She calls them her “ass pajamas,” and they are identical—in every respect but one—to her other pair of pajamas.
Each set consists of a skin-tight cotton jersey with matching bottoms—almost like long johns, but without ribbing. Each set is the same solid color, a vivid raspberry-sherbet pink.
She has modified one pair—adroitly cut and hemmed it—so that the bottoms have no seat.
From the front, I cannot tell which pajamas she’s wearing.
Every night, she goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, while I finish the dinner dishes. We both know that her sex drive is not as high as mine, and that whether or not she will be in the mood is a matter of chance.
Every night, I enter the room and find her sitting up in bed reading, in raspberry-sherbet pajamas, the covers pulled up to her waist. Every night, she gives me a tender smile, puts her book down, and scoots under the covers until she is lying flat, face up, on the bed. She closes her eyes.
Every night, I greet her in bed and kiss the thick, smiling lips that echo, in more muted tones, the hue of her pajamas. Then I pull the covers down just beyond her bare feet. She looks good enough to eat in her sorbet-smooth second skin, her fresh, loving face framed by a page-boy shell of chestnut hair that sinks listlessly into her pillow.
We do not want her to have to tell me, in so many words, “I want to be fucked tonight,” or “I do not want to be fucked tonight.” And so, every night, I simply reach a hand under her ass. This is what she and I have arranged.
If I feel the seat of her ordinary pajama bottoms, then I kiss her again, I pull the covers up to her chin, I whisper goodnight . . . and I pad off to the bathroom to handle my own libido.
But if I feel the frank immediacy of her bare ass, then I know that she is inviting the squeezing of cheeks and the tickling of the space between them. That she is longing to be rolled over, so that her derriere may be attended to with fleshy kisses and gentle, delicate little slaps. That she is counting on me to caress and cajole her naked bottom until her raspberry-sherbet crotch darkens with moisture and her raspberry-sherbet legs spasm and kick with uncontainable delight.
That she wants to feel the taut rib within my own pajama bottoms, as I press down upon her radiant, jiggling cheeks, and flatten them ever so slightly with my weight.
And we both know that before we sleep we will merge, stripped and torrid. That we will fuck with a frenzy that makes the house seem to vibrate, as it does when the washing machine spins its ass off on a Sunday afternoon. That we will shriek our ecstasies like the enamel tea-kettle—which rests quietly now, downstairs, in the kitchen that I tidied up while she was choosing her pajamas.
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