Note to Self

"Honey, don't go," she said when he rose at the barbarous hour of seven on Sunday morning to go hiking. "The weather's terrible. No-one will expect you to turn out in weather like this."

She scrabbled away from the chill of his leaving and nosed into the warm pillow.

"Come along, lazy-bones," he said, slapping the rump she incautiously revealed. "A brisk hike will do you a power of good."

"No," she said firmly, rolling back to protect herself. "I don't have to prove my manhood in various stupid ways. Stay and do me a power of good right here."

She raised one knee and stirred her pelvis suggestively at him. "Do me a power of good, kid. C'mon, you can do it."

That worked. Sort of. To a point.

"Honey, don't go," she repeated when he got up again. He did go, jeering at her 'womanly whining'. Note to Self: There's no point in talking sense to men.

He left her lonely until evening and returned exhausted and irritatingly good-humored to let cold air into where she sat by the fire.

"You should have come, honey," he said, his cold face chilling her as they kissed, "Great views although no bird-life." She left unspoken her views on the relative brain-power of birds and men when it came to coming in out of the rain.

"I'm quite cold, though," he said into the quiet this left. "What have you got for the troops, then, honey?"

In a dangerous silence, she braved the chill of the tiled kitchen to wield red wine, spices and double- boiler. Emerging with two steaming mugs of gluhwein, she found him sleeping the sleep of an innocent babe on the hearth-rug and swept off to bed with both mugs. She wore his pyjamas, tying the lace at the waist-band snugly with a pointed double granny-knot.

"Let's see if he picks up on that," she thought, reaching for the first mug and snuggling down under the covers. Some chapters later, as she finished the second mug, her good book thudded gently to the carpet, her hand withdrew into the enfolding warmth and she, too, slept the sleep of an innocent babe.

He awoke hours later, frozen, in front of the cold ashes and stumbled to the bedroom in search of pyjamas and comfort. Finding neither, he tremblingly awaited sleep, alone on the cold side of the bed.

* * *

Some days later, definitely feeling she had been punished enough, she grimly measured him out a bed-time double dose of over-the-counter symptom-suppressant, "Just so's you can sleep, honey". And not just you, buster. If somebody around here doesn't get a good night's rest soon... Note To Self: Never Have Babies.

"All my muscles are sore," he whined, reaching for her not as a lover but as a needy child. "Even my butt hurts."

Dextrously avoiding his clutch, she skittered off to the couch. "Try to get some sleep, honey."

* * *

"Oh, you poor dear," said the motherly pharmacist, "How you must be suffering." Thank God -- someone who understood the real issue.

"What you need is Puma Balm," said the pharmacist, offering a jar. "It's got all those good grandmotherly things. Rub well into the affected area. Pharmacologically, it acts as a counter-irritant. That means it takes their mind off themselves.

"Hallelujah! Give me a boxful."

She laughed. "One is all you need, dear, trust me. Just keep it clear of mucous membrane and sensitive areas."

Note to Self: Don't ram it up his ass until provoked beyond endurance.

* * *

He lay face down in their bed, asleep or sunk in sick self-pity. She pulled the duvet onto the floor, revealing his naked body. And a very nice body it was too, she conceded mentally.

"I've found something to rub in and make you feel better, honey,"she cooed insincerely, "Just relax while I rub your poor, sore muscles."

She dug a forefinger into the Puma Balm and started to rub his calves. As her hands warmed the balm, it softened and spread more easily, oil-like and lubricating, over his skin. Shrugging off her work coat, she straddled his feet to employ both hands, one on each leg. She pushed up from his Achilles tendons to the point where her grasp could no longer encompass his calves and thrust her thumbs firmly into the clefts between his calf muscles.

"Mmmmmh," he murmured, finally showing signs of life as the smells of cloves, eucalyptus, camphor and menthol spread through the bedroom.

She took more Puma Balm and rubbed generous globs into his firm, thick hamstrings with her palms. Her hands slid round his thigh muscles to the mattress. Tinglings of lust competed with her savored indignation at his babyishness. She felt herself moisten treacherously as she shuffled her straddled knees upwards and pressed her oiled fingertips deeply into his rounded, muscular buttocks.

"Mmmmmh," he murmured, a little louder. "'Snice."

Feelings of playfulness surfaced and cracked through her days-old ill-humor. As she finished doing his butt, she slid her lubricated fingertips down between his thighs and sought out his scrotum.

"Are there any muscles in this area that need rubbing?" she enquired, massaging gently.

"Ow!" he said, suddenly. "That smarts!"

He rolled over hurriedly, pushing her straddled thighs wider apart in his haste.

"Hey!" she said, as a healthy erection sprang unexpectedly into view and she realised that the healthy grin of a randy lover had replaced the fractious frown of the last days. "We have some sort of a recuperation here?"

He didn't reply but reached out to her with his long arms, not as a needy child but as a lover. His hands slid up under her skirt and she felt her panties being firmly drawn down out of his way. They couldn't go far down her spraddled thighs but, with vigorous yanking, they went far enough. Impelled by his firm grasp at her waist, she grinned and sighed with pleasure as she sank onto his pole.

Note to Self: Babies can get well just as fast as they fall sick.

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Thank you for reading me. I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are to be found at http://www.asstr.org/~FatherIgnatius/Stories.html