His hands are my gift
The spare room has been transformed into a sensual landscape for the occasion — candles, roses, and a rock waterfall that sounds like the real thing.
I’m stretched out on the massage table, heated towels soft beneath my nude body.
He starts at my feet, massaging warm oil into the soles, and moves on to my calves, kneading the stiff muscles.
Eyes closed I slip into a daydream, imagining a mountain stream flowing over my body on a hot summer day. I’m lying on smooth stones, using a large flat rock for a pillow, my long hair fanned out around me. The water is a cool caress, teasing my breasts, pooling in my navel, bubbling up between my legs, lapping at my pussy.
I’m lying in the soft grass. The birds are chirping and the scents of jasmine and marijuana float on the breeze. I become one with nature, mind and body at peace when the others join me. Instead of two hands, there are four and then six. Each of my lovers treats my body as if it’s precious and beautiful and fully deserving of worship. Strong male hands and soft feminine ones glide over my skin in slow sensual strokes, each one a promise of more to come.
“It’s time to turn over, love.”
Even his voice is a sensual caress.
Familiar hands, slick with warm oil, work the muscles in my thighs before moving onto my belly. A featherlight touch across my ribs is followed by palms cupping my small breasts — as they have so many times before. My nipples are teased, and gently stretched, causing me to squirm and spread my legs.
One hand moves down my belly, to my hips and inner thighs and finally, onto my pussy, massaging the outer lips until they’ve swelled. Fingers dipped in lubricant spread my outer lips. One finger circles my opening and inner lips, gliding over the sensitive skin before pressing my erect clit.
Too much direct pressure could quickly become painful, but these fingers have been well-trained over the years and know my body almost as well as I do. The side to side stroke is subtle but has me lifting my hips from the table, writhing and moaning. The first orgasm is always intense, like crashing over a waterfall.
I’m on my stomach, a small pillow beneath my hips as the massage continues. Both cheeks are given special attention. Oil is drizzled between them, my valley fully explored. One finger is inserted. It’s soon followed by a second. These fingers know to start out slow and go deep. They know how to curve around and find that special spot. They know exactly when it’s time to revisit my clit but with a lighter, less direct touch. The second orgasm is a slow-moving stream, less powerful but no less necessary for fulfillment.
A warm towel covers me. A soft hand caresses my hair.
As I turn onto my stomach, my eyes come level with the front of his pajama bottoms — the same ones he’s worn for close to a decade. There’s no erection lifting the soft cotton. Health problems put an end to that part of our lives a few years ago.
I reach for him, and he bends over to tenderly kiss my lips.“Happy anniversary, Sweetheart.”
“Fifty years. Who would have imagined we’d still be together?”
“I did, the moment I saw you lying naked in that mountain stream.”
I smile, remembering our youth, the two years we lived in the commune, and the lovers we shared. It was a beautiful beginning to a long and happy life together.
