She Came to Me – Part 3: A Day of Teasing (L)

(L) – This story contains strong language. 

Read the previous parts of the story here:
Part 1
Part 2

When we woke on the third morning, we smiled and looked into each other’s eyes—into each other’s being. She was okay with the night before. I was still confused about how to read the varying signals and moods I was getting from her over the last couple of days. Her mixed reactions over our last few days of relationship healing were understandable, but still confusingly unpredictable.

We got out of bed and showered together, and I found her pussy was still engorged. Her clit seemed swollen to nearly three times its normal size. It peeked out from her beautiful, puffy lips like a red sun breaking through a pink dawn. It was beautiful to behold, and forever I will be reminded of that beautiful, open, free pussy every time I see a sunrise.

She saw me staring, and she had no reaction to hide herself from me. She was not modest or prudish that morning. She flaunted her body naturally in front of me.

I finished up in the shower and made breakfast for the family.

She joined a bit later, and I was taken aback. She was wearing what I think of as her old lady armour: thick pants, multiple shirts, a jersey, a belt, and shoes. Her clothing completely closed her off from me. Our son was there, so I said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at her.

When the two of us were alone again, I remarked that I could see she had put her old armour back on. I tried to keep it humorous.

She raised her eyebrow in a familiar, playful way, smiled warmly at me, and told me she was hurting physically, indicating her pussy. She said she was confused about what was happening to her. She said she was still a little angry at me for the years of hurt.

Without breaking the moment, she said, “The only fuck you are getting today is a fuck off.”

I smiled at her.

Her face went serious. She told me sternly to go away and leave her alone—she truly needed to rest.

FUUUUCKKKKK. That was hot.

I retreated for the day and let her be, according to her request.

We did not shower together that evening, as she declined. Once we were in bed, I prayed for us, and we went to sleep. It was a very uneventful night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When we woke the next morning, some of her chilliness had disappeared, though not all of it.

It was our anniversary. Twenty-six years.

My old anger started early in the morning, trying to rear its ugly head. Not only had she emasculated me in bed by pushing me away, but a couple nights ago, she had basically cuckolded me in preference for her hands, ignoring my sexual needs, and keeping me at a distance.

I recalled my statement to her: I would bed her at my will. I would not be breadcrumbed. I would not be in a sexless marriage. I would take her when I need her. I would not bow to her nor find my being in her approval. But in my assertiveness, I would seek her best and her pleasure too.

My heart softened, and a plan hatched. Before this day was done, she would beg for release from me. She would ask me to make her cum.

I smiled at her, told her how much I love her, and gently took her to the shower.

I did not stare at her pussy, which was now nearly back to normal. I also avoided her nipples and breasts. I did not touch her shoulders and back, as I know it awakens her. I used everything I had, including prayer, to stop myself from having an erection.

When we were finished washing, I left the shower to make breakfast again.

I had been making breakfast all week, and doing most or all of the work in the house. I smiled, though, thinking of how much she loved my effort and the breakfasts, and I continued. Was I pussy-whipped, I wondered, or was I finding my way to loving mastery? If I did kind things, I wanted it to be because I decided to, and not to get something in return. No amount of cooking or cleaning would make her desire me. But the peace of the Spirit led me to know what would. I would be the man she needed to help her discover her own need for me.

She emerged from the bedroom in a long green dress. As I’ve mentioned in the previous parts of the story, dresses leave her practically naked to my eyes.

I smiled, kissed her, told her she was beautiful, and left her there. Dry. Untouched. I hid my desire and hunger. I was strong, self-contained. Today, I would take her like a man takes a woman, and she would beg me to. But that time was not now—it required preparation.

Our son was in the kitchen as I served breakfast. At one point when he turned his back, I grabbed my wife from behind, both forcefully and sensually, without restraint. I crudely traced the lines of her thong through her dress at the front of her pelvis. With pressure, I traced the arc of the panty leg to where her legs met and pressed on the lips of her pussy.

She froze in shock . . . then pushed back into me for more. I laughed and stepped away just in time before our son had a chance to see us.

She stared daggers at me. I laughed again, turned around, and ignored the glare as we had breakfast.

She made coffee. I took the coffee with a barely audible “thank you,” avoided her body and her attempted hug, and went to the loft to work.

Dammit. I nearly spilled my seed on the stairs, walking away. I loved this. It was hard having such control about when we touched, but the teasing would be worth it.

Later, I was thirsty and went downstairs. She was in the lounge and stood up as I entered. I asked her if she wanted coffee. She said yes. I pulled her up gently and kissed her. No, I invaded her mouth with my tongue. I forced myself in. Typically, she hated that. I tried it once before, and nearly lost most of my tongue. She outdid me. She kissed me back hungrily. I withdrew.

As I tried to walk away, she said she wanted a selfie of us kissing. Impossible. Who was this woman? There is one picture of us kissing, and that is from our wedding day. I whipped out my phone, grabbed her roughly, and took a picture of me kissing her. It was not perfectly framed. She remarked on the fact, and I told her, “Then we’ll need to practice to get a better photo.” I sent it to her, made coffee, and left.

In the early afternoon, a delivery arrived: essential oils she wanted, and a set of wire mesh baskets for the veggie rack. I had ordered it the prior evening at her request. I told her that our son and I would fetch it at the main gate, since this was the dog’s ride, and he would mess up her “pretty, sexy little green dress.” I did not want her to change out of it, I told her. I wasn’t done looking. I left without kissing her.

We came back and unpacked the delivery, and while she was loading vegetables into the new containers, she bent very low to pack them into the bottom basket. What an arousing sight! She had to use one hand to steady herself, her severe overhang making it difficult to balance otherwise. We are neither fit as fiddles, so it took effort. I knew she would not be able to move much.

I stepped up to her, my erection pushing into her. Stepping back slightly, I placed my hand on her bum and lower back and put my other hand full on her pussy from behind. I did not grope her, but I was not gentle either. I could feel her puffy lips, her erect clit, her wetness through her dress and panties.

She did not move. She did not react. I imagined I heard a soft whimper.

The whole day, in between the events described above, I gently kissed her when I passed her. I told her I love her. I told her I was sorry for ever hurting her. I told her I couldn’t imagine a life without her.

This was a game of me escalating, near crudely, without restraint, and then withdrawing to the loft. Each time I came to her, I carefully watched for any indication of her withdrawing, even the tiniest pull of the mouth. There was none.

Every time I entered a room, she stood up and moved to me, away from the door, away from freedom. She tried once or twice to touch me. I prevented her from doing that with a firm hand and a gentle smile. I would decide when and where we touched.

Later in the afternoon, around three, I invited her to swim with me.

I could see the look on her face change ever so slightly when I made this offer. She knows what the pool means.

We have a small 2.5-by-3-meter pool in the back yard, kept at 36.5°C by a heat pump. It’s surrounded by brick walls, but the neighbours could see in if they tried.

In the past, even in our rough days, we would sometimes skinny dip at night. I would swim naked, and she would eventually follow. At some point, her inner vixen simmered. One night after our son was in bed, she walked naked from our bedroom, through the fully lit house and into the pool. That night she fucked me in the pool. We did not make love. We fucked. No tender emotional connection, just raw sex.

The pool was the disconnected space where she masturbated me so I would stop nagging and hinting, and where she wanted to be fucked—though not very often over ten years. But today, the pool was a place of simmering sexuality again.

We swam for about an hour. Then she stood by me, took my noticeably hard penis out of my trunks, and started masturbating me. I let it have a few strokes to enjoy, then removed her hand, put my penis back, and told her I want all or nothing. I didn’t want release. I wanted her—every single part of her.

She was surprised. Intrigued. I had never rejected the opportunity for sex. She was used to the man who lived in the desert. But I had been in the oasis for two days. I was sated sexually. What I wanted wasn’t just sex, but her. I wanted the woman in front of me. And I wanted her to shamelessly ask for me.

I smiled and told her I love her, and that this was not going to end in the pool. I caressed her. She told me my touchy-feely approach was annoying and must stop. She swam away.

I smiled and said nothing.

As we swam together, we had a conversation about our life and disappointments. About thirty minutes later she swam to me again, and without me understanding how, she managed to stroke my penis between her feet. Her feet!

Oh, fuck. That was too much. I twisted away and told her we were still discussing our relationship, marriage, and house, and she was impolite to dare do this while we were speaking, interrupting a very sensitive and emotional discussion.

She looked confused. I told her I could see her hurt. I saw her fears. I suspected she wanted me to orgasm to avoid our emotional discussion.

She was utterly surprised. She acknowledged that I had been sexually persistent all day, and she expected I just wanted sex again. She wanted to get it out of the way. Her old fear of me yelling at her, resenting her, was still there. I knew it.

I talked to her about it there. I loved her. I embraced her. I explained that the hurt she had, that fear, was valid, created over twenty years. But I also told her to look back over the last week or two at our sensual evening encounters. These last few days and encounters should show that I would not hurt her. I would not shame her. I told her I love her, and that I was sorry for causing this. For six weeks, I had not raised my voice once. I would not now.

I told her we needed to go shower. The day had been long, and we had burned in the sun. Her pussy was dripping as we showered, and not just from the water. She clearly desired something more, but she played coy with me, and I ignored her hints at desire—for now. We dressed, and I left again. I felt like a king being able to resist masturbation.

That evening, we had communion as a family. She broke the bread for us. She gave us the wine—alcohol free—and delivered a sermon. She served us spiritually, me and my son. We have not had communion for nearly a year.

She prayed for us. Spiritually, she is my better. Far better. Far stronger.

After communion, we sat on the couch. I longingly said it was nearing eight o’clock, and asked what her plans were for the evening.

She looked at me and said she wanted to go upstairs and spend time with me.

I loved this. She was asking. Near begging. it was in her eyes.

I gently said that would be most enjoyable.

I took two pillows and two fresh towels, and went upstairs. I placed the towels on the bed like a sheet. Tonight was going to be wild.

I undressed, oiled my stiff penis, touched myself, and read MarriageHeat. I stopped at a point and relaxed, nearly drifting into sleep.

The ten-month-old puppy was too much. She had to spend more than an hour getting him to settle. Every time she tried to come to me, he barked and cried. But I waited patiently.

Eventually, I heard her coming upstairs. I opened the duvet for her to join me, but not enough to immediately reveal my nakedness. She climbed in and lay next to me, and I held her. She surely figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t wearing anything.

After a few moments she told me what I had been coming to realize: “I have no underwear.”

I told her I knew. I felt no lines through her dress.

I took the hem and started pulling. She lifted her hips, shifting her weight onto her shoulders and feet to help me move it.

Fuck. There is nothing sexier than a woman arching her back while lying down to help you remove her clothes.

The day of teasing was definitely paying off and moving the night in the right direction. I kept my hopes moderated, knowing our connection was still fragile and healing, but little did I know, this night was about to blow both of us away.

To be continued next week in Part 4.