Ribbons

2021 Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. The essayist asserts her right to be identified as the author of 'Ribbons.' This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner without the author's express written permission except for the use of brief quotations in a review. If you see this story on any website other than Literotica.com, it has been pirated without the author's permission.

Ribbons

By Nellskitchen

Mirrors should be banned--by law! Contrary to popular belief, the deceptive plates are hardly inanimate objects. Awake, tormenting, vicious, they are a plague, making us appear too fat, too short, too tall--too something.

If, by the time you read this, a woman happens to be president, her first initiative, thereby seizing the female vote forever, is to create a 'Department of Imagery,' whose responsibility shall be to confiscate every looking glass in guns-drawn, ongoing early-morning FBI raids whose purpose is to safeguard every woman's self-image--forever!

Fantasy notwithstanding, I live in the here and now and need to deal with their disagreeable reflections. As you suspect, I have a delicate affiliation with my likeness. Even on good days when I am reasonably pleased with what I see, it is not a stretch to imagine a cattish mirror turning on me; such is the price of appearance!

Today, standing in its intimidating gaze, the glass shows a genial side, leaving me confident that hair, makeup, nails, and even my half-apron, are in order--that I am ready for him.

I cup my naked breasts, hold them, and let them fall. Their tender state is a warning of my period, a tiresome event that needs putting off for a time. Squeezing them together, I wince at their soreness and wager a wished-for reprieve, unlikely. Cautiously kneading them, I narrow their noteworthy cleavage, reach for a bottle of Chanel and spritz it here and there. I think of how curious it is that my husband's erect cock fits perfectly into the sensual valley that separates them--a sign we are meant for each other. I reflect, too, on the first time he spilled his sweet sperm on me, that my classic pearl necklace was messy, runny, its rapidly cooling puddles staining the pillowcase.

I accused him of rank naughtiness, but swallowed my pride, turned over, and mopped the love droplets away with my panties--which I handed to him as a gift. A typical man, he made a mess; a typical woman, I cleaned it up! Departing that long-ago rerun, I return to the here, and now and carefully, I fasten diamond studs to my earlobes. Part of a set, Marcel surprised me with them a year ago on our sixth anniversary. Observing their twinkle, I accept the mirror's begrudging compliment and whisper, "very pretty." I grin that everything is in place--that it is time.

II

I listened as he fumbled with the keys to our apartment door, his escape from the workweek's usual wrath. I wonder about his mood and ready myself to intervene. His smile, however, warms me. He is glad to be away from the rat race, free of dithering markets and frustrating uncertainties; his happiness is everything.

"Hi, sweetheart," I called. His kiss lingered--a good sign. "Mmm--nice kiss, Mr. Wall Street." I purred and, lifting my apron, displayed what little nakedness did not already show. "Want a more detailed tour?" I asked.

His face brightened. "I think I just had one," he said. Running his fingers the length of my firm belly, he slipped a welcome finger into my wet pussy--a space exclusively his.

"There's more if you care to taste," I invited. Taking my hand, he whirled me around, and after a leisurely pirouette, took in my calculated nudity. "Do you like what you see?"

"I love what I see. I missed you today."

"You missed me?"

Eying me, he replied, "I always miss beautiful women who wear almost nothing." He pulled me close and planted kisses on my nipples.

"You mean you miss naked women--plural?"

"Woman is what I meant--singular."

With hair, makeup, and near nudity in place, I handed him his cherished gimlet. Standing on tiptoes, I flicked my tongue along the underside of his earlobe and whispered, "I'm glad you missed me today, man of my heart." I touched my finger to his cheek, and reverting to wifeliness, added, "Supper's in half-an-hour."

III

He liked the setting, which accounts for my inclination to recreate it. It keeps life interesting. To a married woman, interesting is good--especially when 'interesting' happens at home--with me.

For a stock analyst, Marcel is unusual since he has a thing for inconsistency. Today's diamond-studded elegance, for instance, is meant to fuse the promise of intimacy with wifely level-headedness. Except for my limited attire--I served his dinner naked--food and sex, a la carte, parallel wifely roles in life's outwardly incompatible drama.

"They stand on end," he wryly observed. After taking a sip of his drink, he touched the chilly tumbler to my right nipple. "I like how they pout."

Feigning bashfulness, I brushed the tips of my breasts against his shirt, which I proceeded to unbutton while pressuring my pelvis against his crotch. His cock responded appropriately--meaning the way I wanted. "Just making sure everything's working properly," I cooed.

These past months have troubled me, and I have wondered whether we might not be approaching a decisive stage in our marriage--the stage where men look for something--from someone else. Only a feeling; it is intuition's warning. It says, 'be vigilant,' there are other women about.

A chilling event, from time to time, I have caught Marcel in search mode, stealing glances at the derrière of that passing waitress, a gorgeous she-creature whose roaming eye betrayed her excessively official demeanor as she took our order. A condition common to males, the eye-catching incident highlighted the dangers of a wife's inclination to complacency.

Dinner was perfection. When he finished, I revealed what I had been hiding: "Sweetheart," I announced, "pack an overnight bag; we're taking a trip."

"Oh, and just what destination has that devious mind picked out?" he asked, amused.

"Mystery is good for the soul of the married man," I replied, adding, "Men do not need to know everything." He did not argue.

Part IV

Even as we drove off the following morning, I kept our destination secret, choosing instead to disclose bits of the unknown in the form of directions as we approached a turn here, an exit there. He was curious but trusting, never once pressuring me for an exact end-point.

Before starting out, he spotted them--and I knew it. Marcel is not a man who presumes, so rather than cut to the heart of the matter, he remarked, "Your hair is pretty that way." He said it without taking his eyes from the road--a good sign.

My husband likes ponytails. Though I suspect one of his old girlfriends wore her hair that way, I appreciated the compliment. Suggestively, I leaned my head to one side, reached back, and tugged at them, first one--then the other. "You mean these?" I asked, faking naïveté.

"Yes, those." This time, taking his eyes from the road, he glanced my way. "It's been a while since I've seen you with ponytails." He was right; it had been a while. We both knew the style was not what interested him; it was the black velvet ribbons holding them in place. "I assumed you forgot," he added.

"I may be a bad girl," I confessed, "but I never forget a fetish."

"I'm glad." He said skeptically. "Are you going to tell me where we're going, Nissa?"

Pointing to a sign that said, 'Harper's Castle -- 7 Miles,' I replied, "There,"

Part V

The old mansion was a converted private residence. A lover's get-away, decades ago, the out-of-the-way destination had serviced city-dwellers fleeing the sizzling summer heat. Covered in lush ivy, it was an awe-inspiring stone complex surrounded by perfectly manicured grounds.

Renoir's 'Oarsmen at Chatou' came to mind as I took in the blueness of the lake, its bobbing boats silently plying glistening waters, its hand-in-hand couples strolling the beach. A place where time slows, I planned a special something to mark our seventh anniversary. After checking in, we sauntered some, kissed some, and at some point, alone in some elevator, he reached from behind me and slipped some naughty hands under some inviting breasts.

He clasped my nipples and would have taken things further had the elevator not stopped abruptly--had its doors not opened abruptly, had a half-dozen agreeably astonished women just then waiting for the elevator, not spontaneously applauded the embarrassing visual display. It was one of the charms of our visit.

Part of a grand game, we had played it other times in other elevators, our antics amounting to quick and dirty foreplay--leaving us hungry for more, making the astonished feline audience, a zesty seasoning gifted by the Fates in expectation of an erotic banquet still to come. Moreover, it satisfied one other thing: a splashy need--mine, a chance to be smug, to show off a handsome husband--not something every woman gets to do.

Part VI

As evening settled over the lake, we sat on our private balcony. Holding hands, we sipped chardonnay and watched the shimmering light dancing on the water as the sky's blue deepened before fading to black.

"Let's do a love bath for our anniversary," I proposed searching his soft eyes. Our suite had an exquisite tub. Intended for more than mere relaxation, I wondered about its voyeuristic mirror surround and the lovers it had seen doing what lovers do. "A bath, yes, I like the idea," he replied; this from a Spartan man who permitted himself few pleasures.

It had happened our very first weekend together. Not our first night, mind you, as I did not have the nerve just yet. Later, however, with the barriers separating our sexualities fast-dissolving, we stumbled together into the big shower where, with a manly thrust, he took me from behind. From that delicious moment to this, soothing water played a lead role in the high drama of our secret world.

There was another, no-nonsense reason I craved the warmth of the bath. It acted as an effective ploy for getting this uneasy, often edgy man to relax enough to allow me admission to his anus. If approached with patience, a man's backside is a place from which he derives matchless pleasure. With his prostate my goal, I headed to the bathroom. "I'll run the water," I said. Taking my time, I strolled past him, stripping away my blouse and bra as I did. "Be right back," I promised.

I returned carrying my half-empty wine glass and sporting a long black ribbon secured at my waist, satin tap pants, and Caravaggio pumps whose delicate T-straps never failed to draw his eye. I fixed my hair into twin ponytails, snugging each with black satin ribbons. He scanned my scarcely adorned figure. "Do you like what you see, my darling?" I asked. His attention fell to the space between my legs, his features turning sober.

"Drop the pants," he ordered.

"Yes, sir!" I replied, snapping to a respectful salute. Slowly, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and ran them forward, meeting at my navel, where I hesitated.

"Show me your cunt," he directed.

With my thumbs still hooking the band, I pulled at the front of my pants, briefly revealing my shaven sex before allowing the elastic to flick back into place. "You have a pretty pussy," he observed. "Now pull the pants down--all the way this time." I tugged them to my ankles and awaited further instructions. "Kick them away," he continued, and turn around--take your time doing it; I want to see your ass." I locked my eyes to his and lifted one foot, then the other, before kicking the pants away.

"Come here," he said. One step later, my vagina was inches from his face. "Turn around so I can see more."

"How much more?" I demurely asked.

"A lot more," he ordered. "And open your legs; bend over, show me your pussy." Submissively, I bent, slightly at first, my hands gripping my thighs for support. He grabbed my buttocks and, spreading them wide, displayed places I promised from the start of our love affair would forever be open to him. I lowered my head, and with both hands, I pushed his fingers away and spread my cheeks for him.

"Bend more," he directed, "and grab those ankles. I want to see your asshole--stretched."

Marcel was so adorably male, insisting his girl parade his ports of call. Peeking around my parted legs, I smiled a stripper's smile, touched my vaginal lips, and sucked my fingers. "I'm soaked; is that how you want me?" I asked. "Does my cunt turn you on?"

"You have the idea," he acknowledged. "It's a hell of a good start, Nissa."

"Well then, I guess it's bath time, time for you to get naked," I thrust my bottom into his face and, reaching, continued the exhibition as I unloosed my heels. The mood was set--our time had arrived.

Marcel shed his clothes and led me, his eager sex slave, to the bathroom. Stepping into the big tub, he turned and held out his strong hand. Grasping it, I steadied myself and joined him in the steamy water, thus commencing a married couple's ritualistic reiteration of passion. With deviations cut from the cloth of the ever-shifting desires of men, the spectacle rests at the heart of every married couple's affection, the replay of fetishes holding us in sexual place more forcefully than religion's vows or society's conjugal edicts.

Since forever ago, retaining guardianship of Marcel's peculiar fascinations--and keeping them within our marriage--had obsessed me. I know why his sexuality demands replays--he is male. Their ever-flowering elaborateness, however, is another matter; to me, as long as his obsessions do not suddenly evaporate, our relationship is safe. It is the high tide of every wife's fixation.

Obsessions come in two forms: the ones a wife knows about and the ones she does not. Comfortable with the first, the second is forever concerning, so I use the first to expose the second. "I know all Gary's fetishes," my girlfriend Valerie insisted to me one day. "No, you don't," I countered.

The self-confidence drained from her face, proof I was right. It is a foolish woman who thinks she knows 'all' of anything about a man. True, I could have been more tactful, but the likelihood she was wrong had clearly never occurred to her. I could not be quite so naïve.

Part VII

The water was hot, its radiating steam sweating our bodies. Nevertheless, once immersed, we stayed still. Watching each other, we turned mongoose and cobra--each prepared to pounce. Snatching the moment's titillating high ground--I struck first. "Stand for me," I ordered.

Marcel stood and leaned back against the tub's mirrored surround, hot water dripping down his long legs. Observing his perfect form, I enviously scrutinized his perfect legs.

I propped myself up onto my knees and, with a bar of soap, lathered him. Starting with those storied legs, I worked upwards, deliberately avoiding his erection. "Do you like it, sweetheart? Can you feel how close I am to your cock?" Glancing up at him, I raked my finely-polished nails across his rippled abdomen. My digital etchings worked their magic, his shaft swelling to thrice its size. More importantly, the bath had its desired effect, its heat-inducing his testicles to droop loosely in their sack.

I washed him there, lingered, then rinsed. Grasping his testicles, I further warmed the delicate objects with my washcloth. It pleased him, he moaned. I thought about the first performance of this purifying rite when Marcel unexpectedly whispered to me, 'You're my geisha.' Peculiar, I thought. With time, I appreciated that he looked to me for what other men might slink around corners to find. On some level, the telling remark secured our intimacy, and, like a good little geisha, I wanted to please him all the more.

Love changes sex. My previous partners were meaningless. I had not cared when we parted ways. With Marcel, that changed. I loved him--I wanted to be with him. My hands, seeing to their feminine business, transmitted that message.

Marcel's body suits me. I like that he is not circumcised. His girth and the power of his thrusts take my breath away. When he penetrates me, I am full, complete. He opens me; at the summit of passion, he explores my mouth with his tongue, my rectum with his fingers, my cunt with his perfect cock.

I soaped him more. His eyes seized mine, and I worked suds into his slackened scrotum. "Do you like when I play with you like this, man of mine?" A rhetorical question, I looked up. His eyes were glazed, and I moved my fingers over his slippery penis. Returning to his sack, I put him on notice, saying, "Let's be sure these balls are nice and clean for what happens next."

Gently--but firmly, I kneaded his testicles, carefully drawing them down and away from his body. From one ball to the other, I squeezed, manipulated, and savored the expression of bliss on his face. Dropping his head back, he moaned--my signal to carry on.

Though Marcel knew the routine, I added a dicey twist and slipped a finger into his unsuspecting butt. Surprised, he lurched. It had been too long--bad wife. Having roamed this far, I nudged deeper. Like most men, to Marcel, penetration is women's work, and I allowed myself a touch more self-satisfaction than I probably deserved.

Another moment and another nudge later, I found my way to his body's little troublemaker, his swollen prostate gland. Pressing it with the tip of my finger, I massaged, provoking his fully erect penis to jut into my face. "Is that good, baby?" I asked. "Is that your secret place?" He squirmed but nodded, and I continued, his balls growing larger. Slowly, I withdrew my finger. He relaxed; I rinsed him and said, "All clean now--it's time."

"Finally," he murmured.

Still on my knees, I reached back and tugged at one of my ribbons, the ones still holding my ponytailed mane in place. Releasing the delicate fabric, my loosened hair fell over my shoulder. I licked the soft material, wetting its lengthy length. Taking hold of a heavy testicle, I encased it, wrapping it times seven--once for each year of our love.

"Does it feel good when I wrap your sack?" I ask. "Does it hurt?"

"I love it, Nissa," he answered a little impatiently. He wanted more, and soon.

"Mmm," I purred, "I like your response; now, about that other testicle." Reaching back, I loosened the second bow, shook my hair free, and wet the ribbon as before. I wrapped his testicle--seven times, drawing it down and away from its evil twin.

Unleashing the third ribbon from around my waist and picking up a pen conveniently placed next to the tub beforehand, I bound his scrotum just above his neatly separated family jewels. I fashioned a makeshift tourniquet with the pen, which I twisted slightly, constricting the connection between sperm and semen. He winced again but did not push me away.

With the ribbons in place, I asked, "Do you want me to suck your cock?" More statement than question, it required no answer, and I sucked--slowly, drawing a drop of precious precum from the tip. I licked my lips like a self-satisfied cat. Resuming, I sucked harder, forcefully quickened my pace, twisted his scrotal sack; relentlessly, tightening my grip. Throughout, he held my head, his strong hands, encouraging.

Relentless, obsessed, I stayed focused on his violet cock. Deep in my throat, I felt his body, his sperm building, demanding release. I quickened more--but stopped, relinquished him, looked up, and in a demanding, almost bitchy voice said, "Tell me you like when I suck your cock--tell me!"

"I do," he groaned, powerless against feminine wrath. 'I do.' The two words were all I needed to hear--all any woman wants to hear. He was close; I labored harder. I wrenched his already constricted ball sack, near strangling his balls! More--I sucked more--harder! He growled, "Do it, Nissa--eat my cum."