoldering events. Only after years of practice 
had we learned not to hurry. It took us that long to 
learn that kisses and hugs aren't things we do before 
we make love, they're things that we do while we make 
love.

Annie is tough as nails on most things. She outworks me 
at everything we do together; housework, yardwork or 
any of the many things a couple does together. In her 
work, with our kids, in almost any endeavor, my wife is 
a bundle of energy and creativity.  

But when she's ready to be loved, she's slow and easy 
and wants me to take the lead. I'd never say 
submissive. Not my Annie! Pliable is more the word. 
When I lean, she leans. When I grab, she's ready to be 
grabbed. When I caress, she purrs.

So it is right now. For as long as I want to kiss her, 
Annie kisses me. For as long as my hands explore her 
back and bottom, Annie is willing to be my uncharted 
wilderness. For as long as I want to handle and taste 
and smell, Annie is willing - and more.

Expectantly, I pull back from her lips. Annie's eyes 
are still closed, her lips slightly parted. Her face is 
never more pretty than when she has just been kissed 
and wants more.  I know it's a bit heartless, but just 
the look of her always makes me want to leave her 
wanting more.

She finally opens her eyes and looks at me. I can see 
the need in them, a need that matches my own, perhaps 
even exceeds my own.

"I'm not really that hungry at the moment, love," I 
tell her. Which isn't altogether true. We are both 
hungry, but with a different hunger now. 

"I can set these aside to cool," she says, nodding to 
the food on the stove. Then she runs her fingers 
lightly over the bulge in my slacks. "But we'd better 
not let this fellow cool down."

"Not likely to happen with that perfume and no kids."

I went to cut off the TV as she put the food to the 
side. Over the years there were many meals we had 
skipped or delayed in the name of love. If I have my 
way, there would be many more.

I meet Annie back in our bedroom as she is shrugging 
off her clothes. I rush to catch up, and by the time 
that I am down to skin, Annie is stretched naked on the 
bed, a luscious invitation.

Seeing her there, laid out before me like a meal, 
reminds me of a poem I had read to her on our third 
night together:

     "Away with silks, away with lawn; 
     I'll have no screens or curtains drawn. 
     Give me my mistress, as she is, 
     Dressed in her naked simplicities: 
     For as my heart, e'en so mine eye, 
     Is won with flesh, not drapery."

I know other men, and women too, are passionate about 
lingerie in all its many forms. I vote with Herrick. 
Annie won my heart with flesh, and lots of it!

As I crawl up between her legs, she starts to squirm a 
bit. Annie hasn't had a chance to freshen up after a 
long day at work. I know she's sensitive about allowing 
me to kiss and lick her at times like these, but seeing 
her there, and being just a little hungry for food, 
makes me want to eat her all the more. It's funny how 
the hunger in my stomach can fuel the one in my loins, 
but it does. I press on and in, overcoming her 
reluctance. It isn't difficult to do since my wife 
dearly loves to be eaten.

So I take my time, reveling in her musk and the lovely 
aroma of my good woman. She allows me this decadence, 
only slightly guiding my endeavors with the tips of her 
fingers. Eventually though, by some silent psychic 
bond, she tells me that she needs more. I enter her 
with my fingers and start to concentrate the dance of 
my tongue on her clitoris.  

Anne's orgasm builds up in plateaus. It's not a sprint, 
it's a marathon. My fingers work at the pace of her 
beating heart. My tongue can sense it through her 
flesh. My eyes can see it in the rise and fall of her 
belly as she breathes. As her heart beats faster, as 
her breath comes quicker, so does the speed of my 
stroking fingers, so does the rhythm of my licking 
tongue.  

There comes a point where Annie's arousal is all 
consuming. I can feel it in every portion of her body. 
Her fingers become more insistent, entwined in my hair, 
holding on. Her pelvis lifts off the bed toward me. Her 
belly rises so high I can't see her closed eyes - her 
straining face - any longer. That helps me to 
concentrate, to put every ounce of energy toward 
pushing her over the edge.

Finally, when every nerve is tightly strung, Annie tips 
over that edge. Her thighs reach out to clutch at me, 
though not fiercely. Even in release there's nothing 
fierce about Annie. Her climax is a long, flowing wave 
of pleasure.  Drawing back, I can see it washing over 
her. She uses both hands to rub her clitoris through 
each wave, pausing at the apex, reveling at the 
splendor of each height. Down each trough and upward 
with each progressively shallower wave, she strums her 
clit. As she does, I know to move my fingers to the 
cadence of her own, pausing deep within her when she 
pauses, pumping quickly when she rubs.

Eventually the fingers slow and cease. She is beautiful 
in ecstasy; so beautiful that man shouldn't be allowed 
to see such things. Having seen such beauty and 
intensity, what man can be satisfied with the rest of life? 
What man, having seen a woman in such a state, can even 
be satisfied with his own orgasm? A woman's climax is a 
work of art; a man's, a comic-strip imitation.  

As I place my hand over her, covering her vulva 
completely, she is jolted. Even so, she presses back 
against me and I feel through my palm the little waves 
still running through her vagina.

My need is hard upon me, my penis rampant, but I grit 
my teeth and stay strong for her and let her pleasure 
run its course. I watch her eyes, knowing that when she 
opens them she's ready for me.

Eventually I see her eyes flutter, then open wide. The 
warmth and the depths of those eyes! Never deeper, 
never warmer than just after orgasm.  She raises her 
arms and welcomes me, pulling me into her.

As I enter her, we are one again . . .