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  Deviant 9: Bed

The hold of their lips breaking, taking a deep breath, “Mitchie,” reluctant to release, to be released, “I’m so glad you’re here, honey!” Meaning in her arms, as well as there. “So glad!”

“Me, too, baby!” Holding her, squeezing his wife as though were he to let go she would disappear again. “Oh, God but it’s good to hold you again! To feel you next to me again! I missed you so much! I love you so much!”

Turning to see, the few people walking on either side of the Old Road slowed to look at the two standing on the cracked driveway of the Lakeside Hotel passionately kissing as the toddler in the buggy looked on.

Forcing her lips from his, “Mitchie,” looking about, seeing people looking at them, “we’d better get home before Mikey starts to get restless, and so”—which is what she really meant—“we can have some privacy.”

“Yeah,” standing back, glancing downward, “I’ve a little pal here that’s starting to get kind’a restless, too.”

Following his eyes, “Yeah, Mitchie,” arching her hips forward, provocatively rubbing against him, “and I’ve got a little gal here that’s kind’a just dying to say hello.”

Oh, yeah!

The implication of her words causing another twitch, “Yeah, baby, let’s go home.”

                                                                           ****

Playfully lifting him from the buggy as one would a sack of potatoes, flinging his son over his shoulder, Mitchell carried the laughing boy up the three steps and into the cottage. Dropping him onto the sofa, lifting Michael’s shirt, “Bubububububu!” blowing flubbering air onto his bare stomach caused the boy to grasp at his fathers short cut hair and laugh even harder. “You do wanna take a nap, bubububububu, don’t you!”

“Mitchie,” standing back, enjoying the play between father and son, “he’ll be fine. Just put him in the playpen and if ‘Lucy’s’ on…”

“’Ucy! ’Ucy!”

“… he won’t make a peep.”

“That’s what you taught my son? ‘Ucy’, ’Ucy’?”

“Nah!” Going to the refrigerator, taking the milk, “he also says ‘ka-ka’ and ‘pee-pee.’” Filling a bottle, she put on a nipple and gave it to Michael.

“  ‘Ucy’, ‘ka-ka’ and ‘pee-pee’. Great!” Mitchell put him into the playpen.

Kneeling before the television, he turned it on. “Only three channels, eh? Uh-oh! No ’Ucy’.”

“That’s okay, Mitchie, Woody Woodpecker’ll do just fine.”

“Talk about peckers.” He turned, but she’d left the room, and…

Daily life with Mitchell: When life’s day-to-day problems overtook Marsha, when, due to his capabilities he was unable, or—especially regarding his mother, in Marsha’s  opinion—unwilling to bring about a solution to those problems, her patience and passion became nonexistent and Marsha forgot those things that caused her love of Mitchell and she became, minimally, caustic, and her desire—besides the fact that so often, too often she really was exhausted and really didn’t feel well—her desire for sex dwindled to nothing so when, occasionally, she did submit to her husband’s urging, Marsha’s lovemaking was by rote and wholly uninspired. Which Mitchell was very well aware of, but considered the problem to be his inability to satisfy his wife.

But away from Mitchell for any duration of time—particularly at the termination of their separations; including the short-lived separation in 1956 when, eight months into their marriage, Marsha, unbeknownst to her husband, had orchestrated the argument that caused the slap that brought  her back to Chicago in time for both, the wedding of her cousin and  the wedding of her best girlfriend. Also, as she was the first of her group to become so, to show off her pregnancy.

But away from Mitchell for any duration of time the things she loved about him took precedence over the things that aggravated her, then she  remembered exactly why she did love Mitchell and the level of her desire escalated and once together—though, unfortunately for him, never shown outwardly—Marsha’s need… Marsha’s  quiet, unemotional passion for Mitchell—was almost limitless. And now, because of the new Mitchell, the leaner, the more muscular Mitchell with his sun-bleached, near-blond short cut hair, Marsha’s quiet need was not quite as quiet. Matter of fact, since he’d arrived about two and a half hours ago she’d barely been able to keep her eyes off of him. And, since their first kiss on the Old Road, she’d barely been able to keep her hands off of him, too, so…

Simultaneously, on her way to the bedroom, kicking her moccasins off, lowering her shorts along with her undies, stepping out of both, not bothering to unbutton, she’d pulled the blouse over her head.

Following Marsha into the bedroom, finding her all but nude with both hands behind her back unclasping her bra, the thought that Marsha was instigating sex, along with, of course, the wholly unexpected sight of a near fully nude…

Seeing the look, knowing how he loved seeing her nude, becoming further aroused, unhooking the clasp, letting the ends of the straps dangle, Marsha held the cups to her breasts…

Always! No matter how angry he may have been at his wife for whatever reason, the sight of Marsha nude had always dissipated that anger.

In her arsenal of feminine weapons, Marsha Lipensky knew the sight of her nude, and/or the hint of… or the withholding of sex was her equivalent of the atomic bomb.

“Marsha,” coming closer…

Marsha Lipensky was indeed a lovely young woman. Truth be known, though, free of clothing, she was thin, bordering on skinny. Her legs were long and though shapely they too were thin. Marsha had no noticeable hips, small, very tight buttocks and, never considered  ‘perky’, since having Michael, her, to say the least, moderately-sized, breasts did have a noticeable droop. But, to Mitchell…

“My God,” his hands going about her waist, “you’re so beautiful!”

When he would say these words—because he’d said them so often—Marsha would think he was not being altogether sincere because, after all, she knew what her body looked like, so how could anyone—no matter how ‘horny’—really think that she was God’s gift to him. So she’d thought the words ‘You’re so beautiful’ were said more for effect than in absolute honesty. But hearing…

“ ‘My God, you’re so beautiful’!”

Knowing the words her husband spoke were heartfelt, sensing a further flow of moisture within her vagina, the bra dropped to the floor.

The mid-afternoon sun coming through the gauzy curtains lit the room with a soft, wavering light.

Standing a foot apart, looking from her face to her breasts, the thought that, I’m really with Marsha again! That,  I’m really looking at and seeing Marsha naked again, filled his mind and filled his heart and overwhelmed with the beauty of,  yes, to Mitchell Lipensky, ‘God’s gift’, hugging her, feeling the heat of Marsha’s breasts through the shirt he wore, dropping to his knees, putting his face into the black, downy fissure between Marsha’s thighs…

The reverence of the moment—for the moment keeping him from attaining an erection—kneeling before her, sensing the moisture of Marsha’s vagina along with the slightly sea-tang scent of her rapidly heightening need…

As these sensations filled his mind, reverence became passion as, holding her smooth, cool buttocks within the palms of his hands, pressing her forward, pushing her harder onto his face…

“Mitchie, honey,” urging him upward, “let’s lay down.”

“Yeah, baby.” Standing, pulling the shirt over his head, watching as Marsha backed onto the bed and laid down. Looking at her watching him, popping the top button, Mitchell pushed his shorts, along with his underpants to the floor.

Actually, before she’d met Mitchell, when Marsha would fantasize about a boy or, as she grew older, a man, the man would always be muscular; not just everyday muscular, but weight-lifter type muscular. Though far from weight-lifter type muscular, when she had seen him in a bathing suit earlier she’d very much admired the vastly slimmed down and muscled-up body of her husband.

Now though…

Seeing Mitchell wholly nude: the tapering of his waist and the hardness of his thighs seemed to accentuate the size of his turgid penis and, to Marsha Lipensky, the man before her was her husband and, really, was all she desired. Yet, in a way, the naked man before her was a different man and the two and a half months of loneliness; the two and a half months of agonizing over the decisions she’d made along with the very possible fear that they well might never be together again were behind her because…

As Mitchell, scant moments earlier had found it difficult to believe that Marsha was really here, standing fully nude before him…

So then did Marsha have the same surrealistic sensation and to be sure now was not a continuation of that bothersome, but so sweet orgasmic dream she’d had those ten nights ago, reaching to him… Closing her fingers about…

Closing his eyes to the sensation of her touch…

If one were to heft a piece of lead the size of a marble, one fleetingly might wonder of physical weight to size.

So then did Marsha wonder of the cylinder of flesh she held within her hand as it was hard yet soft. The cylinder of flesh she held within her hand  was warm yet cool. Hard? Soft? Warm? Cool? Actually cool. Yet the cool warmth that emanated from the penis of her husband erotically seared the epidermis of Marsha’s flesh to spiritually enter her blood, causing it to flow through the veins that channeled from hand to heart to brain to genitalia to cause an urgency such as she had never witnessed.

At that moment Marsha wanted… Marsha actually wanted to…

She had certainly been given plenty of hints and, once in a while in a joking/serious way Mitchell would outright ask if she would please…? But Marsha’s joking/serious answer had always been, ‘Nice Jewish girls don’t go ’round giving their husbands ‘blow jobs’! So she never had. But now…

Whereas love between two people, physical or otherwise, is truly a matter of what one might give rather than what one might take…

Whereas intercourse before—no matter what quality—seemed her ultimate ‘gift’, or ‘weapon’—intercourse being something Marsha considered a thing she’d so often given more so because Mitchell wanted to receive it,  most often rather than because she’d wanted to give it…

But mere intercourse seemed to be far less then than she wanted to give now. Now Marsha wanted to give more of herself. To give something she’d never given in the past.

Literally deluged by passion and love of Mitchell. Wanting to do for him what he’d so often wanted. Strangely—because the mere thought of this had always made her slightly ill—at that moment Marsha actually had a desire to take ‘him’ into her mouth. To feel within her mouth ‘its’ hard, soft, cool, warm feel. To even, maybe—though she certainly hoped he would be able to control himself—to actually, maybe, taste the taste of a little—a very little—of what came from within the penis of her husband.

Closing her fingers about him. Wanting him! Oh, God! Wanting him! “Mitchie, I love you!”

His eyes closed to the feel of her touch. “Don’t ever, Marcie—please don’t ever stop saying that!”

Near her, laying very near. Kissing Marsha. Mitchell kissed Marsha’s mouth, her neck, her chest, her breasts. Drawing a dark nipple into his mouth, he felt the circumference wrinkle and tighten and elongate within his mouth. Drawing his hand slowly over her stomach and—avoiding it completely, teasing himself and, maybe Marsha, too—along and down the cool, firm flesh of the outer side of Marsha’s thigh… then along and up the warm, soft flesh of the inner side of Marsha’s thigh. Reaching it, cupping his hand onto the soft/hard, silky mound, two fingers played along the tight, moist fissure for the moments it took till…