You walk in the door, and a quick glance at your face tells me how your day went. It was hard, long, and frustrating. You confirm my suspicions when you roughly slam the door, and drop you bag and coat on the floor. You're tired, stressed, somewhat angry, and not really in the mood for anything, certainly not human conversation or human interaction.
Yet I know precisely what you need at this moment.
I ask you to sit down, and I pour you a small glass of that obscenely expensive bourbon I keep on hand only for special moments. I hand to you, and I encourage you to relax.
You watch me walk away, and then you hear the water begin running in the bathtub.
I return, take the now empty glass from your hand, kneel before you, and begin taking off your shoes. I remove them, set them aside, remove your socks, and unbutton your dress slacks. I slowly slide them down your legs, and then set them aside. I see the tiniest of smiles begin on your face, and witness the first stirrings of relaxation come over you. I then slowly and carefully unbutton and remove your blouse, and put that, too, to the side. I can now see on your face how the day’s cares, worries, and frustrations are slowly beginning to slide away. And, perhaps, a little bit of curious anticipation.
I resist the temptation to pause and marvel at your beauty, your womanliness, and your frank sensuality, putting aside, as I have vowed to myself, any personal desire so that I may devote myself entirely to you.
I ask you to stand -- and you do so on somewhat slightly shaky legs -- and as I gaze deeply into your eyes, I reach behind, unclasp your bra, and let it descend slowly to the floor. I keep my eyes averted, knowing what that breathtaking sight will do to me, again kneel before you, and slowly, sensually, slide your panties off your hips and down your legs.
Keeping my eyes locked on your eyes, I slowly gather your clothing, fold each item neatly, and place them on the coffee table. I then take you by the hand, and calmly lead you to the bathroom.
As I open the door, we are greeted by a wave of warmth and swirls of steam. I dip my finger in the water in the tub, determine it is the perfect temperature, turn off the faucet, take you again by the hand, and then help you into the tub.
You step in, slightly reacting to the heat of the stilling water, and then you slowly lower yourself into the tub, relaxing yourself as you do so, until you are lying down, your back resting against the back of the tub. I add a healthy dash of bath beads, and then slowly mix the water with my hand.
The warm, flowery scents help you further relax, and I can see the cares and troubles of the day further melting away.
I take the large, soft bath sponge, wet it, add a generous squirt of body wash, and I slowly begin cleansing your body. As I do so, I allow myself little peeks at the wonders of your figure: Your almost-closed eyes, the barest hint of a smile -- and something more than a smile -- on your lips; the soft roundness of your shoulders; the full, and full naturalness, of your breasts; the reddening of your areolas and nipples as they are influenced by the heat of the water and the administration of my feather-light touches with the sponge; your tight belly and smooth hips; your long runner's legs; and your surprisingly delicate feet. I thrill and marvel at the sight, but I maintain my strict dedication to you, you, and only you.
I continue to wash your body from head to toe, perhaps spending a little more time than strictly necessary on those parts that seem to demand my attention: Your neck, your shoulders, your belly, your legs, and, of course, your most sensitive -- and demanding! -- areas, both below and above. My task is to show you the road to complete sensual fulfillment, but not yet lead you down it. As I run the sponge on, over, beneath, and around your breasts, your response becomes visible and obvious: The flush of pinkness, the slow, unconscious writhing of your back and hips, and the hardening of your rosy nipples.
Your hunger becomes more palpable, your desires become clearer, and your urgent (and specific) needs more become obvious.
But now is not yet the time.
I sit you up a little, squirt shampoo onto your hair and into my hands, and then slowly, almost painfully slowly, wash your hair. I run my fingers through it and around it, carefully washing it, kneading your scalp and seemingly seeing to every individual strand. The scent of the shampoo combined with the more subtle scent of the bath water is almost erotically overwhelming. You can barely sit up, and I can barely contain myself, yet I succeed in doing so.
Your needs, your wants, and your hungers are now so obvious that even the dullest person would understand what you crave. Your frustrations and worries have now been completely shed. And it is not an ordinary need, it is a need that both cuts to and springs from the very core of your being. Its urgency is like a roaring fire that needs to be quenched. Yet I let it burn, know that the more raging and consuming the blaze becomes, the greater its extinguishment will prove -- for both of us.
I have you stand up, and I take the removable shower head, turn the faucet, and slowly -- very slowly -- rinse the soap and shampoo from your head and body with the hot water. It takes longer than you want, and longer than strictly necessary, and you wonder if my directing the warm spray at specific areas of your body is intentional or accidental. I leave you wondering.
I then turn off the tap, grab two large, fluffy towels from the rack, have you step out of the tub onto the mat, and then slowly dry your hair and your body. I take my time, with slow, light, yet sure strokes and pats, thrilling, though only to myself, at the way your body is slightly shaking, as if you are almost unable to remain on your feet. I can’t help but notice how certain parts of your body are screaming for attention, and I know, at this juncture, you are completely incapable of controlling yourself.
I continue to deny of your screaming yet unstated need, yet you know, in your heart of hearts, that this denial is only temporary.
I wrap one towel around your torso, and the other around your damp hair, fashioning a terry-cloth turban. I then open the door, take you again by the hand, and lead you, on noticeably shaky legs, into the bedroom. I have you sit on the edge of the bed, facing me, and then I stand slightly back.
My clothes are damp from giving you a bath, and I start to remove them, once piece at a time. I slip off my sneakers, and roll down my socks, unfolding them and placing them on the chair next to me. I unbutton and unzip my jeans, and I slowly and expertly slide them down my legs. I remove them, fold them, and place them on the chair next to me.
And then I pause, standing before you, neither embarrassed nor showing any other emotion, my arms hanging naturally and comfortably at my sides. I have kept my vow of solely dedicating myself to you and seeking nothing for myself, and the tiny smile you see on my lips is my satisfaction at my success.
Yet I know, despite my selfless dedication you, my body has begun to betray me. I can feel a growing wetness in my panties, and I can feel my nipples beginning to betray their demand for attention. And I know that my pale skin, as it always does, has begun to flush with anticipation.
And yet I continue to stand there, relaxed, clad only in my panties and bra, seeing the naked, hungry, and painfully visible lust in your eyes. Your body betrays your unquenchable desire, as you slowly rock from side to side, and from front to back. You seem about to speak, so I put my finger to my lips.
And I still continue to stand there.
And then, and only then, I reach behind, unclasp my bra, and let it drop to the floor. I stand there for a little while, staring deeply into your eyes, and then bend over, pick it up, fold it, and place it on the chair with my other clothes.
I know that you can see that my own desires, as much as I am attempting to suppress and control them, are plainly visible.
I then slide my damp panties over my hips and down my legs, stepping out of them, and, with my eyes still firmly locked on yours, I fold them and add them to the pile.
And I stand there again before you. I know the hardening nipples on my tiny breasts and the growing and visible dampness of my nether region completely betray me. I, too, am having a hard time standing, yet I try to stand there naturally, my unaccustomed frankness sending white hot jolts of electric eroticism coursing through your body.
And, of course, mine as well.
I finally approach you, and I ask you -- in a voice that might best be described as a rough whisper -- to stand. I remove the towel from your hair, letting your damp strands fall naturally, and then remove the other towel, so that we are both now standing, not touching yet only inches away from each other. I can feel the waves of heat emanating from your body, and I am sure that you can feel the same from me.
You raise your arms to reach for me, but I step back, and bid you, in choked and barely audible voice, to lie down on the bed, make yourself comfortable, and relax.
You do so, and with my eyes still staring deeply into yours, I watch you lie down, wriggle a bit to get comfortable, and then slowly begin to relax. True relaxation, of course, is impossible for you. Your body is uncontrollably screaming for attention, and your soul is clenched in a fist of a lust that you have never experienced before, and which you are completely unable to contain. Your eyes are again barely open, and your lips are quivering.
You can no longer contain yourself. The extremity of your desire, your lust, and your undeniable and unquenchable scream for fulfillment have so taken hold of you so that your body, your mind, or your soul are no longer yours.
You quickly sit up and reach for me, determining to take my by force if necessary (and it is, indeed necessary: unstoppably and uncontrollably necessary).
I amaze myself at my self-control, aware that the fire of my desire and the screaming demands of my needs are at least equal to yours, and perhaps even greater.
I put a finger to my lips, and indicate with my arm -- words, at this point, are utterly impossible -- that you must again lie down on the bed. You do so with the greatest reluctance, knowing that the extremity of your needs will be very shortly fulfilled.
I wait until you have done as I have bidden, and you are again lying down in as relaxed a position as possible.
I baldly lie to myself and tell myself I can still wait, I can still maintain my self-control, and I can still subvert my desires to your personal fulfillment.
It is a lie: I know it, and you know it. And I know that you know it.
We both know the time has come to engage in a hurricane of desire and mutual fulfillment. We both know that it will be a firestorm of passion perhaps unequaled in human history. And we both know that we will both soon be wracked by a major earthquake of orgasmic completion.
It will be a life-defining and soul-consuming coming together that will prove an apex of love and lust we will remember for the rest of our lives.
We are ready.