Post-workout Shower

"Honey? I'm headed to boot camp. Are you sure you don't want to come along?"

"No thanks", I grunt, still half asleep. "I'm too tired. Have fun."

"Ok, see you in a bit", you reply, bending to kiss me on the forehead.

You stride off and I hear the door close, followed by the garage door opening and closing. I roll back over, pull the covers around me, thinking that it would be more fun to attend if it wasn't held at the butt crack of dawn, or maybe, speaking of butt cracks, if it was a naked yoga class instead. I chuckle to myself and drift back to sleep.

I'm awakened by the sound of the coffee maker. Must be an hour and a half has gone by, because you're back from class and into your morning routine. The aroma of coffee drifts into our room - probably the Shakin' Jamaican or whatever it is you like so much. While the coffee brews I hear you pass thru the bedroom into the bath, pausing to turn on the shower to warm it up. I know how much you like it hot. I really like it hot too, I think to myself, but that's not the water temp. I pretend to be asleep as you walk to the kitchen, fix your coffee, and return to the bathroom.

Out of courtesy, as always, you close the doors to the bathroom so as not to wake me. You're usually like that, thoughtful. I smile to myself, thinking how lucky I am to have you. Smart, pretty, and a nice body too. Taking care of it by going to bootyliscious camp at O-stupid-thirty on a cold morning, so you can share a ride and some chit chat with your friends and sweat off some calories.

Speaking of that body, I do like to admire it. Sometimes with certain outfits you wear, and definitely in something long and silky, but always when you're buck naked and you don't know I'm looking. I think that's most of the time, because you don't seem to know how much I check you out when you're strutting around the bedroom or our closet.

Not wanting to miss this chance, I ease out of bed so you don't hear the creaking. I close the door to our room and lock it. No sense getting busted spying on my naked wife in the shower. I mean she's my wife and all, but I'm not sure she - or the kids - need to know how much I like to look at her naked. I tiptoe over to the door - thankfully it is ajar just a bit, giving me a nice line of sight toward your sink.

Inside the room is slowly filling with steam. You disappear into the closet and I sigh. Can't see you in there from my vantage point. You return with a towel and I relax. Placing the towel on your sink, you rummage thru the drawers and find something. You rustle your hair around and tie it into a pony behind you. As you look up to check the result, something catches your eye in the mirror and I freeze.

Actually, you caught your own reflection in the mirror. You seem to like what you see, because a smile slowly comes over your face. The results of your workouts are showing progress - your thighs are slimmer, love handles are shrinking, and you showed me a muscle in your arm the other day! You turn to one side, then the other, looking satisfied with your progress, and maybe your outfit, too. I wonder to myself about what women look for in exercise clothes?

Here's what I figure: there's always a dumpy looking outfit for when you're hungover, feeling fat, or have water weight gain. There's a stupidly matching set that someone got you for Christmas, because God knows you would never part with your own money for such an outfit. Must be he bought you that outfit while shopping in a hurry, while drunk and with the lights off! Then there's the outfit. Yes, that outfit. The one you spent hours, no days, finding, that has to look just right. Just in case that guy in class catches your eye again like he did the other day. Lord knows you had seen him many times before, but never thought he noticed you. This outfit will fix that, you think to yourself. No red blooded male can forget the sight of spandex stretched tightly across this rack of mine, properly supporting the girls and showing enough cleavage to turn every head in the place. I hope he is across from me when we spin, you think to yourself. See how fast he can pedal while grinding his dick on the bike seat...

Satisfied, you start to peel away the layers. Jacket first. As you reach behind to pull out your arms, I see the rack you were just thinking about. Your top and jog bra frame them nicely, and now I'm the one smiling. The top comes next. As it gets stuck over your head I get a good look at the spandex prison that holds the twins. Darkened all over, it's drenched in boob sweat. I wonder if it's any different from regular sweat? Just lucky little sweat drops, I suppose. Spending all that time nestled close to those sexy mounds of flesh.

Finally, off it comes. Finally I get to see one of my favourite sights in all the world - your naked breasts. Mine, I think to myself. Mine to stare at, ogle, tweak, lick, suck, fuck, and just generally enjoy. Damn, I'm lucky. Since way back when we dated I always loved your tits. Still do. I love the memory of the bikini you wore at the lake. Love the memory of offering you a 'back rub' in my car, parked along a side road near your grandparents house. Cheap excuse to give you a front rub, but man I loved those tits. Still do. And now I'm staring at them in all their glory.

You seem to like them, too. As I watch from my hiding place, you run your hands lightly over them, lift them and give a bit of a jiggle. You wipe the lucky, happy little beads of boob sweat off them and wipe your hands dry. Your hands return to cup them and gently lift. Pressing them together, they pair up to generate a mouth-watering amount of cleavage. We both like that view. I think that was the goal with the hot gym outfit - maximum cleavage, minimum bounce. Hmm, now I wonder about the bounce factor.

I can imagine that too much bounce could be painful when running or playing volleyball. But it seems like the right amount of bounce could be a good thing. It's no secret that bouncing breasts can stop traffic and generate a whiplash-inducing turn of the head in most guys. And in some girls too, I bet. I bet most girls actually check out the racks of other chicks, whether out of envy, disgust, curiosity, or because they like boobs, too. Damn, I love it that my woman appreciates and enjoys boobs!

Now it's time for the leggings. Tights. Whatever. Hooking your thumbs into the waistband, you turn toward the closet and pull them down, panties and all. As they drop below your hips, your ass comes into view. Soft, round, and startlingly white, I can think only of smacking my hand on it - hard - leaving my mark on you. A crimson handprint framed on the white canvas of your ass, nicely framed by the remnants of last season's tan lines. But that would give away my position behind the door, and it's not time yet.

The leggings and your panties are tangled around your ankles in a jumbled mess. They are matted with sweat and your juices. These must be the less lucky beads of sweat. I mean if you were going to live life as a bead of sweat, wouldn't you rather be a soft, gently bouncing bead of boob sweat? As you step out of the tangled mess, one foot at a time, I get a peek between your legs and I see...heaven.

It's been said that men spend the first 9 months of life trying to get out of there and the rest of their lives trying to get back in. It's true. Starting with the legends and rumors in junior high, through the hurried groping in high school, until we are married and entitled to as much as we can stand, men love pussy. I suppose there's also that section in between where we learn about the amazing sights and variety of pussies from a set of worn out porn magazines that provide our early information - and inspiration!

Close to it, near it, by it, rubbing it, licking it - there is nothing on this earth like being inside it. First with fingers (likely while she's wearing a tight pair of jeans in the movie theater), later with my tongue (what an amazing experience that was for the first time), and finally, agonizingly, sliding my rock hard dick into the heavenly folds of your pussy. Can never get enough of that feeling. The first few seconds are the best - rubbing the puffy purple head along your slit to spread the wetness around, pushing just hard enough to make room, going slow enough to let you adjust. That's heaven. So is the look on your face at the time. Heavenly.

And there it is, staring me in the face, only a few feet away as I continue to watch your routine. I want to reach out and slide a fingertip inside just to see if you're wet already. Maybe you got to do the spin session across from the mystery guy. That he stared at the monster cleavage from your new outfit and you saw him shift on the seat as the blood surged into his dick. That you responded by grinding into the seat yourself, dropping your head down so he wouldn't see your smile, knowing that you had caught him staring.

Again I resist, not giving away my position. You toss the clothes into the basket and return to the mirror. I should have installed a two way mirror on your side. Note to self: next house will have one.

Continuing your post workout ritual, you head for the toilet. I hear you sigh as you drop onto the seat, positioning yourself and leaning forward to rest. Legs must be tired, I think to myself. I hear the splashing sounds and a soft moan as you release. Must have been holding that first cup of coffee from the trip to class, I think.

From my hiding place, I watch you walk back toward the shower. My wife. My naked wife. My love. My lover. The face that lights up when it smiles, a real true smile. The wrinkles in the corner of your eyes when you laugh a real laugh. The hair that I love to nuzzle into when you sleep. The neck that smells so good when you wear the perfume I like. The breasts that got me hard so many years ago during the 'back rubs'. Breasts that fed our babies. Breasts that still fill out a sweater and make me stare. Breasts that got some fresh air in the islands when we frolicked naked on our private deck.

The stomach that will never be as flat as when you were twenty, but shows the scars of the sacrifices you made for our family. All the work and pain, sacrificed to give us a family. The hips that shake when you dance. The little patch of hair over your pussy that you vow to keep so you don't feel bald. That I threaten to shave off so I can lick you all over. Or dye bright red. Your ass that we always joke about. The legs that still look great, especially with a bit of a tan. The legs that frame my favorite view when my face is between them and I'm looking up across your stomach to your amazing breasts, while your fingers lightly graze your nipples and your eyes are closed. The feet that are as flat as a griddle, and the un-sexiest toes that you like to have sucked. Makes you squirm and makes you wet.

Still from my hiding place, I look you over head to toe once more and smile. How lucky I am. You step into the shower and disappear into a fog of steam. I open the door to my hiding place, strip quickly and quietly, and follow you in. My rock-hard dick points the way.

"Honey?" You ask.

"Honey, I'm home from boot camp, are you ready for some coffee yet?"

Slowly I cast off the fog of sleep and see you smiling down at me, still in your sweaty workout clothes.

"Come on, get up", you say. Looking down at the rather impressive lump in my pajamas, you ask with a sly grin ' "Mmmmm- what were you dreaming about?"