Button Down Bliss

The anticipation had been building all day, a low thrum of heat beneath my skin, a constant pull toward the moment he’d finally walk through that door. When he was a young man, we’d done things like this, spontaneous, reckless, fueled by a desperate need to fill the void between us. But now, after years of quiet contentment, of shared routines and comfortable silences, the thrill felt heightened, sharpened by a bittersweet awareness of the preciousness of this stolen evening. I knew he was working late, the strain of his demanding job etching lines into his face, and the thought of his weariness, his unspoken longing for home, only intensified my own desire.

As I waited, I deliberately chose one of his button-down shirts, a pale blue cotton that always smelled faintly of him. I unbuttoned it carefully, pulling it over my head and letting it fall open, revealing the pale expanse of my skin beneath. A single button remained fastened, a deliberate act of submission, a silent invitation. There was no undergarment, just the soft curve of my breasts, the gentle slope of my stomach, a blatant display of vulnerability. It felt good, this exposure, this yielding. It was a reminder of the power I held, the control I exerted over this moment, this feeling.

The doorbell chimed, a sharp, insistent sound that jolted me from my reverie. My heart leaped into my throat, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I rushed to the door, pulling it open just as he was stepping onto the porch, briefcase in hand, shoulders slumped slightly from the day's weariness. The scent of rain clung to his clothes, a subtle reminder of the storm that had passed earlier.

He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he took in my appearance. It wasn't a blatant flaunting, just a casual display of the allure I knew he still possessed. He didn’t speak, didn’t even blink, just stood there, letting his gaze linger on my body before slowly stepping inside. The air thickened with unspoken desire, a silent acknowledgment of the electricity that crackled between us.

I met him at the threshold, pulling him into a fierce embrace. His arms wrapped around me, strong and familiar, and I pressed my body against his, savoring the feel of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the weight of his presence. We stood there for what felt like an eternity, locked in a silent communion of touch, before he finally broke the embrace and led me towards the kitchen.

The table was set with his favorite meal: grilled chicken breast, seasoned with garlic and herbs, served with a creamy cheese sauce, crispy bacon strips, and fluffy mashed potatoes. A bowl of broccoli casserole sat beside a pitcher of chilled white wine, the aroma mingling with the scent of simmering spices. A single candle cast a warm, flickering glow across the room, creating an intimate and inviting atmosphere. I had prepared everything meticulously, wanting to give him the perfect welcome home.

As he settled into his chair, I took his hand and led him to the table. We sat facing each other, close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating out, before I climbed onto his lap, nestling into the curve of his hip. We held each other tightly, our bodies brushing against one another, our breath mingling in the close confines of the kitchen. It was a moment of pure connection, of shared intimacy, a silent promise of the pleasures to come.

I didn’t bother with conversation, letting the silence speak for itself. Instead, I leaned forward and kissed him deeply, my lips tracing the lines of his face, searching for any sign of the exhaustion he carried within him. He responded in kind, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of us, suspended in a bubble of shared desire.

Finally, we broke apart, our breath coming in ragged gasps. I sat back in his lap, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand. He caught glimpses of my body as I moved around the kitchen, making the final preparations for dinner, the pale blue shirt clinging to my skin, a testament to the vulnerability I had so deliberately embraced. It felt good, this power, this control, this delicious anticipation.

As he reached for his wine glass, I took his hand and pulled him back, gently guiding him to the table. We held hands and looked each other in the eyes, before turning to face the candle, and then slowly, deliberately, we began to eat. The food was delicious, but the true pleasure came from the shared experience, the unspoken understanding that passed between us with every bite.

After dinner, I retrieved a romantic movie from the DVD player, a classic that we both enjoyed – "Casablanca," of course. I made a bed on the floor in front of the television, draping a soft blanket over it for added comfort. We snuggled close, feeling the warmth of the flickering screen and the heat of our bodies against each other.

Throughout the movie, I would reach over and caress his chest, then his lower abdomen, then his penis and testicles, kissing his face, licking his neck, and sucking on his chest. I wanted him to become aroused, to lose himself in the pleasure, to savor every sensation. I kept my hands moving, my touch firm and purposeful, prolonging the anticipation, feeding the flames of desire. It was a slow, deliberate process, designed to heighten the tension, to build the anticipation until it finally exploded in a torrent of ecstasy. I didn't rush, didn't force anything. Just allowed him to succumb to the pleasure, to explore the depths of his own arousal.

As the movie progressed, the mood grew more intense. I moved closer, my hands tracing the contours of his body, my lips lingering on his skin. The scent of his arousal filled the room, intoxicating and overwhelming. There was a desperate need, a primal urge, that threatened to consume us both.

By the time the credits rolled, we were both trembling with anticipation, our bodies saturated with sweat and desire. We tore away from each other, our faces flushed, our hearts pounding in unison. I sat in my own chair, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and vulnerability. It was time, I realized, for the final act.

Taking his hand, I led him back to the bedroom, our steps quick and eager. We undressed slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of our nakedness against each other. There was no rush, no hesitation, just a shared understanding of the pleasure that awaited us. We lay down on the bed, close enough to feel each other's breath, our bodies intertwined in a perfect embrace.

I began to massage his toes, then feet, then legs, then buttocks, my hands firm and focused. As I moved higher, my hands strayed beneath, reaching for the hollow spot in his hip area, tickling him with playful abandon. I leaned forward, allowing my breasts to brush against his back, the sensation both stimulating and comforting. Rolling him over, my hands and lips continued their exploration, tracing the lines of his body, teasing his senses.

He lay me down, returning the massage with a gentle touch, his mouth and hands searching out every inch of my skin. Softly, gently, he explored my body, seeking out every nerve ending, every muscle fiber. It was a slow, deliberate process, designed to build the tension, to heighten the anticipation.

As he continued his massage, my body ached to feel him inside, the pleasure so intense that it brought tears to my eyes. Never had I experienced such closeness, such unity, such complete surrender. The communion, the connection, transcended words or explanation. It was a moment of pure bliss, a testament to the power of our love.

As we made love by candlelight, staring into each other’s eyes, there was a connection that goes beyond words or explanation. It was a feeling of perfect harmony, of complete fulfillment, a shared experience that would forever be etched in our memories. The night continued in this vein, a series of passionate encounters, each one more intense than the last. We explored every inch of each other's bodies, pushing the boundaries of pleasure, reveling in the exquisite sensations that passed between us. The hours flew by, marked only by the flickering candlelight and the sounds of our shared ecstasy.

When we finally succumbed to exhaustion, we lay tangled together in the sheets, our bodies aching, our hearts full. It was a perfect ending to a perfect evening, a testament to the enduring power of our love. Looking back, I realized that this spontaneous, reckless night had been more than just a fleeting moment of pleasure. It had been a reminder of the joy, the passion, and the intimacy that we shared, a celebration of the beautiful connection that bound us together. And as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that I would cherish this memory forever.

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Button Down Bliss

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