Thirty-Seven Years, Silent Shift

The calendar mocked me with its stark white face, a reminder of the thirty-seven years we’d shared, intertwined, and yes, occasionally strained by the relentless demands of our rotation. The two weeks on duty felt like a relentless hammer blow against the fragile edifice of our lives, a constant interruption to the quiet rhythms of our existence. It was enough to make a man grumble, and believe me, I did. But grumbling doesn’t change the schedule, and right now, our schedule was in full swing.

Karin, my beautiful, brilliant, exasperating Karin, had been training a new trauma tech, a bright-eyed young woman named Chloe. As always, she was a fountain of chatter, a constant stream of observations and opinions that flowed freely during our downtime. It's just the way women are, really. They need to talk, to connect, to share, and sometimes, just sometimes, to dissect every single facet of their lives, including the most intimate. I understood, of course, the need for these conversations, for the comfort of shared experience, but sometimes, I just wanted a little peace and quiet.

Finally, the grueling rotation was over, and we were heading home, weary but satisfied. I whipped up a quick supper – spaghetti with meat sauce, her favorite – and then, as always, we headed for the shower. The ritual was ingrained, a comforting routine we’d perfected over decades. I’d step in first, letting the hot water cascade over me, loosening the knots of tension in my muscles, before Karin followed close behind. Occasionally, we’d shower together, clinging to each other under the warm spray, but tonight, it was just us, two souls seeking solace in the familiar comfort of the porcelain walls.

I stepped out, drying myself off with a thick, fluffy towel and collapsing onto the bed, letting out a contented sigh. The plush mattress welcomed me with its familiar softness, and for a moment, all the world melted away. As I waited for Karin, I picked up a magazine, an article about open-heart surgery performed at an accident site, written by two seasoned MDs. The clinical descriptions and detailed illustrations held my attention, a strange contrast to the warm intimacy of our bedroom.

Karin joined me, settling onto the bed beside me, her presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. She seemed lost in thought, her gaze drifting aimlessly around the room, her fingers absently running through her incredibly soft, downy pubic hair. I watched her, out of the corner of my eye, anticipating the inevitable game of peek-a-boo between her legs, the playful teasing that we’d developed over the years. But instead, she posed a question that completely threw me off balance.

“Would you like it if I shaved my pussy?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with an unexpected boldness. My magazine slipped from my grasp, tumbling to the floor unnoticed as I instinctively rolled over to face her. A wave of disbelief washed over me, followed by a surge of heat that spread through my veins. My response was immediate, visceral, and utterly devoid of hesitation.

“That’s a three-part answer.”

She gave me a strange, slightly bewildered look, as if unsure of what to expect. Then, with a decisive tone, I laid out my answer, each word imbued with a potent mix of desire and control. “Nope…don’t think so. The second part is a firm no. And the third part is, OH, HELL NO!”

By this point, my right hand had moved without conscious thought, sliding between her legs, exploring the curves and textures of her vulva, a silent invitation to pleasure. Her eyes closed, a small smile playing on her lips as she writhed with pleasure, her body shaking with each passing moment. The sensation was exquisite, primal, a release of pent-up tension and longing. I pushed deeper, guiding her to the brink of an orgasm, intensifying her pleasure until she finally succumbed, moaning softly as her body convulsed in ecstasy. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the rapid, shallow breaths, were a testament to the sheer intensity of her experience.

After she recovered, we talked, delving into the origins of her sudden, audacious question. I asked her why she had brought it up, seeking to understand the underlying motivation behind her bold request. This is what transpired.

Karin explained that she and Chloe had been sitting together, reviewing paperwork, discussing their respective roles in the trauma unit. The conversation naturally drifted towards husbands and sex, a topic that often surfaced during these informal gatherings. It was there, amidst the mundane details of medical procedures and patient care, that Chloe had casually brought up the idea of shaving her pubic hair.

“See, I KNEW it!” I exclaimed, letting out a hearty laugh. “All you women do is talk about sex.”

Karin gave me her signature “go-to-hell” look, a combination of exasperation and amusement that always seemed to cut right through my defenses. I quickly shut up, realizing the futility of arguing with a woman who was perfectly capable of handling herself. But the story didn’t end there.

Karin went on to reveal that Chloe’s husband, a man she described as a colossal two-legged jackass, had been relentlessly badgering her into shaving down there. He’d made it clear that he found her hair on her vulva repulsive and insisted that she undergo a full-body waxing treatment as well. The thought of such callous disregard for her own body sent shivers down my spine. For the record, in my opinion, any man that is that callous and self-important needs to be told to hit the road.

The revelation left me speechless, a mixture of disgust and admiration swirling within me. It was a testament to the power dynamics inherent in relationships, a stark reminder of the control men sometimes exert over women. But as I looked at Karin, her eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness, I knew that she would never allow anyone to treat her that way.

We turned out the bedside lamps, snuggling close, seeking comfort in each other's presence. Later that night, I awoke, eased back the covers, and ambushed her with my tongue, plunging deep into the depths of her pleasure. You have no idea how much I enjoy making her cum like that! The feeling was intoxicating, a perfect blend of dominance and submission, of power and surrender. Each stroke, each caress, was an expression of my love and desire, a silent affirmation of our connection. The rhythm of our bodies intertwined, a symphony of pleasure and release.

As the night wore on, we continued to explore each other's bodies, lost in a world of sensation and intimacy. There was no need for words, no need for explanation. Our bodies spoke for themselves, communicating a language of lust, desire, and profound connection. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her perfume, the sound of her breath – every detail contributed to the intoxicating experience.

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, we lay tangled in each other's arms, exhausted but content. The world outside could wait, the demands of our rotation could wait. For now, all that mattered was the shared intimacy, the profound connection that bound us together. It was a perfect moment, a testament to the enduring power of love and desire. And as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that this was just the beginning of another unforgettable chapter in our extraordinary life together. Until next time...

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