So, we are watching a movie on TV the other night. It's cold outside, so we've bumped up the heat, and he is wearing only his flannel sleep pants, and my flannel nightgown is all I need tonight. His head is in my lap, his right hand lazily stroking the calf of my leg as he comments on the film or something. I am not listening. His voice is background music as I notice that his dark hair has almost as much silver in it now as his father's did when I first met his family. But as my fingertips lightly brush against his broad shoulder I am charmed that his flesh is still firm as a young man's---as it has always been. He works out.
I admire the V of his back, the broad shoulders tapering to his narrow hips. He has that belly that he works on reducing every day. I smile, knowing that he will always have that belly. He always has. He likes to think he is making inroads, though. I run my fingers down his spine, firmly tracing the smooth muscles, then I bring my fingers back up, lightly grazing the fine hairs along his back. They too are silvering. He squirms a little, and his hand on my leg stills.
I lean down and kiss the nape of his neck, and he shudders. I kiss it again. He is very still, and silent now. I run my fingers along his spine again, until he squirms. The front of his flannel pants tents out a little. I am pleased that I can still do that: no Viagra needed!
I slide my flattened hand beneath the waistband and across the more heavily furred surface of his buttock. I feel the muscles move under my hand. "Take off your pants," I whisper into his ear. He stand up, faces me, shoves the pants down and steps out of them. He cups his balls with his left hand and then covers his erection modestly with the right.
"Masturbate for me, " I say. He looks into my face as he slowly grasps his penis and starts to stroke. It flops limply at first, but soon it begins to flop less, and starts to hold its own as my husband's hand pulls and squeezes rhythmically. After a few minutes (maybe two) it is round and thick, longer, filling his fist, the foreskin sliding smoothly back and forth, its eye winking at me from between his fingers. When he settles back on his heels, he closes his eyes, concentrating.
I watch carefully as the flush rises from his chest, to his neck, to his cheeks. His breathing is more rapid and his hand is blurred with speed. "Stop!" I say sharply. He freezes, the hand on his penis relaxes. "Come here," I say, indicating the spot right in front of me. He drops his hands and his cock bounces joyfully as he moves toward me.
A tiny drop of clear liquid forms and slowly seeps past the opening of his foreskin. The head bulges under the hood, but doesn't emerge. Just that drop, quivering and glistening. I lean forward and delicately lift his cock toward my mouth. I catch the drop, letting it land on my outstretched tongue. I love how he tastes. Same as always. He sighs.
It occurs to me that I could use of a cup of tea. "Go make me some tea," I say, pushing him away from me. He heads for the kitchen, smiling wryly. "No touching!" I yell after him. "And make it the Earl Grey!"