I woke when she rolled out of bed. I followed her, still as captivated by her postpartum body as I had been when I brought her home from delivering. I thought the thickness, the lack of a waist, which she complained about pretty much continuously, was much sexier than any trim young wasp-waisted thing. She was a woman, not a girl, with a woman's body and I loved it. I loved the way her ass was two distinct rounded sets of muscles kind of lost in the big dimples of her matron's body. I loved the incipient cellulite dimples on her thighs. I adored those soft pads that were starting to show on the backs of her upper arms.
When she sat to do her morning business I kissed her.
"Pervert," she said in what was becoming our morning ritual.
"Just taking care of what is mine," I said, wiping her carefully and helping her stand.
We brushed our teeth side by side, smiling.
"Take me to bed," she said.
"And feed you?" I asked.
She rolled her eyes theatrically.
"No, Baby, you know what I need," she said.
"And you'll get it in," and I made a production out of looking at my
Fitbit
watch, "a little over six hours."
"Baby," she said, closing the distance between us and molding her body to mine, "it'll be okay. I know my body. This ain't my first rodeo."
"But it is mine," I said, repeating what I had said before, "and it's doctors orders. Now to bed with you, insatiable wench, while I make breakfast."
She pouted very prettily, but she climbed up into bed, I thought putting more wiggle into her ass than was strictly necessary, giving me a beautiful view of those softly dangling, flopping lips.
DAMN, I wanted her.
Instead, I made breakfast. French toast this morning, swimming in butter and
Pearl Milling
syrup, what used to be
Aunt Jemima's
, sausage patties, and orange juice.
She was still pouting when I carried the tray up, but she wasn't very convincing because she smiled when she saw what I had on the tray. My Nancy does like her French Toast.
I helped her sit, adjusted the pillows so she was almost sitting up, and then fed her.
I took my time, catching one bite for every two or three of hers, offering the sausage or juice in turns, and wiping her lips between each bite.
Her eyes were closed for much of her breakfast. I liked giving her this special little joy.
When we had eaten it all, and finished the orange juice, I took the tray to the kitchen and took a few minutes to clean up.
Back in the bedroom to check on my bride she struck a pose, one of those classic "pinup picture" poses. She was lying on her left side, her head propped in her palm, her left leg straight, her toes pointed, her right leg bent at the hip, almost 90 degrees, and her knee bent so her right foot laid on her left knee.
She gave her head a shake, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and blew me a kiss.
I looked.
Jesus, I was hard almost instantly. She looked so inviting there, from her pointed toes to her thick hair and all points in between, Those heavy inner lips laid against her thigh and peeked out the way she was posed.
I took a deep breath, and said, "Four hours and eighteen minutes."
"Auuugghh," she said and reached for the phone on the bedside table.
I watched, curious, as she did something with her fingers and held the phone to her ear.
