Dinner

B had an unexpected thing last night giving us an unexpected few hours alone, so I made dinner reservations. We had a lovely meal and about an hour to kill so I thought we were going to sit down and finalize our plans for an upcoming vacation. 

But when Em didn't come to the study, I went to look for her and found her in our bed. She'd taken off her dress, was in just her hose, face down. "You okay?" I asked, suddenly wondering if she'd had too much wine at dinner.

"Yea," she answered, "just waiting for my massage."

"What...what kind of massage?" I asked, wanting to clarify what I was permitted to do.

"The pampering Emily kind," she said.

The pampering Emily kind of massage was one where I'd spend an hour worshipping her, usually half with my hands and half with my mouth, her pleasure found in those, mine in using those.

The pampering Emily massage has been a staple in our lives for years, and caged or uncaged, it ends with a leaking, denied Sara and a drained and dizzy Emily. It's about something that has been at the core of our relationship, me serving her and finding my greatest joy making her happy.