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We've been married twenty years.
Long enough to know each other's coffee orders without asking, long enough to navigate family holidays like a tactical unit, long enough to kiss each other goodnight with eyes closed but hearts wide open. And yet, sometimes, Kimberly still surprises me.
We met in college. She was the kind of quiet that made you lean in. Always composed. Always watching. She never raised her voice, never made a scene, but when she looked at you with those storm-coloured eyes, you felt it for hours.
Her parents were strict, old-fashioned. Discipline and modesty above all. It took months before she even let me see her in shorts. She didn't grow up in a house where you said what you wanted. Especially not in bed.
So I never pushed. I loved her, still do, for everything she is. I was raised by parents who drilled it into me: never pressure, never presume. Treat every woman like a lady. And for years, that's what I did.
But lately, things have shifted.
It started slow. One night, maybe a year ago, we were lying in bed after a long day. I'd been reading; she was watching something on her tablet. Her hand drifted toward mine, rested on my thigh, but didn't move. I looked over. She was biting her lip.
"You okay?" I asked.
She nodded.
A beat passed.
Then: "John... can I tell you something weird?"
"Always."
Her voice was quiet. "Sometimes I wish you'd just... tell me what to do."
I blinked. "In general? Or...?"
Her cheeks flushed. "In bed."
That was the first time. And it was like a pinhole in a dam. Just that sentence, and suddenly all the things she'd kept behind the gates for years started to trickle through.
She told me she liked the idea of being guided. That it made things easier. That she often knew exactly what she wanted, but the words stuck, refused to pass her lips. That having me take charge was like handing the mic to someone who could speak her body's language fluently.
I'll admit, it took me a while.
Not because I didn't want to. But because it felt backwards. I'd spent two decades worshipping her autonomy. I didn't know how to transition from "my love" to "on your knees" without feeling like a hypocrite.
But she was patient. Encouraging. And one night, about six months ago, I tried.
We were in a chalet. A little boutique place in the mountains at Mount Hotham, wood panelling, heavy blankets, snow falling outside like powdered sugar. It had been a long day of skiing, mulled wine, and laughter. Kimberly had disappeared into the oversized bathroom.
Moments later, she came out wrapped in a white cotton robe. Whether it was fate, the stars aligned, or something Kim had done on purpose, the robe had slipped just enough to reveal the slope of one of breast. Not much. But enough. I caught her watching me see her.
I sat my book down.
"Come here," I said. My voice was low, steady.
Her eyes widened a little, but she came.
I took the belt of her robe and slowly pulled it loose.
"Let it fall."
She let it slide down her arms, the fabric pooling at her feet. And there she was, completely bare, skin flushed from the heat of the bath, nipples already tightening in the cool air. She looked at me, breath held, not in fear, but in anticipation.
"Lie down," I said.
She climbed onto the bed without a word, the weight of her trust sitting quietly in the air between us. I followed, moving slowly, deliberately, until I was straddling her thighs.
I slid my hands up her arms, slow, smooth strokes and gently guided her wrists up, placing them above her head.
"Keep them there and do not move them."
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
I leaned down and kissed her. Not with urgency, but with deep, deliberate affection. One soft kiss. Then another, slower still, just at the corner of her mouth. Her body softened beneath me, breath slowing, melting into the moment.
"Do you trust me?" I whispered.
She nodded again.
"Use your words, Kimberly."
"Yes. I trust you."
"Good."
I trailed kisses down her neck, tasting the faint sweetness of her skin, then along her collarbone. I could feel her trembling already.
"You've been teasing me all day," I murmured against her throat.
"Maybe," she whispered, smiling.
"So tonight, you don't get to choose."
She inhaled, shaky and quiet.
"You don't get to guide my hands. Or rush. Or ask. You just feel. That's all you need to do."
She moaned softly, barely a sound, but full of weight.
I moved to her breasts, dragging my lips across the soft curve of one, exhaling warm air over her nipple before finally taking it into my mouth. I flicked my tongue once, then again, then sucked gently, and she gasped, wrists writhing above her, legs shifting under mine.
I moved to the other breast and gave it the same careful attention, letting her feel my mouth, my breath, my patience.
Then I trailed my hand down the centre of her body with light, teasing strokes across her stomach, down her hip, never quite where she wanted it. She arched slightly.
"Be still," I said, voice gentle but firm.
She relaxed.
"Good girl."
She whimpered with a pure, involuntary reaction.
I let my fingers slip lower, just brushing along her inner thighs, then across her folds. She was soaked. Wet and warm and open. My fingers slid through her easily, and her breath caught in her throat.
"God, you smell incredible," I whispered. "You always do. Sweet. Wild. Mine."
Her hips bucked.
"And your taste..." I lowered my head, lips brushing her belly, then her pelvis. "Kim, your pussy tastes divine."
I let my tongue find her slowly, just one long, flat stroke from bottom to top. Her back arched hard, a broken cry leaving her mouth.
I paused, smiling.
Then I did it again. Slower. Firmer.
Her thighs trembled.
I circled her clit with the flat of my tongue, pressing gently, then flicking. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just enough to make her gasp, whimper, fall apart piece by piece.
I watched her body, every twitch, every shift. Her hands clenched above her head like she was fighting the need to reach down and pull me closer.
"You're doing so well," I said between licks. "You feel how your body reacts to this? Every part of you opens up when you surrender."
I hardened the tip of my tongue and circled it around her clit again, firmer this time. She cried out. A sound caught between a moan and a plea.
I slid one, then two fingers into her, slow, deep, curling just slightly inside, and kept my mouth steady. The rhythm of my tongue, the pressure of my fingers, and my mouth clamped around her pussy and clit, built her up with unstoppable momentum.
"You're so close," I whispered. "I can feel it. Let it happen. This is your night."
Her breath fractured. Her whole body convulsed, tightening and relaxing all at once and all uncontrollable.
Her orgasm crashed over her in waves, deep, desperate sobs of pleasure leaving her lips. Her legs locked around my shoulders. Her hips bucked helplessly. Her entire body arched like a bow, then collapsed into the bed, limp and trembling.
I stayed with her. Letting my tongue slow, kissing her thighs, whispering soft nothings against her skin.
When I crawled up beside her, I guided her wrists gently down, then pulled her into my arms. She melted against my chest, her breath still uneven, her cheeks damp with heat and exertion.
She looked up at me, dazed and smiling.
"You opened up to me tonight," I whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.
"So, this is your night. All of it."
Kim didn't speak. She didn't have to.
She just curled closer, and we stayed like that, wrapped in quiet love and everything she finally didn't need to say.
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