THE ANNIVERSARY

Their life had been like that of most other couples married five years: two children, a mortgaged house, good friends, some good times, and some bad times. Their fourth anniversary, four days in a seaside cabin, had been a surprise, planned by him to make it special for her. She blessed it with tears of joy and her hot body. She had planned and worked for months to make their fifth anniversary special for him.

Her plan demanded physical as well as mental fitness. She was running and lifting weights at the gym. Watching her muscles ripple, she smiled to herself thinking of what his responses would be when she gave him the gift. He had made positive comments on the changes in her appearance. He was always positive and supportive for her, as she was for him.

She designed a new white evening dress that covered her from its high collar to the flowing hem around her feet. The dressmaker had eyed her knowingly when she told her what she wanted. The dress was really six pieces attached to each other with velcro. Skin tight, both hiding all and hinting at more, it was designed to be removed piece by piece. Under her dress she would wear six different items. She purchased matching shoes, higher heels than would be comfortable, but she would not be wearing them for very long.

She rented a small nightclub with an elevated stage and effective lighting for their anniversary night. She arranged a caterer. She hired a young lady named Vicki to assist her. When she told her brother she wanted him to help her interview and hire an exotic dancer, he looked askance but knew better than to ask too many questions.

About a month before their anniversary, her husband asked if she wanted to go away for a few days and take some time for themselves. She smiled at him, a smile laden with hidden meanings.

"I've planned our anniversary celebration. I want it to be a surprise, so please don't ask about it."

The hook was set. She knew his curiosity would eat at him, and anticipation is part of the fun.

He tried. She knew he really tried, but as the date got closer, his anxiety about the evening increased. She would only smile, her secretive womanly smile designed by God and nature to drive men crazy.

"It's not much longer, honey," was all she would say.

A week before the date, as he was hurrying to leave for work, she handed him a white envelope. Eyes twinkling, she told him, "Our anniversary's next Wednesday. Please take off Thursday and Friday. This envelope has your instructions. Don't open it until Wednesday morning."

"You're driving me nuts with all this secretive stuff!" he complained.

She smiled that smile and pressed herself against him. She kissed him hard, deep to his soul, then her fingers slid down his chest to fondle him before she pulled away.

"I know," she whispered. "Isn't it fun!"

She walked away sexily rolling her hips. She knew he was watching every movement and wondered if he would follow. From the kitchen window she saw him standing by the car with a look of total confusion on his face. She smiled as she saw him sigh and open the car door.

He opened the envelope as soon as he got to the office. It read: "Honey, be home by four. Shower. Put on only the clothes on the bed. Directions to dinner are enclosed. Be there promptly at six. I love you."

In the evenings before the date, he watched her as she did the dishes or read to the children at bed time. She was serene and at peace. She would catch him watching her, and that smile would flit cross her face. Gone in an instant, it became a ghost walking the hallways of his mind.

Tuesday, when he moved in bed to touch her, she said, "No, baby, not tonight. Let's wait one day . . . please, just this time." Her smile was soft and warm, a genuine signature of love.

"I can't wait one more minute, let alone one more day! Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration.

Her fingers touched his cheeks as she lightly kissed his lips. She smiled like a cat with a canary as she said, "Yes." She rolled over, turning away from him. "Good night, my love," she whispered. She slept like a child. He knew because he was awake a good part of the night.

He was home at four the next day. The house was empty and quiet as a tomb. He wondered what she had done with the children. He took the stairs two at a time. When he charged into the bedroom, the only sounds were his breathing and the ticking of the old clock on the bedside table. His tuxedo was on the bed, neatly laid out, shirt freshly ironed and starched. However, she'd forgotten his underwear. Or had she omitted them on purpose?

He bought flowers. The woman in the florist shop took his order for one dozen red roses. "Looks like a special evening," she said. She smiled at him, that knowing smile women have at these times when they can feel a man's excitement. He decided to buy two dozen and waited impatiently as she completed the order.

He arrived early but waited, knocking on the heavy wooden doors at exactly six. His wife was stunning, so beautiful and radiant that his breath caught when she opened the door. She took his flowers and smiled at him, a sensual take-me-now-or-regret-it-all-your-life smile, and slowly turned so he could see her. She was dressed in her white masterpiece, her coal black hair piled high on her head, emerald ear rings matching her emerald eyes. He watched her sway beneath the dress as he followed her to the table. She had always turned him on, it was a major reason he married her, but tonight he could not remember ever wanting her more.

The caterers had laid out the feast: warm spinach salad, lobster steamed in white wine and served with drawn butter, angel hair pasta with red plum sauce and fresh asparagus. Desert was his favorite: vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries served over home-made pound cake that she had lovingly baked earlier that day. All served in small portions, so as not to dull their other appetites, and wine with each course, naturally.

A beautiful young woman with long golden hair, dressed in a French maid's costume with its low, square bodice and short stiff petticoat, was standing by the table. His wife said, "This is Vicki. She'll be our waitress." As Vicki curtsied, he glimpsed the bounty behind the bodice.

His wife put the roses in two elegant vases on the table. They sat opposite each other enjoying the outstanding food and fine wine as Vicki provided impeccable service. His darling wife was a scintillating and stimulating dinner companion, tonight more than usual as he sensed her anticipation and exhilaration. As always, she enchanted him as he floated in her corona.

After dinner, as Vicki cleared the dishes, his wife rolled in a large, comfortable recliner and faced it towards the stage. She handed him a glass of port and extended the foot rest. She gave him a fine cigar and held the lighter as he stoked it to life. She sat on the chair arm, making small talk, her fingers idly stroking his arm.

The house lights dimmed and lights flooded the stage. The music started. Vicki entered stage left dressed in a flowing evening gown with a cape.

"Relax and enjoy," his wife whispered in his ear.

She knelt at the foot of the recliner, removed his shoes and socks, and began massaging his feet. She watched his face. She could not see Vicki; she did not want or need to. She knew Vicki's dance would last eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds. She knew it would begin slowly and build to a crescendo. She could listen to the music and tell what clothing Vicki wore and each step Vicki took. She knew because she had choreographed Vicki's dance.

Vicki had warned her. "No one does a dance this . . . well, this sexy. He'll go wild."

"Good," his wife had replied, "let him go wild."

She sat at his feet because she wanted to watch him. She wanted to see how he reacted when Vicki removed her clothing, particularly at the ten minute fifteen-second point when the music changed to a hard, fast rock'n roll beat and the last of Vicki's garments hit the stage. Vicki was hot. She loved to dance and pushed the limits. His wife knew he would enjoy Vicki and his tension would increase. After five years, she knew exactly how far she could stretch him.

She watched her man as she knelt at his feet. She could see his discomfort as Vicki's routine moved into its fifth minute. He would glance at her furtively, tearing his eyes from Vicki to see if she minded his reactions. She would smile at him reassuringly to let him know he was welcome to enjoy these moments. She felt the tension in his feet as she massaged them. She felt him move once, then again, to hide his erection. She looked away and smiled to herself. She'd expected this and it was funny when he tried to hide it from her. After all, she had selected her position to watch him.

The music and Vicki were approaching a climax. He was paralyzed, barely breathing. She rose when the music stopped, looked at Vicki, and was startled. She looked at her husband. He was dazed. She knew it was a hot number but it must have been something special when Vicki unleashed her sexuality in the actual performance. She vowed to tip her for the extra effort.

She stood behind him rubbing his temples in a slow, circular motion. She felt his blood throbbing beneath her fingers as he decelerated. She refilled his glass and resumed her massage. As she caressed his cheeks and scalp, his tension eased from her ministrations. He leaned back, eyes closed. She let Vicki out and locked the door. They were alone in the club.

The spotlights covered only part of the stage allowing her to move in and out of the brightness, using the shadows to her design. He sat up when she started her music.

She let her hair down as she slowly walked to the edge of the stage and said to him, "We're alone. My dance is only for you. You're my man and I'm your woman. I love you." She blew him a kiss and began gently swaying to the slow and easy rhythm.

Sometimes, if a man is lucky, he will find a real woman, an honest, unique, three-dimensional creation of God. Something about her will burn into his brain, becoming essential to his being, forever in his memory. Maybe it's a physical feature, or movement, or smell, or aura, or a look that fires him up, forever molding him by the heat she created. And, if that man is very lucky, she will become his woman and a great, lifelong love will have been born.

When he saw her for the first time, she was dancing. Her movements, lyrical and sensual, radiating energy and passion, mesmerized him. He knew he must possess her. But it was her many smiles, the ethereal and indefinable kaleidoscope of skin and muscle that sealed his fate. Her "take-me-or-lose-your-mind" smile that caused him to fall captive, her "I-want-and-love-you-forever" smile guaranteeing their heat would never cool.

She was so graceful, so lithe, as she moved in unison with the music, each beat sounding a carnal movement as the woman animal inside her was freed. Slowly, wantonly, she moved in and out of the light, artfully using and then discarding the separate pieces of the dress in a vision of eroticism, raising his temperature and hypnotizing his mind.

And her face . . . her face played on his soul as it mirrored her passions to him.

She was sweating, her body covered with her wetness, undergarments clinging to her. He was sweating too. He wondered if he could last through her dance.

She began to strip her lingerie, revealing pink skin, satiny and shiny with sweat, covering flowing muscles. Stockings and shoes gone; shapely legs and feet revealed for him to feast his eyes. Perfect timing, building towards an end he knew would come if he were strong enough to withstand temptations and tensions unfolding at a maddeningly slow pace.

Her pelvis undulated as she undid the garter belt and tossed it aside. Only the bra and panties remained as she gyrated barefoot to the ever increasing tempo of the music. He was unaware he was also stripping as she led them towards climax. All he knew was he was becoming a wild man, desperately needing her and unable to withstand the torture much longer.

"No, no," she said with a wicked smile. Only then did he realize he was stroking himself through his pants. He moaned, grabbing the arms of the chair in desperation.

The music escalated as she removed her bra with painful slowness. She turned and twisted, using light, material, her arms, to hide and reveal, teasing him.

He managed to stand and remove his trousers. He moved to the edge of the stage. She danced above him, seeing his tension and naked hardness. She fell to her knees, moving arms and hands, covering, then finally revealing, her breasts. She offered them to him, tantalizing, teasing, withdrawing when he leaned forward to kiss an erect nipple. He grabbed her legs. She pried his hands off her, pushed them down, using all her strength to guide his fingers to the metal rail. Her eyes never left his.

She smiled, a "you-want-me-so-badly-you-would-kill-to-get-me" smile, passion dripping from every pore, as she moved above him. His knuckles were white from holding the railing and the muscles in his arms stood out like cords of steel cable, pectorals twitching from the stress he bore. His breathing was shallow and ragged. The veins in his neck and forehead throbbed like blue snakes under his skin. His eyes were glazed and unblinking, stupefied. A tear ran down a cheek, a tear of tension and frustration. He was on the edge where she'd hoped and planned he would be.

The music accelerated as did she, maximizing intensity, on her knees before him, pulsating, slithering in wild abandon, her smell thick as a field of flowers, her heat radiating in heavy waves. He was catatonic but began to shake uncontrollably. Her face was the flame, her body the fire, which would engulf him.

Body heaving from exertion and need, knees wide, heels under buttocks, she lay back, shoulders to the floor as the music stopped . . .

Silence! except her panting and the crashing of the blood through his brain. Panties gone, her pelvis inches from his face . . . shaven bare, bloated with desire, glistening wet.

Like a wave rolling into the beach, she rose to put her arms over his shoulders. Lithely she moved to lock her legs around his biceps. She thrust her pelvis against his lips. He growled like a rutting beast. Down, down his body she slid until her face was against his.

"Fuck me now," she groaned in his ear.

****

He awakened in his own bed, his body drained and sore. He shook involuntarily upon remembering last night, the unbelievable force of the maelstrom, the power of the passion that had consumed him. Every muscle ached as he tried to sit up. He saw the nail marks on his arms and chest, teeth prints on his inner thigh.

He threw off the sheets to look at her. Her face looked so innocent and pure, incongruous to her womanly form and her wanton wildness a few hours ago. He marveled at her, thanking his lucky stars.

Her eyelids moved; she stretched.

"Hi, stud," she said sleepily. "You were something."

That smile flashed again and his guts churned.

"I hope you enjoyed it," she teased.

She pushed him down and lay against him, head on his shoulder, warm softness of her breasts against him.

"Happy Anniversary, my love," she whispered as she drifted back to sleep wearing a warm little smile, the smile of a woman in love.

 

 

The End
E. Z. Riter