Brazen

Okay, so her husband was naked and standing before her. That wasn't too surprising. Not that he tended to be exhibitionist—come to think of it, he is just the opposite, isn't he? He doesn't parade himself around the house as other men might be known to do. But he did say that he was taking a bath. One does tend to be stripped for such a procedure. She heard the water running. So, obviously, he had something important—possibly urgent, considering his unusual state of undress—to say to her. So she waited in expectation.

He spoke, rather in a monotone, almost, "I think you need to be clean as well."

She considered her state of cleanliness. She had a shower the night before, and while she might enjoy a nice bath, it didn't really seem time for it. "Perhaps tomorrow morning," she replied, curtly.

"No, I think sooner than that." He was curt as well. Perhaps not curt, but a bit... forceful. This was odd. He was not one to remark on her hygiene. She cared for herself in a proper, expected way, and no one complained about her state of filth or of any unacceptable odors. Nor did he. But here he is, naked as a jay, not yet having his bath, telling her of her need to be cleansed. Most irregular.

And she said so. "Look here, I don't think you have any place to be telling me of ..."

Well, she tried to say so, but then he rudely interrupted. "Actually, I think you need to have a bath." Then he paused a moment. "Now." And before she knew what was happening, he had reached beneath her thighs and back, chuckling, and was carrying her away to the bathroom.

She didn't want to struggle, lest he dropped her and then she would be injured, possibly seriously. So instead, she began in a torrent of words meant to break that smile from his face and to cease from such unacceptable activity. "Put me down! I think that enforced bathing is illegal in this state and you don't even have a license! I am really not prepared to get wet, in any case, because my hair... well, my hair is up, but that shouldn't make any difference, it might get wet which would be disastrous—just horrible. And you don't think... no, you wouldn't really put me in the bath with all my clothes—that would just be monstrous—OH!" Still chuckling, he placed her gently into the steaming tub.

Well, she thought, at least the temperature is to my liking. Sizzling hot. "For a bath, this is not very relaxing. To be shanghaied from my place on the couch and then placed in water fully clothed... it will take all day to dry these clothes!"

He knelt beside her and replied, "They would be easier to dry if they were off." Then he began unbuttoning her blouse.

Ah, so that's his game. All right, then. I suppose we ought to just enjoy it. That's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? She leaned back in the bath and closed her eyes. After erasing all thoughts of knives and straight pins digging into his flesh, she realized the possibilities here. Here she was, in an unexpected bath, with a personal servant to undress her, caress her, coddle her and fondle her. This could be pleasant indeed.

He noticed her visible relaxation, and kissed her closed eyes. "That's right. Take some time for yourself. I'll give you whatever you need."

Her blouse was fully unbuttoned and now he was clumsily working on her bra. She sat up and released it, then took it off. Her breasts floated, being fully supported by the water. The unbuttoned white shirt lay about her. She threw the shirt about herself, in mock modesty. "I can't have you looking at my..." He smiled wider. She looked at her chest and found that her breasts were fully visible through the thin, white, wet garment. "Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter," she said as she stripped off the shirt.

Her denim skirt and underwear came off quickly and easily. He gathered up the clothing and rung the soaking garments out in the bathroom sink and hung them up.

Temporarily alone, she allowed her heartbeat to cease racing, sitting back in the tub, and forcing herself to rest. His attack had unsettled her considerably, and though his intentions were honorable, the method was, shall we say, somewhat unorthodox. She had never been exposed to such a blatant display of testosterone, not by him, even as quiet as it was. In approaching things of amour, he had always been a gentleman—admittedly, somewhat childish and selfish—but gentle and considerate of her feelings and of her need to adjust to a new mood. However, this time he had given no signal of lovemaking, no warning of his desire. Instead, he blindsided her, putting her in a mood of... danger, almost.

It is a bit exciting, she admitted, and allowed her heartbeat to increase a bit. It isn't everyday a woman is gently ravaged by someone who loves her. Someone who desires her in such a way that he had to respond instantly, on impulse. Picking her up without warning. Putting her in a tub of water in order to be passionate with her. Stripping her gently under his adoring eyes. That's not so bad, really, is it?

Of course not. Nevertheless, it would be nice to take some revenge—in a loving manner, of course. She could plot and plan as well as the next woman. And take great pleasure in the results of her plotted torture. Oh, yes, she can plan. And he will regret. (All for his benefit, of course, she assured herself.)

"All right," he spoke, commandingly, but gently, "it is time to clean you up."

"All right," she mocked in a friendly manner. Then her voice went meek and pleading, "But... what will you use to clean me up, sir?"

He reached across her and grabbed the Dove and a washcloth. Firmly, he replied, "Just this: soap, water and a cloth. Please kneel and the cleaning shall begin."

She reinterpreted to herself: the pampering shall begin. She planned to enjoy this thoroughly. She got up onto her knees, then sat on her feet and rested her chest on her legs, arms at her side, curled up in a ball. "Please," she continued in a squeaky, pleading voice, "don't hurt me."

His firm tone softened a bit, but he was still in character, "Don't worry, little miss. I'll take good care of you." She trembled slightly, part in her playact to show trepidation, part in real anticipation of his touch.

She was a woman who felt love at the touch of a soft caress. Without the touch, without physical closeness that had no hint of a selfish, sexual drive behind it, then in her heart of hearts she could not be assured that she was loved. Intellectually she could acknowledge it. Her mind could assure her that she was really loved, but assurance in her deepest self would always be evaded unless she was gently caressed with direct intent.

Her husband, of course, was a man for whom touch was practically foreign. He grew up in a household where touch was not quite forbidden, but certainly never encouraged. Early on, when they were dating and engaged, he fawned on her, touching her constantly. She was not sure until later that his seductive fingers were, in reality, paws, longing for the sexual release and freedom that could not happen until they were married. But that never bothered her.

But he turned into a man who never showed her love... no, wait, that just wasn't true. He rarely showed her love in the manner in which she can truly, deeply feel it. She was confident of his love. Although his attentions waned in later years, focusing on work, children and the others who constantly came to the house, he would always take occasion to show that he cared for her. He would take her out to dinner. He would call her when it was unnecessary. He would give her little gifts. Basic romance stuff. But his touch... let's just say it was rare. Instead of sitting next to her on the couch, he chose a chair—as independent and full as opportunity for thought as he is. And if she sat next to him on the couch, he would be briefly stiff and then relax, but he would not reach his hand to her.

Admittedly, he was tired. And the children were not always easy to deal with. And he would converse with difficult people all day. And "touch" wasn't in his vocabulary of love unless you added some form of the word "sex" with it. She often sighed, disappointed at his distance.

And then sometimes, out of the blue, a light would come on within him, and he would scratch the back of her neck, softly. Or he might softly squeeze her shoulders for ten minutes. Or—blessing of all blessings—he might take the time to give her a full backrub—no strings attached. That last was rare, very rare. On the occasional birthday, when she didn't need sleep more than anything else in the world. Or the romantic anniversary. And thus did his displays of love descend.

Like God, she knew that he loved her, but only occasionally did he display it in action rather than in dusty, oft-repeated words of the past.

And so she trembled in anticipation. Even though the touch came through a cloth, rubbed with soap. Even though he was anticipating his own pleasure in a few minutes, or perhaps an hour. Even though he still wasn't recognizing her deepest need. She wanted this. Wanted a touch of love more than life.

Her back was fully exposed and he very gently rubbed the whole length and width of it, until small bubbles foamed all over her back. Being fully convinced of its cleanliness, he set aside the cloth and placed his fingertips on her skin. His caresses were firm—but not hurting—and the film of the soap causing each touch to be silky and smooth. She sat warm in the tub, her legs and front fully surrounded by the hot water and her back and shoulders lovingly warmed by his flat palms. After an infinitely brief time—perhaps ten minutes—he said in a soft version of his commanding characature, "Up on your knees, now. We have to clean the rest of you." And the pleasure was over.

Well, over for her. He took great delight in soaping up her chest, her buttocks, her public area, her thighs. Again, he dropped the washcloth. He climbed in the tub with her, kneeling behind her and reached around to cup her breasts. He fondled her all over, moaning his pleasure. Fingering her nipples, cupping her groin, squeezing her buttocks and rubbing them over and over.

His pleasure made her dizzy. In some way, she enjoyed his sudden yet slow approach down the road that has but one climax for two. His pawing was pleasant, like she was overlooking a child taking great pleasure in brushing her hair, although he was mussing it all up. She was too cold, out of the water. Her nipples were hard, but not from pleasure and his touching was slightly unpleasant. She was gaining little out of the rubbing of her buttocks, but the somewhat pleasant touch. The touching of her public area was personal and intimate, but not sexy.

Did he think he was doing this for her? That he was causing waves of pleasure in her? No. His erection sticking up between her two buttocks, (for he had pushed it in with his pelvis) showed her that. He was not aware of her responses, but his eyes were closed to allow all of his sensory function to focus on his hands, the touch he was receiving. Obviously, he felt that he had given her what she wanted, for now. And though he planned to "focus on her" in a little bit, he was taking what he wanted, for the moment. That was fine, she thought. But let's give him a little more. Or more than a little.

She took the discarded soap and rubbed it on her hands. Then she reached behind her and caressed the tip of his penis. He moaned at that, all right, and squeezed her breasts a little more, causing just a little pain. All right, she thought, let's do this. She turned around to him and saw his closed eyes and his dry skin except for his legs. "Tsk, tsk," she scolded like a kindergarten schoolmarm, "you are still all dirty. This will not do."

She wet him down, got more soap and began soaping him down thoroughly. She rubbed his chest and back, seductively lathering them, having to press her chest into him to reach around to his back. She lathered his neck and legs, using her fingernails to scratch his skin with pleasure. She bent down to reach his buttocks, and took the opportunity to give a little lick to his penis. Then she set into foaming up his groin, lingering at his tip. He backed off a bit then, saying, "We don't want to go too far." She smiled. Then she rinsed her and him off, front and back.

He slunk down for a moment, a bit weary from pleasure. She could tell that he was "steeling himself up" to work on her sexual desire. But before he could rise, she pressed into him, wrapping her arms about his neck, and allowing his face to touch her bare breasts. It was time. She queried seductively, "Do you know what I want?" She backed a bit, and began rubbing his nipples. He sat down in the lukewarm water, eyes widening, placing his legs on either side of her. Perfect. She bent down on top of him, her breasts resting on his hard penis, forcing it down on his stomach. She whispered again, "Do you know what I want?" Again, he made noises that "we" don't want him to climax too soon.

She ignored his plea, kissing his chest and licking his nipples, hard and quick. She lifted up her face to his, breathing the words onto him, "I know what you want." She sat up, her opening, wet with excitement (although emotionally she was not ready for sex), rested on his penis and she rubbed a bit. He moaned, "Not yet. Let's focus on you." She chuckled. "But that's not what you want." She rubbed a finger through his hair, around his neck, and let it descend to his nipple. She licked it and let the saliva lubricate between his nipple and her finger, while her vagina softly thrust on his erection. "You want to be wet. You want me to rub you." Beneath her hand on his chest, she could feel his heartbeat racing. "You want my body on you. You want to be surrounded by me. You want to be smothered by my softness"

She raised herself up, pressing her breasts into his face and picked up his penis and inserted the tip into her. "You want to moan with pleasure. You want to touch me all over." Slowly, she descended upon him and he grabbed her buttocks. "Oh," he moaned. And she moaned with him, for him, "Oh, I feel you inside. How lovely you feel." He started to make cautionary noises again, until she pulsed on him. "Come on," she spoke slowly, "put your hands on my breasts," She pulled at his arms until he grabbed her chest, longingly. "Squeeze my nipples, just a little." It was slightly uncomfortable for her, but he enjoyed it. She continued with her patter, " Come on, baby. Squeeze me. Kiss me. There, please. Oh, yes. Do you feel me?" He nodded. She thrust harder, "Press yourself inside of me—yes... Oh how I want you, I want you, I want you..." Suddenly, he exploded inside of her and she felt him tense up and then release. She continued moving on him until he motioned for her to cease.

After his breathing became normal, she got up off of him, turned to let the water out and grabbed a towel, drying herself off. "But," he said, "you didn't get a chance to..." Guilt and exertion made his face red. Her sweet revenge was all set up.

She smiled wickedly. "You never answered my question." He faltered a moment. "You know...? My question?" She repeated for him slowly, "Do you know what I want?"

He was clearly confused. His previous agenda for the evening was foiled by her sudden turnabout and he wasn't sure where he stood. He got up and she came up close to him and handed him a towel. She asked again, seductively "Do you know what I want?" She kissed his neck and stroked his shoulder.

Quickly, his thinking mechanism returned to its usual working state. "Ummm... a backrub?"

She smiled and backed away. "Right. Now get wiped off and come into the bedroom, please. But not too quickly..." she added. "I've got a couple things to set up and I want you dried with no goop on you." She glanced down at the white/clear fluid on his groin. He got the message. "Oh, and don't bother putting on any clothes," she concluded cheerily, "we're not done yet."

Entering nude into the bedroom, she realized that he wasn't done with his surprises yet. The bed was straightened up and the covers pulled back. The pillows were neatly set, with a piece of chocolate on each one. Towels were set on the mattress, neat and flat. The sill on top of the headboard were decorated with a row of candles, dimly lit. And on the tiny CD player, Beethoven was playing softly, romantically.

Oooh, she thought. He hadn't just planned to throw her in the bath and have his way with her. He had a small romantic evening planned. How sweet, she inwardly gushed, and gave him credit for his overall plan. She started to regret her thwarting of his plans, but then she erased her repentance. "Actually," she mused, "isn't this what the best of marriage is about? Taking two plans and putting them together to make one fantastic one? Too bad it doesn't work that way usually."

She lowered the covers further and set another towel on her side of the bed, still muttering, "Usually marriage is either one person getting what they want and the other person not, or some compromise is reached where both parties have less than they want. We've done pretty well," she said as she smoothed the bedclothes, "although I've made a lot of sacrifices. Well, he has too. It just... doesn't seem like he has made as many. Maybe that's just the way it is between men and women. A woman wants the pleasure of her man more than he wants her pleasure." She heard him coming, so she quieted down.

He came in, cleaned up and dried with a towel around his waist and another draped on his arm. "How can I serve you, ma'am?"

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "I love the way you set up the room. It was really thoughtful of you."

Remaining straight-faced, he said, "All part of the service, ma'am. Now, how can I help you?"

"Oh yes... one last thing." She ran out of the room and returned from the kitchen, just as quickly. In her hand was an egg timer. She turned the knob all the way around until it was past fifty-five. She set it on the nightstand on the other side of the room.

She stood before her stony-faced husband and said, "Cheeves, I want you to rub my back until that egg timer dings. You may use some lotion, but I would prefer no oil." She sat on the towels on the bed. "I shall be lying here."

"Cheeves" answered, "Ma'am, I have two questions."

She laid down, with her arms to her side. "Yes, Cheeves, what is it?"

"First, what if you fall asleep? Should I wake you?"

Humph, she thought. I should be asking you that question. "If I fall asleep, let me sleep and I will dream of you rubbing my back. Nothing could be better."

"Very well, ma'am. One other question. Since you have not a stitch of clothing on—a fact I greatly admire and appreciate—do you wish me to rub only that which one might call 'the back' or to perhaps cover all of your 'back', from neck to foot?"

"As you see fit, Cheeves. Although I do wish that I had shaved my legs in the tub."

"You could do so now, ma'am."

"Enough. The timer is running."

"Yes ma'am." And, kneeling beside the bed, he began.

* * *

He set to the task, for task it was. It was difficult enough to stay awake to give a long backrub, let alone to figure out what he should do during the backrub. Over the years he had given her many backrubs, usually the longest was a half-hour. Of course, he thought, she wouldn't consider them many. Perhaps two a year. I suppose two a year is a paltry sum when one's goal is to have a backrub every night. But he did give her other, "unofficial" backrubs—a rub on the neck, exercising her shoulders, the gentle caress here and there. But it couldn't be done all the time. Life is simply too busy.

To start with tonight, he did not use lotion but simply his fingers, barely touching her, raising goosebumps on her flesh. He drew circles on her, caressed her, using his fingernails, his open palm and the heel of his hand. He gently relaxed the back of her neck, her shoulders and shoulder blades. He wanted to linger at her buttocks, to perhaps caress the side of her breasts, or spread her legs open and move his fingers about in her vagina. But he knew better. He knew that the pleasure she wanted was touch, pure and simple, free without demand.