You’re obsessed with my ass, aren’t you?” said Nadine, as she scooted the aforementioned attribute onto the passenger seat of my car.
“What do you mean?” I asked this question knowing, of course, exactly what she meant.
She gave me a perfunctory after-work kiss. “I mean that you look at it the way most people look at a sunset.”
“I can take or leave sunsets,” I explained. Her ass, tonight, was wearing the lime capris within which it looked more mesmerizing than a hundred sunsets. In my humble opinion.
“I can take or leave my ass,” she shrugged. “I don’t see what’s so special about it. Even when I stand totally nude in front of a three-way mirror, all I see are six boring buttocks.”
A punctual erection challenged my ready-to-drive-the-car posture. As I answered Nadine’s observation, I grasped the parking brake—classic displacement, if you’re of the Viennese school. “That’s why it’s my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of. Furthermore, I defy you to find anything in our vehicle more deserving of my obsessive fascinations.”
She smiled. “Always the logical one, aren’t you? I guess I’m just blasé.”
I patted her hand and attempted to put things in perspective. “You’re not blasé. You’re just ass blasé. And not even consistently. For example, you weren’t blasé about your ass last Saturday night, when I was squeezing and tickling and patting and fondling it . . . and, if I recall correctly, you emphatically urged me to keep doing all of the above.” I recalled correctly, all right.
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“It certainly looked like you, anyway.” I put the car in gear.
“Fine. So I’m un-ass-blasé on weekends. I’ll collect my prize at the door. But this is Monday, and we need to get groceries more than we need to talk about my ass.”
“Speak for yourself. But I concede that we do need some groceries.” I always try to meet her halfway in these situations.
We pulled out of the parking lot of Nadine’s workplace. I had picked her up here almost every weeknight for years, and I’d learned that the post-work decompress was not the time to catch her in a sexy frame of mind. She was tired, preoccupied . . . and unnervingly practical. She was hot stuff from 5:00 Friday till midnight on Sunday; but it was as if all her sexual mechanisms shut down during the work week—as if the hormones went into hibernation and the libido went out of town on business.
As we drove the two miles to the supermarket that evening, I realized that I wanted desperately to seduce Nadine on a weeknight. We’d been together for three years, sleeping in the same bed every night and rocking each other’s socks on weekends. Now I was intent on coaxing the socks-rocking side of her personality out of its dormancy on a Monday night.
Everyone needs a hobby.
In the weeks that followed, we observed our accustomed rhythm—hectic activity and quasi-platonic companionship during the week, capped by abandoned sexual indulgence on weekends. I relished the weekends as much as ever, but my desire to carry our lust across the weekday threshold was becoming increasingly strong by lingering unfulfilled. Nor had I neglected the task of trying to fulfill it. Every Monday, I hinted, I caressed, I teased . . . but her response always extended to affectionate appreciation, and no further.
Spring turned to summer. When we got home with the groceries one Monday night in late June, we were both drenched with what the meteorologists quaintly call relative humidity. I made a gambit.
“Whew! I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to put on some fresh clothes,” I prompted. Nadine concurred.
“Since you have to change anyway, how about wearing the blue skirt?” Though I tried to sound casual, the significance of this suggestion was clear to us both. She owned several blue skirts, and she knew precisely which one I meant. My favorite. The mini. Iridescent peacock blue. Always, by household custom, worn without panties.
She spoke tenderly but decisively. “Bernard, I’ve absolutely got to work on that presentation this evening. I’ll be up and down from computer to printer to fax for the next three or four hours. Do you really want to see my cunt every time I sit, stand up, and bend down?”
Hmph. She wouldn’t have asked a question like that on a Friday. “Of course I do.”
“You know,” I teased, “you’re not only ass-blasé, I think you’re also c—”
“Shh! I’m getting the skirt, okay? We sincerely hope you’ll enjoy yourself . . . but don’t take it as a commitment on my part.” Her eyes twinkled—playfully but not, I had to admit, lasciviously. Not yet. She smiled indulgently at me before bopping briskly into the walk-in closet.
I got myself a microbrew and a Wodehouse, made myself comfortable on the love seat that faced her workstation, and settled in for a challenging evening. Was I correct in surmising that she could not go sans panties all evening without becoming aroused?
Nadine had been at the computer for about forty-five minutes when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hand dart between her thighs and her hips subtly pivot.
I’m the kind of person who is not above saying “Aha.” This I now did.
“Aha! It may be Monday . . . but you, my dear, are getting horny.” What I’d phrased as a fact was really just optimistic speculation, and I cocked a hopeful eyebrow her way as I awaited confirmation.
She gave me a weary but tolerant look. “I have to pee, if you must know.”
“Indeed, I must.” I am nothing if not adaptable, and I was right behind her as she headed toward the powder room. “Mind if I come with?” Nadine has pointed out that I have a tendency to drop objective pronouns when aroused.
She paused outside the door, turned, and shook her head dismissively. “I’m right in the middle of what I’m doing. I was hoping to make it quick in there.”
It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who—only a couple of Saturdays ago—had phoned me from a toilet seat in Nordstrom’s ladies’ room to tell me she was having the best piss of her life, and that she wanted me to listen. “Wish you were here,” she’d giggled, like a kinky postcard. Now I was here, but business was just business. I waited just outside the bathroom door as the brief auditory parade of waterfall, paper-tearing and flush marked her efficient absence with musical precision. Her efficiency made me all the more aroused.
Come back one week from today to read the sexy conclusion to this romantic tale.
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Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.