I know it’s been a tough couple of weeks and that I haven’t done much to help. I rely so much on you for strength and, when you tire or struggle, I don’t always know what to do or have the courage to do even the things that are within my power. Perhaps it is the age difference, but you always seem to know what to do, and you seem to have limitless energy and courage. I do not possess those virtues and, when you faulter, I feel utterly helpless.
You did not hear me from your office but, a little while ago, I cried, my head buried in our comforter at the foot of our bed. Tears relieve my stress and clarity can come to me in such moments. When I had cried myself out, I looked in the mirror and noted my hair pulled back carelessly with a thick black hairband, my worn t-shirt, my faded leggings. When all of your attention is diverted from me to other things, I tend to let myself go. Resolution comes with clarity when I cry myself out and I am resolved to use all of my womanly gifts to restore you.
Though fragile and so heavily reliant upon you, I am a dutiful wife and I love you. I love being with you, love being your comfort and companion, your plaything, and your lover. I know my duty and resolve to do it, so I shower, carefully shaving and lotioning for you. I carefully finish my hair, just the way you like it. I run my fingertips up my legs and my pubic mons, making sure there isn’t the slightest rough patch. You love these panties; their faint white lace pattern reveals just enough, and its matching bra barely covers my nipples. I don’t wear white silk stockings and garters for you often enough but, turning to my left and right in the mirror, I can see why you find me aesthetically pleasing in them.
Your office seems so far away. We share this space, but I haven’t seen you all day. With gentle footfalls, I make my way through the kitchen, dining room, and living room to the oak paneled office where you work every day. It is your place, one designed by you and executed according to your exacting requirements. It is manly, unyielding, covered in wood and leather, your space, your domain. It is a place I only go to clean.
I pause at the door and lean my ear against the panel, listening to see if you are on the phone or on a video call. You are not. I take my time with the handle, turning the antique brass knob to release the well-oiled latch. I slip my lithe body through the small gap that a gentle push creates. Closing the door behind me, I lean heavily against it; settled in my well-intentioned deceit, I paint on my happiest face.
You hear me and look up, taking me in, in a moment, your keen eyes scanning every inch of my body. I look at them intently for your eyes tell me in a moment what you are feeling. Are they hazel or green right now? They change by your mood and the palate around you. Your appreciation is gratifying. I can see that familiar lust in you, in your eyes, the tension in your broad shoulders, the pen paused and forgotten mid-signature. Three years of marriage and you still look at me like that. A brief smile plays on your face as I slink over to you, intentionally turning my hips in the most sensuous way I can.
You turn in your chair, creating a space for me to slip into your lap as I round the desk. G-d, how I love how small being with you makes me feel. I “fit” in the spaces you create and the urge to curl up there now, with my head against your chest, is strong. Your big hands feel so good on the side of my head and running down my legs and your lips bring me to ecstasy, long before you enter me, but I am not here for comfort or satisfaction. No, I am doing the unthinkable in our relationship, seducing you instead of you, me.