Coming home

He buzzes her in, she climbs the stairs and opens the door. He is waiting there in boxers, kneeling in position, his hands clasped behind his head. He looks up at her as she enters, doe-eyed and sweet. Her heart melts a little, she reaches down to cup his face to her, she kisses him and smiles, he smiles broadly back, “Hello Ma’am!”.

“Hello beautiful…”

She divests herself of her bag and coat, he follows her to the couch, she is tired, it shows. She flops down, he kneels before her and reaches for her boot, undoing the zipper and pulling it gently from her foot, first one, then the other. He strokes her feet and calves through the short stockings she wears, then pulls them off also. She rests her feet on his thighs and he kneads them for her. They talk quietly about their respective days, she leans forward, her eyes on his, he reaches for her offered mouth.

She kisses him gently, relaxing into taste of him, she lets out a sigh, she is glad to be home.

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  1. It’s strange to me how these little posts–the ones less play-and/or-lust-focused and more comfortable and affectionate–are left so lonely with no comments. They’re the ones I find myself heaving happy little sighs over.

    Perhaps I’m just waxing poetic about home and contentedness.

  2. I agree with M Date here. These “comfortable and affectionate” posts are touching, and wonderful. They reach me in a special kind of way, and give me hope that such a thing is really possible.

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