After ten years with your spouse, you’ll find that erotica has taken on a whole new meaning…..
Is That a Magic Eraser In Your Pocket?
As he wraps his arms around me from behind, I can feel the hard edges of his intent pressing into my backside. I lean back into his embrace, ignoring the warm suds dripping from my fingertips. I slide my mouth across his cheek until it snuggles up against his ear. Then I whisper, “Is that a magic eraser in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
He whips me around and thrusts my body into the kitchen chair. My breath escapes from my lungs in a rush and I moan in pleasure as he pulls the yellow washing gloves up his arms with tantalizing slowness.
This is a man who knows how important foreplay is to a woman. My nipples grow taut as he uses the scrub brush to caress the remaining crumbs off of the dinner plates. I arch forward in my seat, desperate to catch a glimpse of the pre-rinse. The water running across the pots and pans sends shivers up my spine.
“More,” I beg him. I plead with him to scrub harder, dig deeper, use his nails on the oven-baked remains.
He rips the dishwasher door open and my control shatters.
“The top, please,” I implore, desire thick in my voice. He looks deep in my eyes, licks his lower lip and tugs open the top rack. He fondles each glass, twisting his fingers along their moisture-slick sides.
“Yes, there. Exactly there!” Like a wanton woman, I shamelessly instruct his movements.
He slips the rack back in and then just as quickly pulls it partially out again.
“Oh god,” I think, “he’s not done.”
His gaze becomes serious as he turns his attentions below. He eases the huge pot into the narrow confines, giving the surrounding dishes time to accommodate its girth.
His intensity builds as he slides in dish after moist, soapy dish.
He finds another glass and briefly moves his intentions back above.
It’s too much. I beseech him to bring this brazen display to a climax.
With a final flurry of activity he plunges in spoons, forks, knives, more than I would swear we own. They smack against one another. From the front, side, even once tossing them over his shoulder.
The frenzied pitch crescendos with a rubber spatula. He heaves and shoves until the racks slide back into their place, quivering.
And then we stare at one another, sweat dripping from our foreheads.
“Thank you,” I groan, “that was amazing.”
“Did I do it right,” he asks hesitantly, crippled by post-performance anxiety.
I stand on wobbly legs and entwine him in my arms.
“It was perfect,” I murmur.
And it was.