The housewife's box

"You can set down the box and the pad -- just put them on the table," the housewife muses. She is standing slightly behind you, and since there are no tables anywhere near you, you walk over to the coffee table in the living room. Without looking back at the housewife, you bend over at the waist to place your items on the table, giving her a view of your mostly bare ass. You are reasonably certain that she is under the influence of your perfume, and suspect that this view might wash away any remaining reservations.

You straighten, and are about to turn, when you feel the housewife's body press against your back. Her hands start on your hips and slide up your sides almost to your armpits, then slip forward to cup your breasts. She squeezes them lightly, then the hands move further, until she is in essence hugging you. Her fingers quickly undo all the buttons of your shirt, then just as quickly pull down the cups of your bra, such that are folded up underneath and to the sides of your breasts. The bra, lacey and without an underwire, easily accomodates this. As this woman's quick fingers perform this work, she whispers in right your ear, "I think it is only fitting that since you have had a good feel of my breasts, that I should get a good feel of yours." Her hands caress your breasts, lifting and dropping them, pushing them together and pulling them apart, squeezing them and stroking them. Her fingers travel in lazy circles around your aereolae and around the circumference of each breast. Your body goes stiff at the pleasing sensations, and your skin all over feels warm as if sitting by a roaring fire on a winter's day.

"Now let me see these objects that up till now I have only been teased by." The housewife's voice and breath in your ear tickles it and sends shivers down the back of your neck. She lets her hands slide down off the sides of your tits, and with a single finger on your hip, encourages you to rotate to face her. You do so eagerly, but no faster than at the measured pace that her finger's light pressure dictates. Once you face her, the woman's eyes flicker up and down your chest, drinking in the sight. You can see a hunger and a fire in her eyes that is only strengthened by the sight. With judicious hands, she again massages and gropes your tits, this time appreciating the look of them as much as the feel. She leans towards you, bending and turning her head to kiss the ear that she was whispering into. She then trails her head down your neck, brushing just her lips against your skin as she goes. The warmth you felt all over is replaced with the tense chill of goosebumps as her lips pass across your clavicle and down to a nipple. Her mouth slides over the nipple in such a way that her lips do not touch it, and she hovers over it, just breathing her hot puffs of breath on to it. Then, she slowly draws away, without first giving it the engulfing swallow you so desperately desired for it.

Standing again straight, the housewife releases your breasts again, and raises her hands to her head. She runs her fingers over her ears, then slides them into her disheveled mass of hair, eventually seeming to hook her hands together behind her head. With her arms thus raised, her breasts now make clear promontories on the front of her robe. "As I have seen you, it is only fair that you see me," the housewife murmers. "Undo my belt." Your hands reach to the silk sash that is loosely tied at her waist, and easily pull open the fold of the loosely tied knot. Uncinched, the robe falls open slightly, offering you a slightly increased view of the insides of her breasts, but still concealing the majority of her body. The housewife arches her back, pushing her elbows back as well, and the smooth silk of the robe slides open and off the sides of her breasts, revealing her body to you. It is just as you imagined it; a collation of elegant curves, fair unblemished skin that seems almost radiant in the half light of the house. She is wearing nothing underneath the robe. Her breasts are high and firm, especially lifted as they are by her arms above her head. They are punctuated by small nipples the color of cotton candy. Her torso is a sculpted hourglass, and your eyes drink in her shapely legs and unshaved but trimmed pubic area. All over, her skin prickles in goosebumps that match yours.

The housewife's eyelids flutter and close. She stands, serenely, hands clased behind her head. You reach out to touch her. You are not sure if you want to caress her breasts or grasp her hips or place your palm between her legs; you know only that you must lay hands on her. Just before your fingertips brush against her skin, though, the housewife seems to melt away, as if your fingers were some magnet approaching a like pole. You realize with a start that she is falling backwards, and the dreamlike movement of your hands becomes a quick lunge to try and catch her, but too late. To your relief, you see that she has collapsed onto a plush leather sofa, her eyes still closed, her hands still behind her head. She is half sitting, half laying on the sofa, with her legs still clasped together. The shock of the quick event still has you frozen, and the woman is not moving either. Then, she turns her toes outward, and, keeping her knees together, slides her feet apart until they can go no further without parting her knees. She pauses, then, keeping her feet stationary, opens her legs, like butterfly wings. Her tautly spread legs outline her spare musculature, and draw your eyes in to her soft pink lips. She is shaven but for a trimmed patch of hair that lightly curls and accents the vista.

The woman is now so quiet, so serene, her breath so shallowly drawn, that you feel a need to remain quiet as well. You feel focused and centered; before, you had only the vague notion that you must touch her body, but now your only thoughts center around the thin pink line between her legs. You clasp your hands, which are stupidly groping the empty air, together. You sink first to a knee, and then to a kneel, and place your clasped hands in your lap. You lose feeling of your extremeties, and though some part of you can tell that your skin itches and burns, you are unconcerned with it. Already kneeling, as if in prayer, you lower your head, and bend forward, placing your head between her legs.

As your lips come into contact with the housewife's labia, her trembling lock into stiffness. You press your tongue into her vagina, then curl it up, running it over her clitoris as you do. The silence is broken by a loud cry from the housewife, though her body remains otherwise still. You remain as you are, kneeling, hands clasped in your lap, and she remains as she is, spawled on the couch, hands clasped behind her head. You kiss her labia several times, then begin to run your tongue along between her labia in smooth, light, slow strokes. Except for the first contact, your tongue never ventures more than a few millimeters in her, though you do brush the tip of her clitoris each time. You eventually detect that her legs are not actually still, there are just trembling so quickly that it seems almost as if they are. Your miniscule movements and her stillness are jaxtaposed with the housewife's moaning, panting cries, which are loud, insistent, and pleading in all the ways that her body currently is not. She extolls and criticizes you, begging you to go faster and demanding you to be firmer, while at the same time crying out praise and never bucking her hips. You continue to perform cunnliginus on her in this meditative state, as oblivious to her to her spoken and screamed and cried out words as you are to your own burning body. The housewife begs and begs and begs for a release that is so slow in coming that even she forgets what she is begging for, crying out only the word "please" as the pent up arousal fills her and fills her until she is frenzied and incoherent. Still you lap at her, measuredly, determinedly.

You can feel her orgasm coming like a tower slowly beginning to topple. Her trembling pelvis degrades from a hummingbird quaver to a wobbly, jerking shake, and then suddenly snaps up, her hips tightening, throwing your head back and off of her. As her hips snap, she lets out the scream of a woman under attack and in fear of her life. Her voice continues keening as her body remains still a mount, then jerks again, as her hands break loose of each other and she snaps into a fetal curl. You remain kneeling, gazing at her, watching as she wraps her arms around her knees, and continues to convulse and moan for almost a minute, the shaking and volume slowly subsiding. Eventually, she grows quiet, and her breathing returns to normal.