Nestled, as Spoons

She molded to him, tucking her knees behind his and inhaling deeply at the back of his neck. It had been their tradition for years now. Their bedtime due diligence. First, she would lay her head on his chest and they would chat about their day. She would breath deeply the clean smell of his shirt, think a passing thought about laundry detergent, wonder if anymore was needed to maintain the automatic cycle of their laundry routine. In the past few years, the answer had been a resounding 'no.' She'd set them a standing order with a new, strangely tech-y brand of detergent that left her husbands tee shirts smelling crisp as a spring morning. And with a net zero impact on the environment to boot. No complaints from her.

Then, after a few minutes of chat, he'd press his lips to her forehead, tip her chin up for a kiss-- sometimes it would lengthen into a slow, teasing affair (less than often, and she felt very little about that) -- and say, "Sleep well. I love you.' Having given the words voice, he would flip over, settle in, and she would spoon him. It was their way. And it was a tradition in which she found both comfort and purpose.

She was a creature of habit. She'd been masturbating the same way since middle school, liked her daily egg boiled and jammy (flakey salt, yellow mustard, dry toast), and she paused for a count of three before answering questions. Deliberation and cultivation were her most oft used tools. Something had interrupted her today, though. Something unexpected. For all the hype around surprises, they weren't her favorite. She valued tradition.

Her husband was a lawyer. High powered, high earner. She'd married him before the lawyer bit, but after he'd started down the road. She'd been too young to really know what kind of life an accomplished lawyer husband would bring about. She'd just been too young in general. She was a salt of the earth type. Old fashioned, for some. She'd started to go gray in her early twenties and hadn't 'remedied' the problem. Her girlfriends words. She thought the streak of silver in her dark brown curls made her look accomplished, and (if she were being honest) a little sexy. Her husband had agreed.

That was about the gist of it: she'd gone gray, he'd loved it, and so she'd married him with very little regard for what the future may bring. She liked the little, constant things. He still tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.

Silence aside, he still complimented her hair. What had been a cascade of thick and swarthy curls was now a modest lob, curling around her chin and framing her keen face with still-remarkable effect. The last few years her stylist had highlighted her Isabella Rosasellini- rivaling good looks with short, choppy bangs and a brow dye-job. She was a beauty, and she knew it. She was tall, loved to run, and her body craved fiber over salt and fat.

She was a natural made man-eater, though she'd never cultivated that part of herself. For a woman gifted the skill of determination, she'd never valued that part of herself. The part that turned heads. Had since she could remember. She didn't care to remember, if she were honest. Men didn't see age in the face of beauty. Her mothers pronouncement. She'd agreed, then rejected that path of inquiry.

Now, nestled against her husbands broad back, she toed the path. She remembered the gym, after a tennis lesson. In her small, Indiana home-town, she'd spent years playing tennis, and then lifting weights at the local YMCA. She'd started young, spurred on by a military father and union-raised mother. They'd valued hard work, and so she'd worked hard. She'd played a few set and then lifted weights. The tennis started early, perhaps six, or seven. The weights, earlier then doctor recommendations, perhaps twelve.

So at twelve, she'd been in the same room as thirty, forty, sixty year olds. One, a local pediatrician, talked to her every time she saw him. Once, he'd touched the damp collar of her tee-shirt and rubbed the moisture between his fingers saying, "wow, you've worked yourself into quite the lather." She, having been well trained in manners and deference to adults, said, "I work hard." The doctor had looked her in the eye, stepped a bit closer (she can remember the spearmint scent of his breath) and said, "you'll be too old for my office soon, Jane. Let me know if you need a... hard... job. After school, of course."

Gross. She tucked her nose into the lavender smell of her husbands tee shirt and tried to eject the memory. Fairly innocuous, as line-toeing goes, but she can't quite get the image of the YMCA-going doctor out of her mind. Pediatrician. Stringy, straw-colored comb over. The yo-yo-ing weight of a woman. Hawk nose. Tall and authoritative. His hands had been large. He'd seemed, to her at least, infallible. He'd been arrested while she was finishing up her third year of college. A year after she'd met Daniel. A few months after she'd agreed to marry him, her fathers approval pending.

Her father had approved, with a hearty handshake and here she was: a woman behind the scenes. Overeducated, quiet, deliberative. A gentlewoman. Nearly severe in her competence. She was council and harbor for him. They sometimes sat at the dinner table and talked though legal strategy or personality conflicts about the office. She was proficient in many spheres. He valued her, and made sure she knew it.

Today, though, something had been different. Not too, too different, but enough that her agile mind alighted on it as a hawk does prey. He'd hired a new paralegal. Lovely, and young. Steely-eyed as she'd been in her youth, and her young mouth set in a hard line of defense. Jane had spotted her before her husband ran the news past her. She'd seen her parked in her Jetta, short hair styled into a genderless high and tight. Well, maybe more masculine than what she understood.

There was an instinct she was fighting with here. She knew, on some level, that her husband only hired the best. So somewhere, in this vast sea of assumptions, there must be a valid reason for the hire. There must be a GPA or letter of recommendation that bolstered the decision. Lady Jane, one traditional to a fault (she suspected, now, and suddenly), was shaken. The new hires gender non-conforming, non-traditional garb and appearance hauled Jane's many and secreted insecurities, flailing, into the light.

She pressed her taut belly and chest into his back. Snaked her hand up between his languid arms and pressed a palm to his heart. She scooted forward, pressing her pelvis into his backside, momentarily thrilling in the feel of his thoroughly male ass rutted up against her pussy.

She was gratified by a sleepy response. His usually shallow breathing faltered ever so slightly. She searched along the cotton of his shirt to find the comforting shape of his chest, moldered her palm over the peak of his nipple. A low rumble in his chest. Not that this was much of a deviation. She petted him.

She lifted her face, pressed her lips into the back of his neck. The skin there was soft and fragrant. Tulsi, cedar, and tobacco. Man smells, supplied by body wash and natural advantage.

She sensed a familiar feeling coming about. It was a familiar and -- as of nearly nineteen years of marriage-- yet-uninvestigated feeling: that of dominance. By her. She wanted to inhabit him, and grind him to dust. Strange. Alluring. Settled deep in the tight muscles of her abdomen. She felt her stomach pull up in anticipation. She knew what was coming. What always came, when she felt insecure. A rare thing.

Jane did what she knew she would. She petted him. She felt the pebble of his nipple through his thin tee and she teased it. His body was alert. She could feel it in the rigidity of his back, the ever-so-slightly increase of his breath-rate. The mutual, nearly imperceptible, raise of temperature between their sandwiched bodies.

She slid her hand down the flat plane of his stomach-- noticed the sharp intake of breath that sucked his non-existent gut in and tighter against her own body. She paused, laying her palm above his bellybutton. She felt him move with his breathe. She felt color rise in her cheeks. If cheeks color in the dark, did they color at all? Her mind provides irrelevant puzzles.

She moves her hand lower, to find the smocked edge of his boxers. Elastic waist, and reliable. She's bought him the same brand and size for the past decade. The feel of the familiar fabric brings about an unexpected confidence and she works her fingers under the waistband with careful attention. She pauses, listens to his now defiantly quickened breathe. She feels his back raise and fall.

She hasn't felt his hair yet. Beloved pubic hair. So familiar that instead of eroticism, it evokes comfort- another lovely detail in the scenery and stage dressing of their life. But tonight, it is special. Tonight, she'd asserting something. What, she doesn't quite know, but she's ready and rushing towards a new feeling.

Her fingers dip and work their way into the dark hair. Lean, beautiful man that he is, his pubic hair tells a predictable story: Married, with kids. No maintenance. She loves him for this. She loves his body. She scratches him, and feels him release a slow breath.

She clears her throat and says, 'will you be still?'

He nods, and she takes that as an affirmative worth betting on. He'll be still.

She presses herself closer, working her ribs and upper thighs into a contract negotiation with his mid back and hamstrings. She moves her hand, pushes up his shirt, presses her bare belly to his low back. He makes a small, pleased sound and she runs a finger over his hard nipple, through the fabric of his shirt.

She knows he likes that. Like's it when she runs the flat of her tongue up the center line of his chest, tasting him slowly. Likes it when she barely touches him with her tongue, blows cool air over the wet, sensitive nipple. Likes it when she bites down slowly, sucks, and teases as she works him with her oiled hand.

She's thinking about it, and presses her pelvis into him, enjoying the pressure. She's wet and warm. She puts her hand to his flat stomach, feels his spare, course hair-- the hair she loves to nuzzle with the tip of her nose-- and pulls him closer still, grinding her pussy into him further.

He reaches back to cup her backside and for some reason-- inexplicable, really-- it startles her out of her quickly building arousal. She reaches down and grips his wrist, pinning it to his hip. He asks what's wrong. She says, ''you said you'd be still,' and he nods, saying he'd forgotten, it was just something else, wasn't it?-- here in the dark, with her hands on him. She's inclined to agree. She releases her grip, slightly, but then moves his hand, guiding it towards the hard length covered by familiar boxers.

She cups his hand and it cups his cock and something ignites in her lower belly. She wants to rip off his shorts, climb on top of him and take him hard and fast. But... no. In the back of her mind, she wants something else. She moves a little, adjusts, and slips the hand from under her head and, with a little awkward repositioning, brings it down over her pussy. She cups herself, and feels the heat there. Works a finger lower, and feels her underwear are damp.

Her breath in his ear is hot, and has the beginnings of wanton irregularity. She says, 'take them off.' He wriggles, and his beautiful cock is free. She put his hand back, and her hand on top, and feels some new and foreign power.

'Touch yourself,' she whispers, and hears raw lust in her voice. Had her voice ever been so low? so... naked? Not in recent memory. The words barely come out.

She puts her free palm on his thighs, high up, and sweeps it up up and under his arm, the long expanse of his abdomen feeding that low smolder. She presses herself into her hand as she finds his nipple. Wets her fingers in her mouth, and brings them back to his chest, and is gratified with a low, involuntary moan. He's barely moving, barely touching himself. If she had to guess, he was only holding himself. She's quaking. She's close.

She needs to cool off.

She pulls away from him. He groans as the connection between them is lost. She understands. Strips her underwear and old tee shirt off, and resumes the position, pressing her naked body behind his, her hard nipples loving the heat from his back, and her pussy pounding with need.

She dips her hand low, between their bodies, and reaches up and over his waist to discover he has abandoned his post. He's not touching himself. His hand is clamped firmly to his side, palm flat against his thigh. She is thrilled. She grips him, low on his shaft, and he moans. She moves lower, feeling the weight of his balls, massaging each in careful, sensual turn. He's groaning so softly she can barely hear it over the rain sounds of a gathering storm-- when did that start?-- but she can feel it in her chest. The hand at her pussy is cramping from the close confines, but she needs it. She needs... his cock in her hand.

She runs her palm lightly up the shaft, and is surprised to feel that he's leaking. When they were young, she'd lost her mind over his precum. She loved it, thought it was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen, and would whisper, low, and in public, 'are you wet for me?' during some racy movie scene, or after a particularly passionate sidewalk kiss. But it has been a long while, she thinks. She plants a kiss on his back. Opens her mouth and licks him, grips him, and he shakes.

'Are you wet for me?' she murmurs, feeling a freakish sense of deja vu, and totally, utterly, sexy.

He chokes out a yes, and she works her slick clit with painfully cramping fingers.

She jacks him off with slow deliberate strokes. He's groaning, and she can feel his cock growing harder and tighter, senses he's close. She pulls her hand away. He protests, pushes his body back into her tits and pussy. She smacks his ass, playfully, telling him to be still. He's still. He likes it. He says, 'do that again,' and so she does, harder this time. 'Please,' he says, and she knows what he means. He wants her hand. She wants to finish. She has an idea.

Leaping out of bed, she has the feeling of discovery. Something about this role reversal, however lite it may be, is delicious. She riffles in their drawer, and finds her ben wa balls. So casually prescribed by her OB for kegal strengthening, she's found they are her favorite for solo play. They slip in with no resistance, she's nearly dripping. Oh, thank god, she feels filled. Digs around for one more item, rushes back to bed, and hands him a bottle of lube.

'Put it in my hand,' she says. He puts his cock in her hand and they both laugh. Big, belly laughs that make her clench around the new fullness in her pussy. She groans. He squeezes her ass, and she slaps his. He lubes up her hand, and she grips him lightly. Then she gets to work, stroking him and she works her own hand at her clit, clenching and moving for that necessary g-spot stimulation.

'oh, god,' someone moans and she realizes it's her. His cock is hard and fat in her hand. She presses her mouth to his back, grips him harder, works her clit, and muffles her moans into his shoulder blades. He's breathing hard now, his hips moving with her hand, and bumping back into her pelvis at a constant, regular interval. He's fucking her hand, and she feels as though he's inside her.

She's almost there. He's almost there. She releases him and he cries out in protest, again. He may actually be mad, this time. She smacks him hard on the ass, reaches around and strokes him quickly once, twice, and then removes her hand. He's frustrated, squirming, discombobulated.

She shoves back from him, and focuses on herself, hand working quickly at her clit and she comes, nearly violently, and with little warning, a moan moan building into a near scream.

He starts to turn over, and she shoves his shoulder back mid-orgasm, saying, 'no, don't look. Face the wall.' and can't believe it's her making these demands. Her pussy quakes, and her breath is ragged, words coming in gasps. Growled gasps. She stays there for a moment, a sheen of sweat drying on her breasts and stomach. She didn't know she'd been sweating.

Satisfied, for the moment at least, she rolls over and scoots back to him. His penis has deflated, just a little, but feels heavy in her hand. Still lubed, still-- she thinks-- wet for her. Slowly, she starts to move. Slow strokes. Drops her hand to his balls and massages them. Then she brings her hand around to his ass, dips a finger low, to his asshole, makes it slick with lube and his own pre-ejaculate. Feels him stiffen in surprise and then relax into the sensation. She circles his hole with her middle finger, made it wet as she is. She rubs him there and feels him shift to press his face into the pillow. He moans freely now, moving his hips in uncertain, needily little bucks. 'More lube,' she says, and presents him with her open hand.

He eagerly obliges, fumbling for the bottle, and then pumping a generous quantity into her waiting palm.

She returns her hand to his needy ass, feeling him quiver in anticipation of the welcome pressure, the slick fingers. She bites into his back, satisfied by the tiny yip he makes in response, and then abruptly brings her hand to his cock-- rock hard and leaking-- and strokes him quickly, with firm pressure and a wrist flicking motion that she knows he prefers. He lets go an 'ah,' that builds into a senseless, affirming moan and she knows he is on the edge, so close... so, of course, she leaves him there, at the edge, and he ejaculates, but doesn't orgasm.

She puts her fingers into the cleft of his ass, hiking up a cheek up and pressing her knee deep into the provided space. He pushes back against her, wanting the contact, and slickness. There, he rocks on her, and she gives him her hand, thinking, abstractly, that she would love to feel what he is feeling. His rocking ramps up her arousal, the fullness in her pussy making itself known. He is mindless with need, ready for release. He bucks against her, she tightens her grip around his spend-slick cock, and works him, feeling her own arousal ramping higher still, and she bites him again, hard this time. He gasps, and cries out, his release coming hard and fast, his stiff length pulsing in her hand. And as he comes, she finds she is coming as well, in a low, different part of her body. The ben wa balls work her g-spot in mysterious and new ways. She feels it in her thrumming chest and cries out with him, becoming as mindless as he, the two of them fully and utterly in their bodies.

They lay panting for a few moments, her hand still wrapped around his sticky cock and the slick sweat between them drying on flushed skin. They are spent, and all before ten pm. He rolls over and kisses her, first on the lips, then on the forehead, and says, simply and to the point, 'let's do that again.' And she, apprised of new and powerful corners of her sexuality, nods in exhausted agreement.