We had a tradition in college, in law school, during that shaky first job. On the first day with snow, real snow, snow that stuck, we ditched. Getting up to call in was required. Then going back to bed could seem more decadent. At some point we’d go out, walk somewhere, make a snow angel, he’d for sure pelt me with a couple of snow balls and we’d come back home. Mostly, though, we stayed in bed. Naked.
Then I landed that second job. It dangled the big, fat, sweet, juicy carrot of partnership in front of me. I got serious. I mean, I made it through law school so it’s not like I’m Bozo the Clown or anything but this promise of reward, this treadmill, it upped my serious to threat level FIRE ENGINE RED. So in the first winter of the second job when it started to snow I got up. I didn’t call in sick and go back to bed. I showered, put on pantyhose and went to work. And I felt terrible about it.
“What are you doing?” he asked when I came out of the shower.
“Going to work.” I said matter-of-factly.
“Weather man was wrong?” he was bewildered in that sleepy way.
“No.” I tried to sound rational and firm but not mean. I probably didn’t succeed.
“Oh.” Two letters filled with a whole alphabet of accusation but I was paying the rent, not to mention his tuition, so what could he really say?
Half the office was out that day. They lived in New Jersey or had kids who were out of school or had stayed home naked in bed. I hated them.
By lunch time, given the reduced numbers in the office, I’d done all the work I could do and a good portion of the work some of the absentees should have been doing. I was itchy in my hose and resentful and, most of all, guilty. I was a grown up now, in theory I could do whatever I wanted. So I tested that theory. I sent a few more emails, made a phone call or two, gathered up my things and told the office manager I was headed home for the day. In the elevator I tried to keep a cool, Mad Men-inspired exterior but I was waiting for someone to step on at a lower floor and haul me back to my desk like a truant.
I got home about two. Music was blaring through the apartment. Prince, something vintage, very sexy. For a heartstopping moment I considered leaving again. I was, inexplicably, terrified of what I was going to find even though he’d never given me reason to doubt him. I didn’t even set my bag down while I wandered down the hall and into the living room. He was pacing the carpet with a book in his hand head bobbing to the music and his mouth moving silently. I knew him well enough to know he was switching between singing along and talking out his critique of the book. It was a good bet that book was Plato.
On his next turn he saw me and startled. He smiled but it was cautious and he opened the cabinet to turn the music down. Tears welled up behind my eyes and my arms felt heavy from carrying the guilt of making the boring, grown up choice. I dropped my bag and coat and went straight to him, trying to get there before the tears fell. I clung to his back like a limpet and he had the grace to reach back and cradle my head with a hand.
“I’m sorry.” I whispered in his ear.
“You came home early.” It was statement of fact, not of gratitude.
“I missed snow day.” I sniffed, trying to be discreet.
He nodded but didn’t reply for a moment. His head turned slightly toward me when he asked, “Feel bad about that?”
“Yes.” I replied, very quietly. Then I slid around in front of him and kissed him. I gave it everything, too. I went in slow. I kept my mouth closed for a while, waiting to be sure he was kissing back, before I even grazed his lips with my tongue. Once I got a little of that back I pressed my whole body against him and really jammed my tongue in his mouth. I kept at him, rubbing my nipples against his chest and clutching his ass with my hands until I was honestly breathless and had to stop. I slid back down from my tiptoes and leaned my head against his chest, breathing heavily. He held me and rubbed my back.
“You will, however, need to do penance.”
Thinking I understood I smiled and began to sink to my knees.
“Oh no no no no no.” he lifted me back up and set me apart from him. “Take all that off.” he gestured disdainfully at everything I wore and why I wore it.
There is absolutely nothing sexy about taking off work clothes. You can cite Kim Basinger in 9 ½ Weeks or Demi Moore in that sexual harassment movie or anyone in Ally MacBeal but the truth of it is that your feet swell in heels and pantyhose make you look like sausage and trying to untuck a sheath from a business skirt is a symphony of tugging and wrinkles that’s hardly alluring.
Once, very early in our relationship, I’d made a big deal out of stripping for him. I’d worn a special outfit with lacy lingerie beneath and put on music and lowered the lights and even watched Showgirls to prepare. I thought it had worked exactly right. He was all over me when I finished and we went three rounds before we collapsed on the bed. After a brief rest, heartbeats still a little irregular, he asked, “Why did you do all that?”
“Which part?” I joked.
“The big show.”
“I thought you’d like it.” I was hurt and in no position to hide it.
“I did. Seeing you get naked is sexy, it’s always sexy. The other stuff, though?”
“No offense, truly, but it was a little distracting.”
“Any time you’re getting naked that’s all I want to see. I don’t care how it happens, just seeing you is hot.”
It was a sweet thing to say in an artless sort of way. He stuck by it for years, even when he was berating me for not making enough of an effort to treat him specially. His well-intentioned hypocrisy was nice, I guess.
So I just hopped and tugged and pulled my middling expensive suit and all its accents off. Even my threadbare cotton underwear. Facing him wasn’t exactly a challenge but I was implying that he had the reins.
I thought he’d tell me to do something. He liked to tell me what to do. Instead he came right up in front of me and reached between my legs. Delicately he stroked and separated and kneaded just a little. I swallowed hard to keep from crying out. I could have made as much noise as I liked but something made me want to preserve the silence. After a moment he nodded a little as if he was satisfied with his findings. I should hope so I was wet and quivering by that point.
He licked his fingers off before he took me by the elbow. He steered me toward the couch. Again I assumed I knew where he was going with it. I started to sit and he tightened his grip. He took me around the side of the sofa and bent me at the waist. He made sure I kept my head low and my ass high. He even used his feet to gently tap my legs apart a little more.
I thought for sure he’d use his fingers first. He just stood behind me, opened me with one hand, placed his cock with the other and pressed firmly, but not unkindly, all the way in. My moan turned into a kind of a laugh. I was used to more lead up, I wouldn’t have expected this to be so satisfying. I let my head hang down, steadied myself against the cushions and closed my eyes.
He went slowly with long strokes for a little while. I felt lulled. It was like having someone rub circles on your back but so much better. Just as I was drifting away he sped up, added a little circling motion. Every so often he’d bang straight and hard into me, slapping his balls against my ass for a few strokes then go back to the circling. It was exciting and it was a great way to build up but it was maddening, a start and stop and change of ploy I couldn’t control. I rolled my forehead back and forth against the seat of the couch trying to center myself.
His strokes changed again, got a little more careful and short when he leaned over me. I felt his chest hair scratching and tickling my back. It didn’t last long, though, because he was just reaching for my hand. Keeping hold of it he stood again, gave a few more of those hard strokes, then lifted my hips just a little, I had to roll up on my toes for a second. He slid my hand underneath me and set my fingertips generally near my clit.
“Go on.” he told me.
“It’s hard...with you moving...”
“You can do it.”
So I rubbed. I reached around his cock, tried to pick up some of the juices that were seeping down. I bent my knees reflexively and he had to grab both hips to keep from slipping out. I widened my stance, which made him groan a little. Then, comfortable, I rubbed in earnest. I tried to find the rhythm that went with the sensation of him inside me. It was always hard for me to concentrate on both the inside and the outside at once.
“Go on.” he repeated.
I held my breath for a minute, screwed my eyes shut and felt myself getting closer. My hand flew across my clit and my mouth opened, I couldn’t close it. Finally it was just words, “Mo....mmm, more, more, little..ahh....more....” and I came with a strangled version of a scream.
He was still stroking steadily into me and it was nearly smashing my hand so I slid it out from under me.He started to speed up. He grabbed my hand and threaded our fingers together. He was pounding away and, for the first time in a long while, he shouted as he came and fell on top of me, barely catching himself with his hands before I got crushed.
Minutes later when we finally had the muscle control to swing around and spoon on the couch I grinned and asked, “So...snowball fight?”
“Mmmm, in a minute.” he murmured and closed his eyes.