You call home late Friday afternoon and ask me, "What would you like to do this weekend?"
I think for a moment and reply, "Since tomorrow we have a lot of running around, why don't we stay in this evening?"
"Should I get anything from the store on my way home?"
"We're a little low on milk. That's all I can think of. Thanks honey, see you in a little bit."
Arriving home and just glad to know we have the next two days together, we settle in for a relaxing evening. Our children are tucked into bed and we just sit together on the couch and enjoy each other's presence.
"Close your eyes; I've got something for you."
It thrills me that you are as eager to love me, as I am to love you.
As my eyes close, you tell me, "Lean back against me." I feel your chest rising and falling as you breathe and you take your hands and gently undo my bun. It is wrapped up so neatly most of the time that you are always amazed at the amount of hair I have when it is down.
Combing through the waves of my hair with your fingers, you smell the subtle scent of my shampoo. Massaging my scalp, I feel the headache I didn't even know I had vanish. You are able to make me feel so good from head to toe. I just melt into you.
"Wait here for a minute, I'll be right back," you tell me as you quickly step out of the room.
You pay such attention to me; you know how to take better care of me than I do. You return with a hairbrush and soothingly brush my hair.
"I love taking care of you. It means so much to me that you let me do that for you," you say as you run the brush from my scalp to the ends of my hair.
I laugh, "Let you?"
I love how you are always looking for new ways to make me feel special. All the tangles are out of my hair and it is falling in soft waves past my shoulders. You massage my scalp and pull all the tension of the day out with the hairbrush. You take a pillow and lay it under my head and tell me to put my feet up while you move to the other end of the couch.
"Now for the surprise," you say.
"You mean that wasn't the surprise?" I ask.
"Nope," and I see you smiling at me. You reach into your pocket and pull out a bottle of bright red nail polish; Cherry Pie is the name of the color. You saw it on a display and couldn't resist painting my nails the same color as your pet name for me. My eyes open wide in excitement.
"But first, I need to relax your feet."
Kneading my toes one at a time, your strong hands work away the tensions. Then you take the hairbrush and run the bristles along the bottom of my foot a few times. Shivers dance through my body. Working the arch of my foot with your knuckles, it feels so extraordinary to be loved literally from my head to my toes.
Peering under my nightgown, you deviously grin, "It looks like I missed some of your hair."
Softly and deliberately, you brush my dark curly pubic hair. The hairbrush tingles all the soft skin on my lips. Our love is so all encompassing; the physical aspect simply explodes. I cannot get over how many little things we both find exciting. There are no inhibitions when it comes to the way we want to love each other. I get wet as these new sensations light my nerve endings.
"Don't move," you remind me. I began involuntarily arching myself upwards and didn't even realize it.
You continue brushing with one hand and insert a finger of your other hand. Pulling it out, it glistens with the juices of my arousal. You also are in awe of how easily our bodies respond to the other's touch.
You lick your finger and then run it over my lips, "See how good you taste, my sweet Cherry Pie?"
I reply, "There is plenty more where that came from. Don't just taste, help yourself to the whole entree."
"See why I started calling you Cherry Pie?"
"Tell me again, I love this story."
"When I first met you, I kept telling my buddies how I'd sure like a piece of your pie." I am not insulted by this comment, as I know how much of a man's man you are and that you also have a side that you share only with me. I urge you to continue.
"Then as I discovered how sweet and tart you were at the same time, it had to be cherry pie."
I reminisce, "And then you wrote me that little love story where you called me Cherry Pie, but I bet you never told the guys about that, huh?"
You don't answer but smile at my deep understanding of your two sides, which becomes apparent as you quizzically look at the petite bottle you hold in seemingly gargantuan hands. Furrowing your brow, the lines I call your "thinking lines" appear between your eyebrows and you fumble with the screw top of the bottle.
"Wait, honey, you've got to shake it up first!" I warn.
So, in reverse, you close the bottle again, just as awkwardly as you opened it. Somehow the image of Gulliver in Lilliput flashes in my mind. Shaking it, the little marbles rattle and stir the lacquer as you still have a look of a visitor in a strange land emblazoned across your face. I am endeared by your clear aspiration to do something I've always spoken of, though the intricacies are completely beyond your comprehension.
You pinch the miniscule brush between your forefinger and thumb, the same hand that throws footballs and pushes lawnmowers; suddenly is trying to maneuver this miniature device. A large drip of the crimson paint precariously clings to the end of the brush as you touch it to my big toe. Sloppily, you cover my nail as the polish spreads over the nail onto the cuticle.
"Um, honey, you need to wipe the brush off a little before you spread the polish on the next nail."
As if the first nail weren't delicate enough a job, you have another four nails of much smaller proportions to cover, then all the nails on an entire other foot.
I smile warmly as you bite your lip in deep concentration, and dip the brush in for another attempt. Surely someone who can master power tools isn't going to be intimidated by nail polish.
Back and forth you wipe the bloody color off the brush and start to paint my next nail. Not enough polish as there is barely enough color to even show. I see your frustration building, but I am charmed by your wish to please me, clumsy though it may seem. I ignore the thin polish on the second nail and watch you begin the third nail.
Too much paint and again it drips off the nail and all over the surrounding skin. You've begun to work hastily now, determined to finish what you started and with all the delicacy of a bull in a china shop, you slap the polish on the last two nails, and then step back to admire your work.
"I can see why you women pay money to have this done at the salon," you say as you begin to blow on my nails to dry them. Your breath warms my foot and the scent of the polish is making my head light, or maybe it is my dizzy love and affection for you. I'm not sure, but I am overwhelmed with tenderness and desire. I am so proud of my little boy-like man.
"How about I finish the other foot?" I suggest.
"Well, if you insist…" your voice trails off, happy to be relieved of your duties.
I deftly grab the bottle from your hands, and with the experience of someone who's done this a thousand times before; I flex my leg so my foot is closer to my body. Dipping the brush in the polish, I carefully measure the exact amount to wipe off and stroke the brush over my nails one at a time, like an artist with a canvas. You watch in awe at my ability to maneuver the tiny little brush. I don't wish to compare the two feet on a skill level, but rather stand up to admire our teamwork pedicure.
"Nice color, Cherry Pie is perfect," I comment and carefully stand on my tiptoes not to smudge the polish.
Never taking your eyes from my face, you lean down and kiss me and say, "I'd say."
Our kiss deepens and we smile lustily at each other.
"Talk dirty to me." You command.
I meet your eye and with the same desire to please and arouse you in return, I say in a husky voice, "I want you to spread my pussy lips apart and ram your tongue deep into me. I want you to fuck me with your mouth. I want you to lick me from my asshole up to my clit again and again until I cum so hard my dead cousins cum too. Then I want you to take your huge hard cock and stick it deep inside me and fuck me like I never have been fucked. I want to feel your balls slapping on my ass as you driver yourself into me over and over. I want you to split my insides open and then I want you to wrap your arms tightly around me and hold me while the tremors of my orgasm subside."
Smiling with feigned innocence, I ask, "Was that graphic enough, my love?"
"Perfectly so, and you are going to get exactly what you wish for and like you've never had it. I love you, my Cherry Pie."
With those explicit instructions in mind, we finish our night, the aroma of nail polish and love making us both giddy with desire.