Cat Needs More Than Just A Shower

(Special thanks to Always_Jinx, a generous participant in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.)

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I'll be the first to admit that my wife and I lead a charmed existence; she'll readily chime in that I, in particular, am one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

What can I say? She's right. Well, my mother was a saint, but otherwise.

It's three in the afternoon on a Thursday; this semester, my wife doesn't have any lectures on Thursdays, only office hours, and those ended at two. She darted home, got changed, and went out for her run. I resisted the temptation to chase her down and pin her to the bed, but only because I knew that what was coming would be all the sweeter for it. It was for a similar reason that I'd stopped going out for runs with her; as much as I loved keeping pace behind her and watching the poetry in motion, we'd discovered some exciting benefits to staggering our workout schedules.

On Thursdays, I 'leave' my home office early, hit the weights in the garage, and suffer the sweet anticipation of her arrival.

I hear the front door open and then shut. Stretched but not quite sore, sweaty but not exhausted, I cannot keep the idiotic grin from my face.

I bolt inside from the garage, and then suddenly try to act casual. She's peeling off her sports bra right in the foyer, and her running shoes, socks, and lycra shorts will soon follow.

She knows I'm watching - we can both feel it, even though our eyes don't meet - but she's a world-class actress if ever there was one. She lets me be the voyeur for a few precious moments, and I watch her perky tits bounce ever-so-slightly as they finally breathe free. She bends and stretches on the landing to untie each sneaker, and, even with the shorts still on, the view of her tight ass is incredible. The ponytail stays up; I swear she re-fixes it before walking through the door, and if she does, well, I love her for it.

Her body and moves alone would make for an incredible peep show, but my wife goes the extra mile. She supplies the sighs, groans, and grunts of a woman caught between satisfaction and frustration. She's sweating, of course, and her blood is pumping, and she's surely feeling a bit of the burn. That all comes through - and then there's the entirely separate satisfaction of getting stark-ass naked. But there's something else, too. She has needs. One mission over, another begins.

She finally turns and makes eye contact.

"Oh, hey babe," she half-exhales. "You just coming in?"

She doesn't acknowledge my dumb grin, or the fact that I've been perving on her for a solid two minutes. She's not really looking at me - not yet. She doesn't even wait for my response before turning away again, sliding her thumbs into the lycra, tugging downwards on the shorts and thong simultaneously.

"From the garage, yeah," I reply, dumbly, because I just need to say something. That's how this goes. "Good run?"

She unbends and kicks the shorts off, arches her back a bit and rolls her shoulders. She's completely naked now, unless you count the scrunchy keeping that ponytail up. She's so beautiful it almost hurts me to look at her; my heart, fluttering more than pounding -- for now - can hardly take it.

I could halt the action here for days, I feel, and tumble down a rabbit hole of bad poetry, forever discovering a new feature of her body that demands an embarrassment of attention. It seems equally wrong to reduce it to colors and measurements, but there's also a duty owed, I suppose. I am bragging about my incredibly sexy wife to a bunch of strangers, and, if you'll forgive the terrible pun, there must be some kind of an entry fee for that.

I've always been a sucker for redheads, but there's a rule in our relationship that I never ask about my wife's hair color, even - or especially - when it noticeably changes. At present she's chosen a blazing autumnal theme, apropos of the season, accentuating the red of what I assume is a natural auburn. Again, though, I don't ask. I shut up and enjoy it. Long and wavy with plenty of bounce, it sets off her pale skin, and draws the eye towards the faintest hint of freckles across the bridge of her smallish, slightly upturned nose - that is, if said eyes can escape the magnetic pull of her own pair of bright emeralds.

Her full lips part ever-so-slightly to show a hint of teeth; a soft, vulnerable throat spreads out to perfect clavicles, which transition to feminine shoulders, extending downwards to slender arms and long, delicate, incredibly dexterous fingers. Her breasts eschew size for an impossibly youthful buoyancy, and are capped with pencil-eraser nipples set atop modest but pronounced areolae. Running and other exercise aside, she can easily get away with going braless, and she often does, especially since she knows it drives me crazy.

That exercise, meanwhile, advertises itself on both sides of the billboard. Her flat stomach flows into toned legs, while the double-x factor - plus a naturally slender frame - counterbalance all the running to create an ass that is a perfect polygamous marriage of athletic, bubbly, and heart-shaped.

And for all that, even if I'd dreamt her up and built her myself, she still wouldn't be as beautiful as she is in these moments. The woman just knows how to carry herself; her confidence makes every feature that much sexier as she moves, and talks, and compels me to follow her script even if I don't know the exact lines.

Some women are never wholly comfortable while naked. Their body language desexualizes their nudity, even on those rare occasions when they'd rather it didn't. Their partners can come to feel that they must needs move mountains to make them feel sexy, and therefore look their sexiest.

Then there are lucky sons-of-bitches like me, whose wives and girlfriends can infuse their nudity with raw sex just by shifting their shoulders and hips a bit, and make it look damn easy too. My wife is a master of being casually, sexily naked: neither hiding nor flaunting, and never appearing to try too hard. Oh, she can flaunt it too, but there's a time and a place. Right now, though, she wields her power over me by being completely comfortable in her nudity, here in the foyer, barely acknowledging either my lust or my own sweaty body.

"Yeah," she says noncommittally. If anything interesting happened, I'll hear about it later tonight. Now's not the time. The question was a formality.

She sniffs twice quickly, and grimaces just for second. It's not meant to cause or show concern. It just hints at that frustration.

"I need a shower," she says, and then, after a perfectly brief pause:

"And a shit."

I'll admit it: my dick twitches. Fast learner, total pervert.

Then my beautiful wife finally flips the switch and looks at me - really looks at me - for the first time this afternoon. She gives me the once-over, and she makes it clear that she likes what she sees.

I'm much less moved to give out my own colors and measurements, let alone make a haiku of them, but I'm also a few years past wondering what a woman could possibly see in me. I'm six-foot-one if I stand up straight, and I keep myself firm and toned with a decent exercise regimen of my own. I'm lucky enough to still have all of my hair, and to have found a barber who knows how to cut it properly. Cat told me outright, many years ago, that she prefers my face clean-shaven, and so that's how it's been ever since. I've never been drawn to the cult of the beard anyway, and, well, fair's fair: she keeps plenty of places hairless and smooth for me.

Granted, those piercing green eyes could still probably destroy me if ever they expressed disappointment instead of attraction, but today, once again, they're sending a positive signal. My wife wants me, and my heart takes the hint: it's time to stop fluttering and to start pumping that blood.

And so there we are, still in the foyer but very ready to be somewhere else. She doesn't need to ask, but she does anyway. It's the last line on the page for this particular scene.

"You coming?"

I am, I do, and I will.

During the short trip down the hallway to the bathroom, I get to stare at her perfect, naked ass while the fiery ponytail bounces at the topmost periphery. I can hardly believe how lucky I am, and am about to get.

Chance favors the prepared mind. There's a time and a place for spontaneity, but guys who hope to both get and stay lucky would do well to prepare - if not their minds, necessarily, then definitely the places they're hoping to have sex. What happens next in our bathroom goes smoothly because I did the work beforehand.

My wife turns on the water immediately, making sure it'll be hot when we both enter. Then she turns and looks me over again. I move in to kiss her (and mercilessly grope her, too,) but she pushes back.

"Clothes off, baby," she says firmly, and then doesn't bother waiting. She tugs my shorts down, kneeling in front of me as she does the same with my underwear. I've already pulled off my tee, so I get to briefly savor the sight of her at eye level with my cock. It still isn't completely hard, but it's definitely doing more than just twitching.

Cat puts the acting skills to work again, or maybe she really is feeling something exactly halfway between approval and lust. I decide she really is, and that gets me completely hard. She gives a satisfied smile in response. Her deft fingers reach up and lightly tickle my balls, and then she traces a single fingertip all the way up my shaft to the head as she stands. She puts the finger to my mouth, and I open for her.

Meanwhile, my own finger has found its way to the smooth, bare outer folds of her pussy, teasing her, moving suggestively towards her clit but never quite finishing the job. Her confidence and control, at their zenith when I tasted that hint of my own salt and sweat, falter as I trace my own finger upwards, finally brushing her clit once. I then let it drift along her hip and side, up to her breast and nipple, then to her throat, her chin, and finally her lips. She opens for me in turn, and her eyes have changed again. Her eyelids narrow, almost sleepily, showing that lust is beginning to cloud her mind, pushing her towards submission.

My free hand is eager to join in the fun, but I resist the temptation. I do lean in, though, and give her a low, rumbling affirmation:

"Right behind you, baby."

She nods and gets in the shower. This gives me a chance to take my socks off, which is, as she and I have discussed and agreed repeatedly, a weirdly unsexy part of getting ready for sex. I'll watch my wife take socks, leggings, stockings, or anything else off all day, and gladly do it for her if asked. All of that is sexy as hell. But my socks? Nope. One-hundred percent unsexy.

This way, she doesn't have to see it happen. How's that for planning and preparation?

Fully naked at last, I enter the shower behind her and grab her favorite soap. The water is already nice and hot - almost too hot for me, if I'm being honest, but my cock is mostly in charge now and it simply doesn't care. It has her body as a shield for the moment, and, fortunately for certain other sexy bits, the water will cool off before the shower's over.

My wife relaxes into me, letting me rub the bar of soap all over body. We both love how it glides over her smooth, wet skin, and she makes sure to give the occasional moan or groan of approval. All the while - unless I'm bent down myself to reach her calves or ankles - I'm rubbing my hardness against her ass and her back, and she encourages the motion with subtle ones of her own.

Eventually she reaches her hand out for the soap; as much as she enjoys my ministrations, she prefers to wash her most delicate place herself. It also gives me the opportunity to finish up my own soaping and scrubbing before grabbing another vital, pre-placed accoutrement. The lube we use on Thursdays is a thick gel that won't wash away easily.

I lean into her and rumble again in her ear.

"Assume the position, baby."

She moans in response, places the soap in its inset tray, and complies. Leaning forward, she grabs the handrails and spreads her legs a bit, which in turn pushes her ass both out and slightly apart. The plug is finally, fully visible - a small metal affair with a faux-gemstone faceted base that's a deeper, darker emerald than her eyes; alas, we couldn't find the perfect match.

I feint towards it, almost tapping it, but then let both of my hands run possessively over her entire body. I caress her face, gently grasp her throat, knead her breasts, and rub her nipples. Her pussy's not so easily within reach of my hands, so instead I bend my knees a bit and let my cock dip low, traveling between her legs and rubbing against her slick folds. She knows that's the not main event this afternoon, but she feigns just a hint of surprise and protest. I growl and grasp in response, wordlessly insisting she submit to whatever I decide to do. Her shoulders slump and her back arches a bit more; I'm in charge now, and she knows it.

I alternate between kisses and licks and half-bites all along her neck, shoulders, and upper back, keeping her engaged and stimulated until I decide it's time to give the plug some proper attention. I tap and push it first, eliciting more groans, then begin to suggest withdrawal. Before it comes out completely, I'm almost fucking her with it, testing how close I can come to withdrawing the widest part without doing so. My wife tries her best to stop her back and hips from moving - as sexy as it is, it does make the logistics a bit more difficult on my end - but it's clear to me I've tapped into her primal center now. She's not fully in control of herself anymore.

In fairness, neither am I.

The plug finally comes out, and her throaty gasp gets my cock as hard as it can possibly get. Reluctantly, I move one hand off my wife's submissive, vulnerable body and onto my cock to keep it that way; there's work to be done yet.

My other hand deals with the lube. Generous smears find their way all around her cleft. I go back for more to massage and push at her anus with my thumb, and yet again when it's time for a finger, then two, then three to properly coat the entire channel. I can still feel some of the residual, thinner lube from when she put the plug in.

Was it just before her run, or was it this morning? Stray thoughts run through my head: my incredibly sexy wife, glasses on, blouse and skirt, sitting with her legs crossed in a cramped little office ever-so-close to some naive student. She alternates between stern and compassionate tones, and her cute little charge is oblivious to the fact that her English professor is stimulating and pre-stretching her asshole so that her husband can literally fuck the shit out of it a few hours later.

That certainly helps Mr. Hand keep Mr. Cock happy.

My wife's moans bring me back; they've shifted subtly, letting me know that I need to deliver on that fucking. She really does need to shit, and so, ironically, the window for dirty, nasty, mind-blowing anal sex is closing.

The final smear of lube goes all over my cock, and I wipe the rest onto a nearby washcloth before grabbing my wife's ass and spreading it slightly with my thumb. My other hand steadies my cock and lines it up with her thoroughly prepared anus. I touch the head to it and wait for the involuntarily twitch. I lean forward and give her one last insistent growl.

"Submit," I command, and I bite at her ear for the first time. She tells me that she love-hates it. That makes it perfect for this very moment, as is the frustrated, almost petulant whimper it elicits.

I feel her relax her asshole - though not too much, because it's a very narrow window indeed before things get dicey. It's enough. My throbbing cock slides home as she lets out a long, low, almost gravelly moan.

I wipe my other hand and now firmly grasp both of my wife's ass cheeks, high up, near to the hips. I knead the flesh and the muscles below. I know from experience and after-action testimony that the rhythmic motions make her pussy spread and rub together too, teasing her clit and heightening the experience.

The fucking starts slow and commanding; I'm mostly upright, towering over her bent frame, savoring the sight of her hair, neck, arched back and skewered ass. The water spraying down on her back only accentuates her submission. With each thrust, I try to push a little further into her, and at this point she's lost the ability to give discrete feedback. The actress is done for the day; this is the animal.

Both of us are grunting more than groaning, and, though we've hardly a mind to perform for each other anymore, they're still the sexiest sounds I've ever heard. As the fucking continues and my cock goes ever deeper, even the base concepts of dominance and submission give way to something yet more primal: pure physicality, pure desire, pure pursuit of climax. When I'm finally buried inside of her all the way, I hunch forward and move one hand to her breast. Vaguely I think to myself that I should tweak and tease the nipple, but I'm so far gone that I mostly just grope and knead. My other arm wraps under hers and up to her shoulder for support and leverage.

My thrusting becomes ragged and violent, and I'm barely even kissing or biting her anymore; my lips and teeth are resting on her shoulder as partner to my bracing arm. It's not even thrusting, really. It's rutting. My cock's instinct, its desperate need, is simply to go deeper. Withdrawal is only acceptable to the exact extent that it grants leverage to try, over and over again - in vain, though, because there's simply no more cock to give, and in front of it is a stubborn second sphincter, holding for dear life onto its exercise-agitated payload.

We both know when I'm ready to explode. She can feel my cock swell inside of her, and I... well, it's my own damn cock, folks.

Through the animalistic haze, we both manage to remember the last vital ingredient of our intense anal sex session. My wife lets go of the left handrail and I use my arm to pull her up close to me, almost standing. I grab at her throat, and she grabs the detachable showerhead, deftly flicking the switch from spray to oscillating massage. She pushes it down to her pussy quickly, almost violently. My thrusting loses all rhythm and pacing, except whatever mysterious natural wavelength will finally lead me to climax.

I cum, and she does too. She loses control, and hot piss sprays out from her as she drops the showerhead and grabs onto something, anything, for dear life. I do the same, finding the left handrail. My other hand slides from her throat to her shoulder because I know that I'm going to pull her body into mine so hard that it'll hurt. I do, and we both shudder, weak in our knees. My cum blasted into her so forcefully that some of it, at least, finally did penetrate that final stubborn barrier. Even as my cock shrinks, I can feel her insides churn. I just gave her a hot semen enema, and we both know what enemas are good for.

I know we're on a clock, now, and one measured in mere seconds. I still can't help myself. I release the handrail and grasp at my wife's body with both arms, with both hands, with every part of me. I need to feel all of her, all at once, as intensely as I possibly can. I grab at her damp ponytail and urge her to turn her head. I need to kiss her, to bite her, to keep her and claim her repeatedly because this moment is everything and then there is nothing and I want to cry for how joyous and terrible and unfair is that contrast. I don't know that I could wish that same feeling on someone I love so much, and yet, I hope. I hope she feels the same.