Sarah felt her husband's hand snake under her pajama tops and caress the curve of her waist. She had her back to him, and her eyes opened in the darkness of the night. She had not been close to going to sleep, so there was no reason for irritation. She sighed quietly, and waited for John to move his hand up to his breasts, as he always did. He would rub one, then the other for a minute or two, then do a few lazy circles of her nipples. Then he would slide his hand down under the waistband of her bottoms, in the futile hope that she might be wet. She wouldn't be, so he would rub her for a while, and eventually scoot down and lubricate her with his tongue, and that did generally get things going enough to make intercourse comfortable. Still spooning her from the back, he would slide whatever erection he had into her -- sometimes he was hard and ready, but more often, it felt like being fucked by a distracted chimpanzee. He would rub himself up and down eight or ten times, and then, with a muted grunt -- a noise control habit left over from when they still had kids at home - he would come in a couple of noticeable shudders. He would lay inside her for a minute or two, until she said, "Ummmm...that felt so good." Then he would roll over and sleep soundly while she continued staring into the darkness. She wondered how often, in twenty eight years of marriage they had done this -- 2000 times? 4000 times? She remembered the old adage that if you put a penny in a jar every time you made love the first year of your marriage, and took a penny out of the jar every time you made love after the first year, you would die with pennies still left in the jar.
John's hand moved predictably to Sarah's breast. She wondered when, exactly, they had stopped kissing as a prelude to making love, and when talking had become nonessential. Probably around the time she stopped getting wet when he touched her. She felt bad about that; knew it was an undeniable sign of disinterest, but she had convinced John that her change of life was happening early, and her hormones were out of balance. John seemed much more comfortable with that explanation than he had the time she'd actually tried to talk to him about their sex life. It had taken her weeks to screw up the courage, and then when she brought it up, he shut down totally and said he did not want to discuss it.
His hand moved down under her pajama bottoms and massaged her pubic bone, and outer lips. She smiled in the darkness, because that still felt good; the tingly feeling of massed neurons springing into action. If he was just a little patient, between his rubbing and her imagination she could probably work up enough lubricant to get the job done, but if she wasn't dripping wet in twenty seconds, he just eased on down and sped things up with his tongue. She didn't enjoy that as much as she might have. Sure enough, John was already edging down through the covers, pulling her pajama bottoms down as went. He nibbled on her thighs a little before turning his full attention to her unenthused pussy. It felt nice enough, to be sure, but there was just something too...businesslike about it for her to let loose and concentrate on how it felt. In her heart, she felt that someone putting his tongue up her twat should be an act of greater intimacy than just normal fucking, so when she felt the tongue but not the intimacy, it was like a gin and tonic without the gin -- a little bitter, and not at all what she'd hoped for.
She rubbed her hand absently through his hair as he licked her. In fairness, John was very generous if not overly skilled. She didn't understand why even though everything up to this point had been about her, it felt somehow like it was about him. Even now, he had no clue that he stroked her clit too directly to be exciting, he couldn't get in to any kind of rhythm that would build, and after a few minutes, when she could sense there was nothing happening for her, she tugged on John's hair to come back up and take care of business.
"Did you come?" John asked, as he scooted up behind her.
"No," she said truthfully, but then went on to lie, "but I'm so close, I just need you inside me."
With that amount of encouragement, he spooned up against her, pushed his penis a little ways into her, and took gradually longer and longer strokes. He wasn't particularly big tonight, which tended to make him last a little bit longer, but it was a mixed blessing, because it didn't feel as good either. After a dozen strokes, she felt him stiffen up, and then give his muffled sob for a couple more thrusts. That was her cue to moan in ecstasy.
Afterward, just before John fell asleep, she murmured "Ummm.....that felt so good." She continued to stare off into the darkness.
Sarah felt guilty for even wondering if she was unhappy. John was responsible, a great father, successful, had always provided for the family, was slow to anger, and had always given her encouragement to pursue her interests. He never hit her, he helped out with housework, and didn't have any particularly irritating vices. In fact, John seemed to have it all so together, Sarah suspected he didn't really need her at all. At times when her heart felt the emptiest, she recalled the words her mother had once shared, which seemed cryptic at the time: "The opposite of love is not hate, Sarah. The opposite of love is indifference." At forty eight, Sarah had been married to John for twenty seven years, and she knew they stayed together because it was easy. They lived together out of habit, they shopped out of habit, they fucked out of habit. Sarah had dedicated a goodly amount of those twenty seven years to raising kids, but now the kids were gone, the nest was empty. Maybe it would be better when grandchildren arrived, but for now, there was only routine. Sarah had been thinking about this long enough to know that within her was still a spark that wanted to burn, and that she still had a soul. Unfortunately, she'd also realized that she didn't have a soul mate.
"Are you sure you don't want to join us?" Sarah asked. "You haven't seen Michael in what, four years?"
John shook his head and smiled. "No, you and Michael need some time to catch up. You guys have so many inside jokes and shorthand memories, it's not even fun being with you the first night. Maybe tomorrow, if he's still in town."
Sarah's fraternal twin, Michael, had emailed her two days ago that a business problem required an emergency trip to Minneapolis, and could they get together for dinner? She had accepted without hesitation, knowing she would break any commitment she might have. The thought of being able to talk to Michael was warm, like the thought of wrapping in a comfy blanket, or laying in front of a fireplace in January. They had been inseparable as children, closer than friends as teenagers, and were confidants as adults. Time went by, but they continued their conversations wherever the last one ended.
"Okay," she said, as she gave her husband a peck on the cheek. "I don't know how late we'll end up being. Don't wait up."
"Call me if you're not in condition to drive," John said, in a simultaneously understanding and judgmental tone. "I will gladly come and get you." Sarah didn't drink much, but when she was with her brother, she tended to over imbibe, often deep into the night. It wasn't so much that she enjoyed drinking, it was that she didn't notice how much time was passing.
"Thank you," Sarah responded. "I doubt that it will get real late. Michael has client meetings in the morning."
She called his cell on the way to the hotel. "What room are you in?" she asked. "I'll come by and pick you up and leave my purse in your room if that's okay. "
When Michael opened the door to room 931, Sarah's smile could not have been more radiant or sincere. They exchanged mutual cheek kisses, and then hugged. Hugging was what Sarah always looked forward to, because Michael had a way of hugging her close that made Sarah feel he was literally going to pull her into his flesh, yet without any mutual pressure on any awkward areas. She just held on tightly, and sometimes wished he could pull her into his flesh.
"How are you, Sarah?" Michael asked finally, pushing her back to arm's length. "I guess you can't wait until tomorrow, eh?"
"Tomorrow?" Sarah asked uncertainly. "Why?"
"'Cuz you get better looking every day." He grinned at her.
She shook her head. "I can't believe I fell for that line again. I am such a dolt. "
"You're not a dolt. You're a genetic oddity. Women are supposed to lose their looks with age; you get prettier." Michael was, in general, a smooth talker, but in this, he spoke the truth. Sarah's eyes were bluer, her smile whiter, her hair blonder, and her face fuller than when she was twenty five, and the combination was exactly what Michael had stated -- she was much more attractive at forty eight than she had been at twenty five.
Sarah was wearing a simple patterned sundress, with sandals, and had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her tanned legs were firmer than most forty eight year olds, but not as taut as they were when she swam competitively. Michael was wearing khaki Dockers, a blue polo shirt, and topsiders without socks. As they walked hand in hand to the restaurant next to the hotel, they looked more like an attractive happy married couple than a brother and sister.
"So, how are you and Dudley Do Right getting along?" Michael asked when they were seated. The Italian restaurant was nice, a little darker than normal, with upholstered furniture, and long linen tablecloths.
"Stop that," Sarah said, smiling nonetheless. She knew Michael had always found John somewhat pretentious. "We're fine. As always. Do you have any developments on the romance horizon?" Michael's wife, Olivia, had died after a long battle with breast cancer when she was just twenty eight. Michael had never remarried, and -- from all appearances -- had never even engaged in a serious relationship since.
"No point in trying. You're already taken, and anybody else would be second best." Michael said. He smiled as he said this, but Sarah still felt a flush of pleasure, anyway.
