The Best Things Come in Small Packages
She was a wildcat in the sheets
It’s midnight by the time I get home from my job at the sanitation plant. I shrug out of my work vest and hang it over a chair in the living room. My wife Valencia will get after me for it, but I’m betting on that. Our little plays at banter help keep the spark alive between us. She enjoys ribbing me for my bad habits, and I scoff at her predilection for British murder mysteries when we have to choose something to watch on the television together.
Speaking of Valencia, I wonder where she is. Usually she sits up in the living room to give me a peck on the cheek when I arrive home from my late shift. I wonder how she can do it all — care for her mother who has Alzheimer’s during the day and then wait up for me till midnight — when she’s obviously in need of a vacation. If we had more money, I’d take her wherever she wanted. As it is, we’ve been having to cut some corners ever since the basement flooded over the summer. Little stressors like that have always been the only snag in our relationship; money is an evil for a reason.
“Hon?” I call up the stairs, but there’s no answer. I frown, worry snagging at my nerves.
I begin the short climb up the stairs until I stand outside the master bedroom. The door is closed for some reason, and I frown at that odd little detail. My anxiety spikes as I wonder why my wife would seclude herself when she knows our weeknight routine.
I twist the doorknob and gently push open the door.
The room is draped in shades of violet — a lavender scarf covered over one lampshade — but that’s only a split second observation as my eyes widen, taking in the sight of what’s splayed on our bed.
Valencia is laid back against pillows, clad in only a shift, her legs spread to the open air. Her fingertips are stroking against her core, that bright spot of heat, as she catches my eye across the room.
Her eyes widen — she’s caught in the act — and she almost hesitates with her careful probing of her sex.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb and enjoying the view.
A laugh bubbles out of her lips. “Want to join me? I just got started.”
I laugh even though I can feel my cock harden more by the second as I watch my beautiful wife pleasure herself lazily. But the anticipation of it all makes me stay back, clinging to the shadows, just eager to watch her unravel herself all on her own. “I think you’ve got everything handled quite well from this vantage point,” I say.
She shrugs, a simple lift of one shoulder. “Your loss,” she says, though her tone is playful.
I watch as she delves deeper, her breaths becoming looser as she cranes her head back into the pillows. Her lips part in some silent prayer as she begins to rock against her own hand. The urge to join her is so great that I feel like an animal in a cage, hungering after fresh meat — but, no, this is for her.
I’m just lucky enough to get to watch.
Soon enough she reaches her climax, though she seems to hold back her cry of pleasure as if a part of her is still embarrassed by the idea of masturbation. It took months back when we were dating for her to feel comfortable enough to have sex with the lights on. I’m probably still helping her undo the damage from all the guys who treated her wrong over the years. Bastards, thinking they knew what it really meant to leave a woman satisfied in the bedroom.
“What are you thinking?” Valencia asks, turning on her side and adjusting her shift to settle along her upper thighs.
“I’m thinking that I should pay for that kind of show,” I joke, and she smiles.
“I accept hundred dollar bills only, thank you very much.”
“Ooh, that’s a bit out of my price range,” I say, going along with the jest. “If I can’t pay you upfront, what do I have to do? Wash dishes in the back?”
She laughs, and the sound is like another spark to my cock. “Silly man. You already know the answer.”
Then she holds out her hand, and I step forward to grasp it. I kneel beside our bed and bring my lips to her skin. “Don’t tell me you’re sending me to jail,” I say. “Please, anything but that.”
Her mouth twitches before she runs a kiss along my jaw. “Oh, yes, they’ll take you away in handcuffs. You never should have come to my show empty-handed. Now you’ll have to pay.”
I almost laugh at her — and how serious we get in our little roleplay games — but she breaks first by letting out a giggle. We end up laughing together, barely able to contain our mirth.
“Can I pay you back with something else? Like dinner and a movie on the weekend?”
“I have one better,” she says, bringing a finger to my lips. “Why don’t you just cuddle with me a little bit while I watch my new show?”
I groan. British murder mysteries. Of course. But I sigh and say, “If that’s what you want.”
An absurd sound of delight bubbles out of my wife. “It’s only six episodes long,” she says.
“Yes, yes,” I say. “At least it’s not the baking show. Or that dating show. Or whatever lunacy you call entertainment these days.”
She laughs. “Hey, I watch your documentaries with you.”
“That’s different,” I say, though we’re still smiling at each other in this little ruse we have going.
“Want me to let you in on a secret?” she asks, her voice a mock-whisper. “This show actually has a female detective. And she’s really hot. She’s got that dark-haired beauty thing going that you like.”
My curiosity does increase a little, and my lips twitch. “You’re fucking unreal, you know that?”
She laughs and then presses a kiss this time to my lips. “I knew that would get you interested.”
I end up getting into my pajamas and lying next to Valencia as she fires up her favorite streaming app. I settle back against the pillows and run circles against her thigh. Her eyes are on the screen, but a small smile traces her lips.
If this is a slice of paradise, I never want to let it go.
