Silent Night, Secret Touch

It all started off rather unexpectedly. There was nothing unusual about the evening, nothing in the wind, no premonitions, no out-of-the-ordinary events, just darkness and the quiet solitude that accompanies it. The children were already tucked in and fast asleep in the bedroom. My husband had retired as had become his customary earlier-than-usual hour brought on by the extended commute that a far more distant new house purchase had brought along. I was alone, downstairs, cuddled up to a good book and warm mug of milk. Quite the appropriate way to end a good day, or so I thought.

Reading had made my eyes heavy with sleep. Rather than fight to finish the chapter, I surrendered to the onslaught of drowsiness and decided to retire to the master bedroom.

Making my way upstairs, I found the hall faintly illumined by the glow of night lights spilling from under the doors of the children’s’ bedrooms onto the carpeted floor. Inside the master bedroom, the air was painted black with darkness. Not even the moon seemed to be able to pierce the ebony curtain. The only sound resonating was my sleeping husband’s breathing. I had to clumsily feel my way around in the dark to find my night clothes.

I had just slipped out of my jeans and taken off my polo and bra, and was seated on the edge of the bed about to don a cotton gown, when suddenly I felt my husband’s presence behind me, his warm naked skin touching my own, his lips planting delicate kisses along the slopes of my neck and shoulders while his arms encircled me and his hands came to rest softly and play gently upon my breasts. “I thought you were asleep,” I whispered. “I couldn’t,” he whispered back, “I’ve been awake thinking about you all evening.”

He wasted no time in drawing me back onto the bed with him and into whatever sensual aura it was that had imbued his senses. When I reached to embrace him, I found that he was already nude and fully aroused, his hardness rubbing against me as he pressed his sensually warmed body against my own.

Kisses moist and flavored by the kindled ardor of anticipation dressed my lips. Hands sensuously radiating conveyed his passion and the heightened sense of his desire as they sought out my most pleasurable places to stroke and caress. And then one slipped effortlessly into my bikini panties to make love to my womanhood, first atop my lips, and then, as I became wet and opened in invitation, inside the velvety dew of my pink enclave. There was nothing to do, but to lie back, close my eyes, and be submersed in a pool of pleasure.

Wanting to reciprocate, to share in the sensuous delight in which I was so thoroughly immersed, I reached for him finding his soft fur missing, and the unobstructed full length of his tool mine to explore. And explore him I did, running my fingers up and down his length, loving the way he responded to my touch, listening to his moans of approval, the way he verbalized his passion, feeling his penis growing in my hand, fondling him, rubbing him with the droplets of his own seed until he was slick and slippery to the touch.

We reached the point together where only that most intimate of convergences can satisfy the longing to know each other in that most incomparable way. Usually we would stop and I would sheath his penis before he enters me, but this evening there was no time for stopping and no desire to do so. Before we could do something stupid like second guess our actions, he pulled down my panties, and after I parted my legs to invite his penetration, he was inside me, filling the wetness of my vagina with his surging inches, plunging passionately into my honey, bringing us both over a most delicious edge.

It was like it used to be when we first married and discovered this wonderful pleasure. There were times we couldn’t wait to get home and share our bodies in bed. It was hard to believe that something like this even existed, but it did, and we delighted in it. And it brought us a closeness one would think not achievable. That night, he was the young, virile man again, and I was his willing bride, and we were selflessly giving to each other.

The scent of our loving perfumed the air in our bedroom. The sounds we made, the words we uttered, the language of our bodies resonated around the room like a sensual symphony. I was glad for the locks on the doors.

Then with a shudder, his velvet essence was filling my vagina, explosively, plunged deep within me, and again I just closed my eyes and basked in the sensation of his seed being planted inside of me.

When it was over, I thought we would just cuddle and fall into a wonderful sleep, but he kept touching me, caressing, kindling the fire, not letting the flame of our passion diffuse, like he used to, and I knew we would do it again.

Hours had passed when finally we lay calm in each other’s arms. “You were beautiful tonight,” he whispered. “I want to do this again with you,” he whispered, “I want to make love to you in every room of this house. I want to spend a whole weekend in bed with you. Would you like that?”

“Oh yes,” I wanted to say, but the pragmatic side of me responded first. “You know we have children. We can’t do that sort of thing any more.”

“I know,” disappointedly he spoke, “but it’s worth dreaming.”

Yes it is, and weeks later his dreams would come true. The first time, he surprised me by leaving a note on the pillow, detailing his plan. He’d spent the morning packing a bag, filled with essentials, and a bottle of his favorite bourbon. He planned to take the day off work, claiming a sudden illness, and devote himself entirely to me. As he left the house, I felt a surge of excitement, mixed with a touch of apprehension. What would this day hold? He returned in the evening, smelling of pine and rain, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. He had transformed the guest room into a sanctuary of pleasure, complete with candles, soft music, and a plush, king-sized bed. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla filled the air, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and desire. He took my hand, and we moved to the bedroom, where the same intoxicating ambiance awaited. The night unfolded in a whirlwind of passion, exploration, and uninhibited pleasure. Every touch, every kiss, every moan, was a testament to the rekindled flame between us. As the hours passed, we continued to push the boundaries of our desires, losing ourselves in the intoxicating rhythm of our lovemaking. When morning arrived, we were both exhausted but exhilarated, clinging to each other in a tangled embrace. The experience had left us both breathless and deeply satisfied. Later that day, as he prepared to leave for work, he turned to me with a mischievous grin. "Just wait until tomorrow," he said, "there's still so much more to explore." And as I watched him disappear through the door, I knew that this was just the beginning of our extended weekend of passionate indulgence. The thought sent shivers down my spine, and a smile spread across my lips. It was a glorious, decadent escape, a temporary retreat from the responsibilities of our daily lives, and a celebration of the enduring power of love and lust. From that day forward, our home became a haven for passion, a place where we could shed our inhibitions and embrace our desires without restraint. The memory of that first night lingered in our hearts, a reminder of the joy and fulfillment that comes from surrendering to the primal urges within us. The housewarming had indeed been unexpected, but it had also been a turning point, a catalyst for a deeper, more intense connection between us. And as I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the serendipitous encounter that had led us to this moment of shared bliss.

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Silent Night, Secret Touch

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