I can not remember, even if I really try, a time when I did not read stories at bed time.
Stories which can open another world to our minds, which paint pictures over our thoughts and spin a canvas around our senses. I do not read these stories to children, I read them to her. She is everything.
Each night after dinner I bring her a small glass of wine, usually white. A bath, listening to music or perhaps some television might follow but there is always reading. I follow her guidance as to when I must follow to her room, closing over the door behind myself as I enter and go straight to the corner. She will pass me a book, old books, favourite books or sometimes new books. I love the feel of these books as her pale skin passes them over. Most nights I will glance up, inquisitive as to which look is held in her eyes that evening. There are a number of looks which can be captured with in the deep beauty of her eyes. One says "I am tired, read to me till I sleep", while another says "I am annoyed, you better read perfectly" and I will proceed in my effort to please her, to stumble over even the simplest of words. The look tonight as my fingertips brushed hers claiming the book lifted goosebumps upon my arms, send a shiver though my spine, a burning in my core.. a burning right down there.
Her eyes were clear. I could get lost in her eyes if I dared often to look into them. It scares me to make such eye contact with her for a long time. But those eyes, in a look those eyes can lift my spirits or crush me to the floor, they can hold me close or make me crumble feeling her pain. Tonight her eyes are clear, tonight was one of those nights, the nights I craved among all the others I was permitted to witness.
I took the book from her. In my corner there is to one side a rich, deep chair which I never sit in. My fingers grazed over the cover, shifting it back as the pages rustle under my lightest of touches. I looked up as she sat at the dresser, her back to me. I know from the noises she will be removing the days make up, rubbing moisturiser into her skin, taking out her contacts. She is without a doubt in my head, the most beautiful woman in the world. I do not mean only what the world tells us beauty is, but actual pure beauty.
I began to read, from the top of the page with my index finger following the line of the words. My voice was steady, calm and even as the scene was set and the characters introduced. I could feel her moving around the room, in and out of the small bathroom to the side as I read, shifting on the ground at the end of one page I move to my bottom, and then at the next I return to my knees. This pattern continues as I read, page after page.
When on my knees, kneeling to her my thighs are parted. They are not widely parted but just enough so she could see between them if she cared to look. Sometimes I am higher off my heels and sometimes I can feel them pressing into the flesh of my ass. When I shift at the end of the page my legs are crossed in front, still with my thighs apart. I do not loose pace as I read. She does not like this.
I heard the gush of the water, the friction as she brushed her teeth, the words of the story becoming more erotic as it weaves pictures into my mind, and hers if she happened to be listening still. The water stopped and the door clicked closed. I glanced up as the page turned just as she appeared back into the room.
Women are all beautiful in their own small ways. Some from their eyes, their hair, their breasts or feet. Some seem to radiate a brightness from within them when they enter a room. To me, she is perfect. I adore every inch of her body, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, though her toes are more often kissed than her hair.
As she emerged from the bathroom she wore nothing of any great interest. There were no heels, no boots or fishnets. She wore no leather, latex, lace or corsets. With her hair falling loose around her shoulders she simply wore an old shirt. It clung to the curves around her breasts and fell loose over her hips, skimming the tops of her beautiful thighs just below the curve of her ass. I knew without even being able to see. I could smell the mint from her as she moved onto the chair beside me.
With a snap of her fingertips I glanced up, it was my call to see where she wished me that evening. Even now after all this time, looking up to her like that thrills my entire being, sending a warm flush into my cheeks as her hand guides me around in front of her, turned and bent over the top of her dresser. This end was always kept clear of the various bottles, jars and brushes most dressers are covered in.
My feet spread, clinging to each side so my legs remained parted. It had been made so my hips curled perfectly over the top.. the right height for such a position as my belly pressed against the cold wood I gasped. From here, with my elbows on the dresser I continued to read. My voice now had changed, no matter how I tried to keep it the same I could never read in this position as I did in the other. I did not seem to possess that quality. My words quickened as I waited to see what would come, excitement racing though my veins as I felt the softest of touches, her palm moving down over my thigh from my hip, following the shape to my knee before skimming across and up the inside of the other thigh, reaching forward between my legs with her palm she held it there, flat against me.. waiting for my body to respond.
Once satisfied with my bodies response so far she shifted her hand, her fingertips caressing my skin in a way which is teasingly to her.. yet torturing to me. I read. I read as steady as was possible while she moves, a crop produced as though from no where flicking up and down my thighs, over my ass. I pause when the crop was pressed between my legs, forward.... tonight though it did not land against me, she simply continued rubbing and teasing my skin as her touch had done.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I wondered what the story I was reading was about. I could recall none of it past the first few pages. The words were said but with no connection in my mind to the one before, my senses were filled with touch, scent, excitement. My cheeks burned as I heard the slow whirring sound begin. I know the sound of her vibrator so well and it was quickly followed by the most exquisite sound in the world, the light moans and gasps of her pleasure. I read, not looking and still bent over the end of the dresser as she turned the vibrations on and off, at one point pressing it up the inside of my thighs sending the buzzing sensation though my nerves, able to feel the damp from her skin on mine before it was taken back once more for her pleasure. I read though every inch of me longed to turn, to watch or to help. I read till I heard her release.
At that moment I stopped, turning over the book and placing it down on the dresser to keep the place for another time. I would get no release this evening, but what I got was far more precious to me. I turned and knelt before her. I knew her skin would be flushed, warm and welcoming as she shifted, her body still flushed and pulsing in delight as she placed her thighs around my shoulders. Slowly and tenderly I kissed her skin, tracing up her inner thighs in turn, my hands holding them as she soared in pleasure, then slowly began to return to earth. Only the shortest of kisses was I permitted over her clit, my tongue moving along her lips, over her skin cleaning before she pulled away, her palm pressing my forehead back. It was over in what felt like a heart beat, a breath. I crawled back and placed a kiss lovingly on each foot, my tongue tracing over her toes in thanks.
This sort of evening was more than enough pleasure for me. She placed the vibrator on the end of the dresser and stood, motioning for me to follow to her bed where I was permitted then to sleep, my own body still filled with excitement and denied release. Instead I was allowed to hold her as she slept. To feel the lull as her body relaxed and returned to normal, the safe tangle of fingers and legs as we slept till morning.
I can not remember a time when I did not read bedtime stories, nor do I want to.
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