"
What's the point of this story? Or maybe I should be asking how badly does this story suck? Why do I write this stuff for her when she might not like it, and then she'll think I'm an idiot?"
He always had these thoughts when he finished a writing project, the moment at which he came close to deleting the file in a fit of self-doubt. But he never did, mostly he figured it was because he was lazy and couldn't stand the thought of losing all the work that went into it. But he always rationalized away his doubts and his laziness with "
Better a shitty story than nothing
." Besides, she did seem to genuinely like them, or least she never let him know that she didn't.
Someone once said that we all write with a single person in mind, an ideal reader. She was not just his ideal reader, but the
raison d'être
for his secret writing career. It was, after all, their shared interest in the hobby of adult literature (he snorted a laugh at that – "adult literature"?) that got him started on this. Besides, he liked writing and it provided him with a welcome distraction.
He thought about the start of the story as he walked downstairs to let her know that he was (finally!) finished.
Chapter 1: Writers Block
"Stuck in a rut and parked in front of a computer was no place for a budding novelist. Sometimes the words flowed, sometimes they didn't, and right now the river was a dry Outback creek bed.
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, get a fresh perspective on things and tap into that distant little well of creativity. He had learned that at times like these the words needed to pulled out of that well like drawing up a bucket of water..."
"Done!" he said to her, holding the papers up for her to see.
She turned around and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Oh really? And do I get read it?" She walked over to him reaching for the story.
"Not this time," and he held the papers behind his back as she made a grab for them, letting herself lean against him.
She treasured his stories and the thought of sitting down to read it with a glass of wine, wearing nothing but a robe, made her nipples harden. She pressed them into him, a promise of his reward...if he let her read the story.
"Why not?" she quietly complained, brushing feather-light kisses around his neck.
He gently pushed her back and looked her in the eye, "How about if I read it to you this time?"
Without a word, she stepped straight back, turned and walked away.
"I'll be waiting upstairs," was all she said, leaving a bottle of wine and two glasses sitting on the counter.
He lingered for a few minutes in the kitchen, giving her a few minutes of privacy – no easy task in their small house – before he picked up the story and followed her upstairs.
She was waiting for him, reclined in the red bathrobe that he loved, running only to mid-thigh and barely held closed by the belt. With her brown hair spilled over the pillows, he thought again about how lucky he was to be with a woman that mixed her beauty and sensuality together so seamlessly. Relaxed there on the four-posted bed, she was the picture of luxury and comfort. The bed was the only thing in the house on which they had spent any real money. Thick wooden posts carved with detailed patterns of vines that snaked up to melt into the cloudy white canopy, and the deep green bedding sometimes made them feel like they were in a forest. The bed took up most of the space in the room, but that was fine with both of them. When they had moved it in here, he wondered about the size, but she kissed him and asked "Where else would you be in a bedroom?"
She loved being read to. It didn't matter if was the sports section of the newspaper or from a book he was reading. But this was the first time he had read aloud something that he had written. Her fingers traced small patterns in the cleavage exposed by the loosely tied robe, eyes shut, and she didn't say a word as he sat on the edge of the bed and started to read the story.
"…
He felt gentle hands start to knead his shoulders and leaned back to accept their comfort.
'You're so tense,' his wife said, 'No wonder you're having a hard time getting started today. You just need to relax.'
Her hands worked his shoulders harder, sliding up and massaging his head, her fingers weaving through his thick dark hair. She knew he loved it when her fingernails lightly scratched his scalp…"
He glanced up from his reading and saw her hand had worked its way inside her robe to caress her chest, lightly grazing her skin. Her hard nipples pressed into the light fabric of the robe, leaving two subtle expressions of her arousal.
"…
She leaned down and began to kiss his neck, feather light, teasing kisses that raised goosebumps on his skin, her hands slid up and into his shirt, nails skimming his stomach and chest.
He let out a breath and said, 'This isn't helping me concentrate,' but she could tell the protest was less than half-hearted.
'Let me take care of you, baby,' she said, letting her lips brush his, her breasts pressing into him. 'When I'm done with you, you'll be ready to start again. I promise."
She slid around and swung one leg over him, and sat in his lap facing him. Her dress hiked partway up her thigh to give her room to sit like this, just uncovering the tops of her stockings held in place by a garter…"
He looked up at the sound of her soft moan. Through the fabric of her robe, he could see her hand gently pinching a hard nipple, her hips slightly pressed up in response.
"Are you going to pay attention?" he asked irritably.
She cracked an eye open and smiled, "Of course I'm paying attention. If I wasn't, would I be soaking wet and playing with myself?"
