Thirty-Five Years, Still Devoted

The rain hammered against the windows of the master bathroom, a relentless percussion that mirrored the frantic beat of my heart. I stepped out of the shower, the residual steam clinging to my skin like a second, damp layer, and exhaled a shaky breath. “Good,” I muttered, more to myself than to the mirror, which was already slick with condensation. He still loved to look at me, even after thirty-five years, even with the extra weight that had settled around my middle and thighs. It was a strange, unsettling comfort, this enduring desire.

I reached for the plush, white towel, its fibers thick and absorbent, and began to dry off, meticulously pulling the damp skin taut as I worked. As I did, I caught my reflection in the fogged-up mirror – a woman ravaged by time, softened by comfort, and undeniably familiar. My breasts, once a source of youthful pride, now sagged slightly, their perky bounce long gone, but they still held a certain weight, a memory of what they had been. “He still likes them, though,” I thought, a small, defiant flicker of pleasure in my chest. It was a pathetic, clinging refusal to let go of the past, but I wouldn't deny myself the moment.

My fingers traced the sensitive skin of my pink nipples, tracing their curves and peaks, and I let my mind wander back to the countless nights he’d spent gazing at them, his eyes filled with a hunger that both thrilled and terrified me. The memory of his lips, soft and insistent, pressing against them, sending shivers down my spine, felt incredibly potent. I closed my eyes, letting the phantom sensation wash over me, savoring the echo of his adoration.

Slowly, deliberately, I ran my hands down my body, letting the cool air tease my skin, awakening the latent heat within. “How long has it been?” I mused, the thought a slow burn in my mind. "At least a couple of weeks, maybe, maybe even longer. Time has a way of blurring the edges, softening the sharpest memories." The realization brought a melancholic smile to my lips.

I twisted slightly, angling my body so I could see my bottom in the mirror. The pale flesh, once taut and firm, now had a gentle curve to it, a testament to years of indulgence and comfort. “Not too bad, kid,” I murmured, a low, appreciative sound. He had always adored my bare bottom, the way it yielded beneath his touch, the vulnerability it exposed. The memory of his calloused hands, rough and insistent, caressing every inch of it, made my stomach clench with a delicious anticipation.

Lower still, my hands descended, tracing the delicate folds of my labia, until they reached the dark triangle that nestled within. I dampened my finger with my tongue, savoring the slickness, the anticipation building in my core, and slowly, deliberately, inserted it into the pink cleft. The world seemed to narrow, focusing solely on the sensations blooming within me. It was a primal, animalistic pleasure, and I leaned into it, surrendering to its intoxicating pull.

As my finger moved slowly, rhythmically, against my clitoris, a wave of heat spread through my body, igniting a fire deep within my core. Thoughts of him, his hands, his touch, flooded my mind, each memory a spark in the inferno. “He’s going to love this,” I thought, a breathless whisper lost in the humid air. The memory of our first time, so many years ago now, when he finally coaxed me into trying oral sex, felt like a lifetime ago. It had been an awkward, hesitant experience, filled with both shame and a strange, burgeoning excitement. But the memory of the raw, desperate pleasure he had unleashed within me had been unforgettable. "I didn't know what I was missing," I had told him, even though there had been no real orgasm that night. But the door had been opened, and we had explored this new path together, discovering a deeper level of intimacy and shared pleasure.

Now, as my finger continued its relentless dance against my clitoris, the pleasure intensified, morphing into a desperate, consuming need. I thought about his penis, its velvet-smooth skin, its potent masculinity, the way it filled me with his power and desire. I remembered the countless times he had looked at me with that same hungry gaze, his eyes tracing the contours of my body, longing for the touch of my skin. I loved the feel of his lips on my flesh, the way they tasted of salt and sweat, the way they could both tease and overwhelm. And I loved the cries of pure, unadulterated sexual emotion that escaped his lips as I took him deep into my mouth, pulling him in, teasing him, making him beg. It was a dance of dominance and submission, a reciprocal exchange of pleasure that left us both breathless. But more than anything, I loved the sensation of his penis inside me, filling me with his love, his desire, his very essence.

A new idea sparked in my mind, a daring and slightly reckless notion. He loved watching me pleasure myself, and he always enjoyed participating in the act. What if I let him witness the full force of my arousal, the raw, uninhibited expression of my desire? It felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

Leaving the bathroom, I shed my clothes and stepped out into the bedroom, the dim light casting long shadows across the plush carpet. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. Reaching into the nightstand, I retrieved my favorite vibrator, its cool metal a comforting weight in my hand. It was a sleek, silent machine, designed to deliver intense, focused pleasure.

“Honey, are you busy?” I called out, my voice trembling slightly, as I padded across the room towards the living room.

“Thank you, God, for my husband, and for the gift of sex,” I whispered, a prayer of gratitude and gratitude for the simple pleasures of life. “And for the fact that the kids are grown and gone.” The freedom that came with being a single woman, free from the responsibilities of motherhood, allowed me to indulge in my deepest desires without restraint.

As I approached the living room, I noticed him lounging on the couch, a book resting on his chest, his eyes closed, lost in the world of words. He looked peaceful, content, oblivious to the storm brewing within me.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. With a mischievous grin, I began to use the vibrator, focusing its intense vibrations on my clitoris, letting the pleasure build and build, feeding my own arousal while waiting for him to notice. It didn’t take long. His eyes snapped open, and he slowly lifted his head, following the rhythmic pulses of the machine. His gaze locked onto me, and a slow smile spread across his face, a silent invitation to continue.

With a final push, I moved closer, pressing myself against him, letting my body brush against his. The heat of his body intensified my arousal, and my breathing grew ragged. He reached out, his hand finding my hip, drawing me closer, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist.

"You want this, don't you?" he murmured, his voice low and husky, laced with desire.

"More than anything," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He didn't say another word. Instead, he simply leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear, whispering promises of pleasure and domination. And as he began to take me deeper, I knew that this was exactly where I wanted to be, lost in the intoxicating dance of lust and desire, with the man I had loved for three and a half decades, and who, despite the years and the weight, still found me utterly irresistible. The rain continued to fall outside, but inside, in the warm embrace of our shared pleasure, the world felt perfect, complete, and utterly, gloriously alive.

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Thirty-Five Years, Still Devoted

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