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From: "E.Z. Riter" <ezriter@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} {ASSM{EZ}rp Anniversary(MF Rom)
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The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for
adults in locations where it is legal. If it is illegal in your
location, DO NOT read. This is a copyrighted work. Reposting or
any other use strictly prohibited without the express, written
permission of the copyright holder, except may be posted as part
of a review or posted to free-access, noncommercial archive
sites.
Copyright 1999 by E. Z. Riter.
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
Please! Give me your comments!
Dear Reader, This should be read slowly and leisurely. Take your
time and enjoy. My thanks to Rex and Gail for their editing and
advice. E.Z.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Their life had been like that of most other couples married five
years: two children, a mortgaged house, good friends, some good
times and some bad times. Their fourth anniversary had been a
surprise, planned by him to make it special for her. She blessed
it with tears of joy. She had planned and worked for months to
make their fifth anniversary special for him.
Her plan demanded physical as well as mental fitness. She was
running and lifting weights at the gym. Watching her muscles
ripple, she smiled to herself thinking of what his responses
would be when she gave him the gift. He had made positive
comments on the changes in her appearance. He was always
positive and supportive for her, as she was for him.
She designed a new, white evening dress. It covered her from its
high collar to the flowing hem around her feet. The dressmaker
had eyed her knowingly when she told her what she wanted. The
dress was really six pieces, attached to each other with velcro.
Skin tight, both hiding all and hinting at much more, it was
designed to be removed piece by piece. Under her dress, she
would wear six different items. She purchased matching shoes,
higher heels than would be comfortable, but she would not be
wearing them for very long.
She rented a small nightclub with an elevated stage and effective
lighting for their anniversary night. She arranged a caterer.
She hired a young lady named Vicki to assist her. When she told
her brother she wanted him to help her interview and hire an
exotic dancer, he looked askance, but knew better than to ask too
many questions.
About a month before their anniversary, her husband asked if she
wanted to go away for a few days and take some time for
themselves. She smiled at him, a smile laden with hidden
meanings.
"I've planned our anniversary celebration. I want it to be a
surprise; so please, don't ask about it."
The hook was set. She knew his curiosity would eat at him, and
anticipation is part of the fun.
He tried; she knew he really tried, but as the date got closer,
his anxiety about the evening increased. She would only smile,
her secretive, womanly smile designed by God and nature to drive
men crazy.
"It's not much longer, honey," was all she would say.
A week before the date, as he was hurrying to leave for work, she
handed him a white envelope. Eyes twinkling, she told him, "Our
anniversary's next Wednesday. Please take off Thursday and
Friday. This envelope has your instructions. Don't open it
until Wednesday morning."
"You're driving me nuts with all this secretive stuff!" he
complained.
She smiled that smile and pressed herself against him. She
kissed him hard, deep to his soul, then her fingers slid down his
chest to fondle him before she pulled away.
"I know," she whispered. "Isn't it fun!"
She walked away sexily, rolling her hips. She knew he was
watching every movement and wondered if he would follow. From
the kitchen window, she saw him standing by the car with a look
of total confusion on his face. She smiled as she saw him sigh
and open the car door.
He opened the envelope as soon as he got to the office. It read:
"Honey, be home by four. Shower. Put on only the clothes on
the bed. Directions to dinner are enclosed. Be there promptly
at six. I love you."
In the evenings, he watched her as she did the dishes or read to
the children at bed time. She was serene and at peace. She
would catch him watching her, and that smile would flit cross her
face. Gone in an instant, it became a ghost walking the hallways
of his mind.
Tuesday, when he moved in bed to touch her, she said, "No, baby,
not tonight. Let's wait one day . . . please, just this time."
Her smile was soft and warm, a genuine signature of love.
"I can't wait one more minute, let alone one more day! Are you
trying to drive me crazy?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in
frustration.
Her fingers touched his cheeks as she lightly kissed his lips.
She smiled like a cat with a canary, as she said, "Yes." She
rolled over, turning away from him. "Good night, my love," she
whispered. She slept like a child. He knew because he was awake
a good part of the night.
He was home at four the next day. The house was empty and as
quiet as a tomb. He wondered what she had done with the
children. He took the stairs two at a time. When he charged into
the bedroom, the only sounds were his breathing and the ticking
of the old clock on the bedside table. His tuxedo was on the
bed, neatly laid out, shirt freshly ironed and starched.
However, she'd forgotten his underwear. Or, had she omitted them
on purpose?
He bought flowers. The girl at the florist shop took his order
for one dozen red roses. "Looks like a special evening," she
said. She smiled at him, that knowing smile women have at these
times when they can feel a man's excitement. He decided to buy
two dozen and waited impatiently as she completed the order.
He arrived early, but waited, knocking on the heavy wooden doors
at exactly six. His wife was stunning, so beautiful and radiant
that his breath caught when she opened the door. She took his
flowers and smiled at him, a sensual
take-me-now-or-regret-it-all-your-life smile, and slowly turned
so he could see her. She was dressed in her white masterpiece,
her coal black hair piled high on her head, emerald ear rings
matching her emerald eyes. He watched her sway beneath the dress
as he followed her to the table. She had always turned him on,
it was a major reason he married her, but tonight he could not
remember ever wanting her more.
The caterers had laid out the feast: warm spinach salad, lobster
steamed in white wine and served with drawn butter, angel hair
pasta with red plum sauce and fresh asparagus. Desert was his
favorite: vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries served over
home made pound cake which she had lovingly made earlier that
day. All served in small portions as to not dull their other
appetites, and wine with each course, naturally.
A beautiful young woman with long golden hair, dressed in a
French maid's costume with its low, square bodice and short,
stiff petticoats, was standing by the table. His wife said,
"This is Vicki. She'll be our waitress." As Vicki curtsied, he
glimpsed the bounty behind the bodice.
His wife put the roses in two separate vases on the table. They
sat opposite each other, enjoying the outstanding food, the fine
wine, as Vicki provided impeccable service. His darling wife was
a scintillating and stimulating dinner companion, tonight more
than usual as he sensed her anticipation and exhilaration. As
always, he was enchanted by her as he floated in her corona.
After dinner, as Vicki cleared the dishes, his wife rolled in a
large, comfortable recliner and faced it towards the stage. She
handed him a glass of port and extended the foot rest. She gave
him a fine cigar and held the lighter as he stoked it to life.
She sat on the chair arm, making small talk, her fingers idly
stroking his arm.
The house lights dimmed and lights flooded the stage. The music
started. Vicki entered stage left dressed in a flowing evening
gown with a cape.
"Relax and enjoy," his wife whispered in his ear.
She knelt at the foot of the recliner, removed his shoes and
socks and began massaging his feet. She watched his face. She
could not see Vicki; she did not want or need to. She knew
Vicki's dance would last eleven minutes and thirty five seconds.
She knew it would begin very slowly and build to a crescendo.
She could listen to the music and tell what clothing Vicki wore
and each step Vicki took. She knew because she had choreographed
Vicki's dance.
Vicki had warned her. "No one does a dance this . . . well, this
sexy. He'll go wild."
"Good," his wife had replied, "let him go wild."
She sat at his feet because she wanted to watch him. She wanted
to see how he reacted when Vicki removed her clothing,
particularly at the ten minute fifteen-second point when the
music changed to a hard, fast rock'n roll beat and the last of
Vicki's garments hit the stage. Vicki was hot; she loved to dance
and pushed the limits. His wife knew he would enjoy Vicki and his
tension would increase. After five years, she knew exactly how
far she could stretch him.
She watched her man as she knelt at his feet. She could see his
discomfort as Vicki's routine moved into its fifth minute. He
would glance at her furtively, tearing his eyes from Vicki to see
if she minded his reactions. She would smile at him
reassuringly, to let him know he was welcome to enjoy. She felt
the tension in his feet as she massaged. She felt him move,
once, then again, to hide his erection. She looked away and
smiled to herself. She'd expected this and it was funny when he
tried to hide it from her. After all, she had selected her
position to see him.
The music and Vicki were approaching climax. He was paralyzed,
barely breathing. She rose when the music stopped, looked at
Vicki and was startled. His wife looked at him. He was dazed.
She knew it was a hot number but it must have been something
special when Vicki unleashed her sexuality in the actual
performance. She vowed to tip her for the extra effort.
She stood behind him, rubbing his temples in a slow, circular
motion. She felt his blood throbbing beneath her fingers as he
decelerated. She refilled his glass and resumed her massage. As
she caressed his cheeks and scalp, his tension eased from her
ministrations. He leaned back, eyes closed. She let Vicki out
and locked the door. They were alone in the club.
The spotlights covered only part of the stage allowing her to
move in and out of the brightness, using the shadows to her
design. He sat up when she started her music.
She let her hair down as she slowly walked to the edge of the
stage and said to him, "We're alone. My dance is only for you.
You're my man and I'm your woman. I love you." She blew him a
kiss and began, gently swaying to the slow and easy rhythm.
Sometimes, if a man is lucky, he will find a real woman: an
honest, unique, three-dimensional creation of God. Something
about her will burn into his brain, becoming essential to his
being, forever in his memory. Perhaps it is a physical feature,
or movement, or a smell, or aura, or maybe a look, that fires
him, forever molding him by the heat she created. And, if that
man is very lucky, she will become his woman and a great,
lifelong love will have been born.
When he saw her for the first time, she was dancing. Her
movements, lyrical and sensual, radiating energy and passion,
mesmerized him. He knew he must possess her. But, it was her
many smiles, the ethereal and undefinable kaleidoscopes of skin
and muscle, which sealed his fate. Her
"take-me-or-lose-your-mind" smile which caused him to fall
captive, her "I-want-and-love-you-forever" smile guaranteeing
their heat would never cool.
She was so graceful, so lithe, as she moved in unison with the
music, each beat sounding a carnal movement by her as the woman
animal inside her was freed. Slowly, wantonly, she moved in and
out of the light, artfully using and then discarding the separate
pieces of the dress in a vision of eroticism, raising his
temperature and hypnotizing his mind.
And her face . . . her face played on his soul as it mirrored
her passions to him.
She was sweating, her body covered with her wetness,
undergarments clinging to her. He was sweating, too. He
wondered if he could last through her dance.
She began to strip her lingerie, revealing pink skin, satiny and
shiny with sweat, covering flowing muscles. Stockings and shoes
gone; shapely legs and feet revealed for him to feast his eyes.
Perfect timing, building towards an end he knew would come if he
was strong enough to withstand temptations and tensions unfolding
at a maddeningly slow pace.
Her pelvis undulated as she undid the garter belt and tossed it
aside. Only the bra and panties remained as she gyrated
barefooted to the ever increasing tempo of the music. He was
unaware he was also stripping as she led them towards climax.
All he knew was he was becoming a wild man, desperately needing
her and unable to withstand the torture much longer.
"No, no," she said with a wicked smile. Only then did he realize
he was stroking himself through his pants. He moaned, grabbing
the arms of the chair in desperation.
The music escalated as she removed her bra with painful slowness.
She would turn and twist, using light, material, her arms, to
hide and reveal, teasing him.
He managed to stand and remove his trousers. He moved to the
edge of the stage. She danced above him, seeing his tension and
naked hardness. She fell to her knees, moving arms and hands,
covering, then finally revealing, her breasts. She offered them
to him, tantalizing, teasing, withdrawing when he leaned forward
to kiss an erect nipple. He grabbed her legs. She pried his
hands off, pushed them down, using all her strength to guide his
fingers to the metal rail. Her eyes never left his.
She smiled, a "you-want-me-so-badly-you-would-kill-to-get-me"
smile, passion dripping from every pore, as she moved above him.
His knuckles were white from holding the railing and the muscles
in his arms stood out like cords of steel cable, pectorals
twitching from the stress he bore. His breathing was shallow and
ragged. The veins in his neck and forehead throbbed like blue
snakes under his skin. His eyes were glazed and unblinking,
stupefied. A tear ran down a cheek, a tear of tension and
frustration. He was on the edge where she'd hoped and planned he
would be.
The music accelerated as did she, maximizing intensity, on her
knees before him, pulsating, slithering in wild abandon, her
smell thick as a field of flowers, her heat radiating in heavy
waves. He was catatonic but began to shake uncontrollably. Her
face was the flame, her body the fire, which would engulf him.
Body heaving from exertion and need, knees wide, heels under
buttocks, she lay back, shoulders to the floor, as the music
stopped . . .
Silence! except her panting and the crashing of the blood through
his brain. Panties gone, her pelvis inches from his face . . .
shaven bare, bloated with desire, glistening wet.
Like a wave rolling into the beach, she rose to put her arms over
his shoulders. Lithely she moved to lock her legs around his
biceps. She thrust her pelvis against his lips. He growled like
a rutting beast. Down, down his body she slid until her face was
against his.
"Fuck me now," she groaned in his ear.
****
He awakened in his own bed, his body drained and sore. He shook
involuntarily upon remembering last night, the unbelievable force
of the maelstrom, the power of the passion which had consumed
him. Every muscle ached as he tried to sit up. He saw the nail
marks on his arms and chest, teeth prints on his inner thigh.
He threw off the sheets to look at her. Her face looked so
innocent and pure, incongruous to her womanly form and her wanton
wildness a few hours ago. He marveled at her, thanking his lucky
stars.
Her eye lids moved; she stretched.
"Hi, stud," she said sleepily. "You were something!"
That smile flashed again and his guts churned.
"I hope you enjoyed it," she teased.
She pushed him down and lay against him, head on his shoulder,
warm softness of her breasts against him.
"Happy Anniversary, my love," she whispered as she drifted back
to sleep wearing a warm little smile, the smile of a woman in
love.
The End
Please! Let me have your comments!
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
--
If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments
are their only payment. Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is
copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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