Elphyon
07-19-2012, 03:53 PM
URL: http://elphyon.tumblr.com/post/27570790366/the-gift
Marie Deborah Manning first noticed her husband’s eccentric behaviour three days before her fortieth birthday. He marched into the bathroom as she was brushing her teeth on the toilet, fell to his knees on the cold marble floor, and laid his head on her naked thighs whispering, ever so tenderly, “I love you so much.”
“Get out,” said Marie, pushing away the smooth shaved pate of the man she had married nine years ago. “Can’t you see I’m peeing?”
Elis Griffith Manning obliged, but not before he planted two adroit kisses on the inverted delta of her pubic mound. “God,” he said, lingering on the doorway. “You are so ****ing gorgeous.”
“Go to bed,” Marie commanded.
Marie took all of this with a tablespoonful of salt. She didn’t have makeup on, her hair was a crow’s nest, and in recent weeks she’d noticed, without much remorse, that her tits’ long rebellion against gravity was finally coming to a sad and droopy end. Sure, she knew men still found her desirable, in certain angles and certain lights and with a bit of alcohol, but gorgeous? Please. That was a word reserved for a different breed of women. She had never felt gorgeous, not even during those brief, disruptive years between puberty and adulthood when all girls are beautiful regardless of their form or orthodontic devices. George Lansbury had seen to that at junior prom, ditching her at the last minute for Lisa Bowell, after Stanley Holt had ditched her for Jenna Wiens, who went on to become the prom queen.
Thus Marie didn’t think too much of Elis’ compliments, or the throbbing **** that waited her under the sheets. Even his extraordinary performance—he remained hard for all fifteen minutes of it—and his insistence on getting her off didn’t strike her as particularly unusual. It was the oysters and three glasses of pinot noir he’d had at Pete Mundie’s book launch. A perfectly logical explanation.
But this behaviour continued the next day. She came home from work to find Elis cooking, naked in an apron, mutton chops and asparagus, of all things, to be drizzled with a reduction of red wine and balsamic vinegar.
“What’s all this?” she asked, settling into the chair he pulled out for her.
“Wouldn’t dream of it in a million years,” said Elis. “Wine, while you wait for the finishing touches?”
With a glass of chardonnay in hand, she stared at the naked butt of her husband as he busied himself arranging the mutton and the asparagus into a palatable pattern. He had never been able to boast an athletic body even in his twenties, and had become portly upon entering middle age, but his *** remained, quite mysteriously, firm and hard as a high school linebacker’s.
“Are you cheating on me? Are you filing for divorce? Are you going to murder me for insurance money? Are you proactively apologizing for something?”
Elis laughed as if she’d made a joke. “Whoever said beauty and humour doesn’t come in the same package?”
“Nobody. It’s beauty and brains.”
“Yes, that too,” he said. “Ok. Here. Dinner is served.”
Suspicious as she was, Marie could not help but enjoy the meal. It was cooked to perfection, seasoned just to her taste and portioned well, too, enough to make her feel satisfied but not full. She found herself scraping the sauce with the last bit of asparagus, as Elis watched her, his face beaming, still wearing nothing but the apron. “Well?” He asked.
“It was good,” she admitted, patting her lips with the napkin. “But seriously, just what are you up to?”
Elis stood up, took off the apron and dramatically threw it aside. His manhood was thrusting itself out of the thick, black bush of his pubis, raging, desperate, and positively buckling.
Although she had seen, touched, sucked, and felt the thing inside her countless times, a girlish yelp escaped Marie’s lips. She let herself be taken to the bedroom, like a needle to a magnet, gripped by both hands.
Once in the bedroom, Elis pulled down her work skirt and the pantyhose in a single swoop. He pushed her onto the bed and fell on top of her. His touch was rough and eager but not mean or selfish. She felt herself open up between the legs as he pinned her down by the wrists and teased her nipples with his mouth.
“Stop it,” she protested, and was surprised to find that she didn’t really want him to. “We just ate!”
“And this is the dessert,” said Elis, glancing up at her face from her tits. His eyes held that wicked, declaratory glint she had not seen for many years now, at least not in this context. She watched as the top of his head glided down the length of her stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses and playful bites.
Marie came twice that night, once from the swirl of his tongue on her clitoris, and then again with the hardness of his **** rubbing up and against her, the heft of his body crushing against her breathless frame.
“Christ,” she said in the aftermath of his orgasm, which had come with a repeated incantation of her name in a steep crescendo. “Jesus ****ing Christ ****.” She pushed him off of her.
“What’s the matter, love?”
“You—” Marie struggled for words. She felt something lukewarm ooze out of her sex. She also felt like crying. She took a deep breath and said, regretting the tone even as the first word came out, “What’s gotten into you?”
Elis turned to his side and laid one of his thick, muscled legs across her shins. “I’ve rediscovered how much I love you,” he said. She couldn’t see his face but his voice was measured and thoughtful. “And I’m sorry for not doing it sooner.” Then he placed his head between her breast and collarbone. His breath was mutton and asparagus and wine and pussy.
As Elis began to doze off, all Marie could do was hold back from weeping. At long last, she felt that she could forgive him, silently and truly, of all his past transgressions: all the whoring and boozing in the early days before their marriage; the string of girlfriends and mistresses he’d kept during the later years, and the scent of their shampoos and conditioners and lotions on his skin, which he tried to hide, with little success, with deodorizing spray and cologne; the episodes of crabs and genital warts; the bill from Tiffany’s for a sapphire necklace that she never saw; the pitying look she got from other wives at charity banquets and book launch parties; and above all, the clumsiness with which he carried out all his indiscretions. She reminded herself, stroking the softened leather of his scalp, to call her lawyer in the morning.
That was the moment her fingers noticed a small rubbery bulge on the back of his neck, right along the spine. She probed it with the tip of her index finger. It was definitely not a mole. There was something hard and angular inside. Marie shook him up.
“Yes?”
“What’s this on your neck?”
“Oh.” Elis opened his eyes to a slit. He smiled his puppy dog smile, the same that had won her over all those years ago at the FOL fundraiser. “I was going to tell you tomorrow,” he said. “Happy birthday, love.”
Marie Deborah Manning first noticed her husband’s eccentric behaviour three days before her fortieth birthday. He marched into the bathroom as she was brushing her teeth on the toilet, fell to his knees on the cold marble floor, and laid his head on her naked thighs whispering, ever so tenderly, “I love you so much.”
“Get out,” said Marie, pushing away the smooth shaved pate of the man she had married nine years ago. “Can’t you see I’m peeing?”
Elis Griffith Manning obliged, but not before he planted two adroit kisses on the inverted delta of her pubic mound. “God,” he said, lingering on the doorway. “You are so ****ing gorgeous.”
“Go to bed,” Marie commanded.
Marie took all of this with a tablespoonful of salt. She didn’t have makeup on, her hair was a crow’s nest, and in recent weeks she’d noticed, without much remorse, that her tits’ long rebellion against gravity was finally coming to a sad and droopy end. Sure, she knew men still found her desirable, in certain angles and certain lights and with a bit of alcohol, but gorgeous? Please. That was a word reserved for a different breed of women. She had never felt gorgeous, not even during those brief, disruptive years between puberty and adulthood when all girls are beautiful regardless of their form or orthodontic devices. George Lansbury had seen to that at junior prom, ditching her at the last minute for Lisa Bowell, after Stanley Holt had ditched her for Jenna Wiens, who went on to become the prom queen.
Thus Marie didn’t think too much of Elis’ compliments, or the throbbing **** that waited her under the sheets. Even his extraordinary performance—he remained hard for all fifteen minutes of it—and his insistence on getting her off didn’t strike her as particularly unusual. It was the oysters and three glasses of pinot noir he’d had at Pete Mundie’s book launch. A perfectly logical explanation.
But this behaviour continued the next day. She came home from work to find Elis cooking, naked in an apron, mutton chops and asparagus, of all things, to be drizzled with a reduction of red wine and balsamic vinegar.
“What’s all this?” she asked, settling into the chair he pulled out for her.
“Wouldn’t dream of it in a million years,” said Elis. “Wine, while you wait for the finishing touches?”
With a glass of chardonnay in hand, she stared at the naked butt of her husband as he busied himself arranging the mutton and the asparagus into a palatable pattern. He had never been able to boast an athletic body even in his twenties, and had become portly upon entering middle age, but his *** remained, quite mysteriously, firm and hard as a high school linebacker’s.
“Are you cheating on me? Are you filing for divorce? Are you going to murder me for insurance money? Are you proactively apologizing for something?”
Elis laughed as if she’d made a joke. “Whoever said beauty and humour doesn’t come in the same package?”
“Nobody. It’s beauty and brains.”
“Yes, that too,” he said. “Ok. Here. Dinner is served.”
Suspicious as she was, Marie could not help but enjoy the meal. It was cooked to perfection, seasoned just to her taste and portioned well, too, enough to make her feel satisfied but not full. She found herself scraping the sauce with the last bit of asparagus, as Elis watched her, his face beaming, still wearing nothing but the apron. “Well?” He asked.
“It was good,” she admitted, patting her lips with the napkin. “But seriously, just what are you up to?”
Elis stood up, took off the apron and dramatically threw it aside. His manhood was thrusting itself out of the thick, black bush of his pubis, raging, desperate, and positively buckling.
Although she had seen, touched, sucked, and felt the thing inside her countless times, a girlish yelp escaped Marie’s lips. She let herself be taken to the bedroom, like a needle to a magnet, gripped by both hands.
Once in the bedroom, Elis pulled down her work skirt and the pantyhose in a single swoop. He pushed her onto the bed and fell on top of her. His touch was rough and eager but not mean or selfish. She felt herself open up between the legs as he pinned her down by the wrists and teased her nipples with his mouth.
“Stop it,” she protested, and was surprised to find that she didn’t really want him to. “We just ate!”
“And this is the dessert,” said Elis, glancing up at her face from her tits. His eyes held that wicked, declaratory glint she had not seen for many years now, at least not in this context. She watched as the top of his head glided down the length of her stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses and playful bites.
Marie came twice that night, once from the swirl of his tongue on her clitoris, and then again with the hardness of his **** rubbing up and against her, the heft of his body crushing against her breathless frame.
“Christ,” she said in the aftermath of his orgasm, which had come with a repeated incantation of her name in a steep crescendo. “Jesus ****ing Christ ****.” She pushed him off of her.
“What’s the matter, love?”
“You—” Marie struggled for words. She felt something lukewarm ooze out of her sex. She also felt like crying. She took a deep breath and said, regretting the tone even as the first word came out, “What’s gotten into you?”
Elis turned to his side and laid one of his thick, muscled legs across her shins. “I’ve rediscovered how much I love you,” he said. She couldn’t see his face but his voice was measured and thoughtful. “And I’m sorry for not doing it sooner.” Then he placed his head between her breast and collarbone. His breath was mutton and asparagus and wine and pussy.
As Elis began to doze off, all Marie could do was hold back from weeping. At long last, she felt that she could forgive him, silently and truly, of all his past transgressions: all the whoring and boozing in the early days before their marriage; the string of girlfriends and mistresses he’d kept during the later years, and the scent of their shampoos and conditioners and lotions on his skin, which he tried to hide, with little success, with deodorizing spray and cologne; the episodes of crabs and genital warts; the bill from Tiffany’s for a sapphire necklace that she never saw; the pitying look she got from other wives at charity banquets and book launch parties; and above all, the clumsiness with which he carried out all his indiscretions. She reminded herself, stroking the softened leather of his scalp, to call her lawyer in the morning.
That was the moment her fingers noticed a small rubbery bulge on the back of his neck, right along the spine. She probed it with the tip of her index finger. It was definitely not a mole. There was something hard and angular inside. Marie shook him up.
“Yes?”
“What’s this on your neck?”
“Oh.” Elis opened his eyes to a slit. He smiled his puppy dog smile, the same that had won her over all those years ago at the FOL fundraiser. “I was going to tell you tomorrow,” he said. “Happy birthday, love.”