Poor hubby is on the injured reserve list. He needs some pampering.
There’s my poor man, laid up for a week on doctor’s orders. And look at him-files open and mountain of paperwork spread before him. He’s typing furiously on that laptop, has his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. His leg is slightly elevated on a stack of throw pillows.
I have only to walk in with the large bowl, sloshing warm, soapy water, and he looks up, calculates, then drops the phone to the bed. I set the bowl on the nightstand and gather his papers into the appropriate folders, put his laptop to sleep, and slide onto the edge of the bed.
With one hand set against the center of his chest, I ease him back onto the pillows, smiling all the while. He looks a bit bewildered, yet hopeful. His expression is priceless as I ease his shorts down over his hips-mindful of the brace that runs from ankle to hip-and throw them to the floor.
I take the wet cloth between my hands and squeeze the excess water back into the bowl, drape it over my palm and begin my gentle ministrations. I know he’s sore and tired, so I skip the preliminaries and go straight for the main event, placing my warm, soapy, cloth-covered hand flat across his stirring organ.
I feel him twitch and jump beneath my palm, and the heat of the washcloth pales in comparison to the heat that emanates from beneath. As the lather rises, so does his desire. The sweet scent of the soap mingles with the heady scent of his arousal.
His eyes are closed, mine heavy lidded, and our breathing synchronizes with our familiar rhythm. He’s slippery and rock solid in my grasp. Everything in me wants to swing my leg over his hips and have my way. But I don’t just yet-the ride will be the potentially hurtful portion of our session. I’ll prolong it only long enough for our climaxes to be short and sweet.
I move the cloth lower, cupping his balls, and allow my other hand to soak in the bowl for a moment before taking him firmly and stroking from tip to base. My fingers slide easily over the slick, bubbly surface of his cock. As my fist pumps harder and faster, I climb onto my knees and lean in to take his right nipple between my teeth.
I hold it there, flicking my tongue, then latch on with my lips and suck hard. His hips are rising to match the motion of my fist, and my hips sway in the air, my clitoris throbbing. The blood rushes through my ears with each pulse. I can hold back no longer.
I rise up, slide my leg over his belly, and guide his cock into my already clenching pussy. Mutual moans pass between us. I sink and he slides, until we are crushed against each other.
A new scent joins the symphony-the smell of soap and labia, squishy, tangy, sharp and sweet. I grind against him slowly, and raise my hips on the upswing, riding smoothly, not even a canter, but an air ride up and down, like a piston: steady, even, and delicious.
I lift myself, far enough that the tip of his cock almost slips out, lower myself again and sigh my pleasure. The head of his shaft delves inside and presses against that warm, sweet spot, eliciting a guttural moan from between my clenched teeth. I grind again, pressing him harder into that cluster of singing nerves.
He’s panting now as I sway and rock against him, holding his rib cage for support.
He groans and twitches, and I take it as encouragement and rock harder. My thumbs brush over his nipples and my eyes roll closed. I rotate my hips faster, harder, crushing myself against him. He grabs my hips and lifts me, repositioning his leg so that I no longer jar it with my body. I grin sheepishly, but he rotates my hips and hits the spot again. I cry out and stiffen, then shake with release, falling against his chest for a moment to catch my breath.
My muscles clench around his shaft, milking from base to tip, tip to base. I rise again, lift my hips and slide back down. His hands shoot out and grasp my thighs, slide around to cup my ass, guide me slowly: up and down, around, and back up again.
Before long, his mouth is open, his eyes squeezed tight, and the tendons in his neck are straining with each thrust. I can feel another climax building in me just from witnessing his rapture, and we crash together a final time, with a wet slap of skin. He holds me down tight while he strains every millimeter of his cock inside of me, and explodes.
Again I collapse on his chest, and he cups the back of my head and kisses my hair.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I rise and slide off him and the bed, taking the washcloth with me. I rinse it and ring it out. I use it to wipe him clean once again, the odors of our coupling rising to the fore with each stroke.
After he’s clean, I turn the cloth on myself and rock my pelvis against my palm. I’m not ready to be done. I contemplate a moisturizer session, but his eyes are closed. A sleepy smile touches the corners of his mouth.
I slide the bed sheet up to his chest, kiss his forehead, and carry the bowl back to the bathroom, where I dump it, rinse it and tip it upside down on the sink. I return to him, my poor, sweet man, and stretch alongside to await his awakening.