Date: Thu, 12 Sep 2002 13:35:13 -0500 (Central Daylight Time)
From: monica <monica29@nexband.com>
Subject: Domestic Bliss

Domestic Bliss
by 
Monica

	 This story contains scenes of consensual sex between two adult
women.  If it is illegal for you to read please do not.  Not intended for
minors.  I hang up the phone and make my way to the back of the library: a
slight detour en route to the airport, but I've got 2 hours before my
flight leaves. And I need something to occupy my thoughts while I'm in the
air (God knows I hate to fly especially now). I sit waiting for you to
enter the building. I abruptly make my way to the restroom and remove my
pullover sweater and black beret so that now I'm wearing a white sleeveless
sheath and black wraparound skirt with black pumps. Damn, I look fine even
if I do say so myself. I'm turning a few heads (men and women) and why not?
I'm five four, 36 years old, packed in the front and back, in great shape
(my baby sees that I get a good cardiovascular workout every night).
	I recognize you instantly since you're wearing the button down,
full-length gray skirt and long-sleeve white blouse you said you'd be
wearing. I count myself lucky because you do look good enough to eat with
your wide hips, big rounded ass (more than a couple of handful just like I
like it), 40d breast, big brown doe eyes with lashes to die for (and every
bit of it natural) black cfm pumps, and your beautiful hot chocolate
complexion. Fine as you are, the thing that first captures my attention is
the expression on your face. It is then that I decide a change of plans is
definitely in order. So, instead of getting up, I decide to sit back and
enjoy the show for a bit. Is that a wet spot I notice on your blouse? You
did tell me you were starting to leak more in the last couple of weeks,
which is how long it's been since our last planned rendezvous. You'll never
know how sorry I was that I had to cancel on you at the last minute (damn
staff meeting!).
	 Of course you don't recognize me because I'm no longer wearing all
black as I said I would be. Despite that, I notice you doing a double take
when you see me so I smile a greeting, which you return, and then I go back
to "reading" my magazine. You stand near the magazine racks for a good
minute or two scanning the area for me and when I notice you are about to
give up and leave I make a beeline to head you off. I "accidentally" bump
into you and get some chocolate pudding pop on your blouse. Now you and I
both know that food is a definite no-no in the library, but I've broken
rules before, so fuck it! I apologize profusely while you repeatedly assure
me that "It's okay. Don't worry about it." (You and I both know that
chocolate on a white silk blouse is definitely not okay, but I play along
to save us both further embarrassment). Once I've stopped apologizing (now
I'm just standing there like an embarrassed idiot looking at the bigger
mess I've made trying to wipe off your (now-cream-colored-down-the-front)
silk blouse with a moist towelette (Always have one handy. You never know
when a beautiful woman will be in need of one). We part ways (or so it
seems).
	You head off to the nearest restroom, which is in back of the
library, to clean up a bit and I wait a few beats before I follow you with
"out of order" sign in hand (Be prepared: an excellent motto to live
by). When I enter, you are standing before the mirror vainly trying to
clean your blouse. I offer to take care of your dry-cleaning because I do
feel bad that my attempt at detaining you ruined your clothes. But you
decline while giving me one of those patented "I don't want to be rude but
you're really working my last nerve" smiles. You enter the stall leaving me
to freshen my lipstick, but before you close the door I am pressed full
length against you making shushing noises in your ear and holding one hand
over your mouth until I'm certain you won't scream. "Let me make it up to
you . . . please," I whisper in my most sensual bedroom voice while I fuck
your ear with my tongue. When I feel you relax a little, I spin you around,
push you into the corner of the stall and fall to my knees in front of you
to start my worship at your altar. You gasp loudly as I raise your skirt.
	I'm pleasantly surprised to find that you did indeed go commando as
I'd requested over the phone. I waste no time plunging three fingers into
your pussy. I happily note that you are wet enough to accommodate my entire
hand (which tells me you were really looking forward to our little tete a
tete) but, I manage to exercise a little self-control (always leave 'em
wanting more: one of my many mottos). I attack your clitoris like a staving
child at an all you can eat lunch buffet; sucking so hard that your
vocabulary is reduced to "fuck! Yes! . . . Baby . . . Oh! . . . So good
. . . Oh! . . Right there, baby . . . unh . . . God! . . . God! . . . Oh!
. . . Jesus! . . . Fuck! . . ." punctuated with a more than a few well
placed grunts and moans. I am quietly amused by your ability to call on God
with such a mouth. For my efforts I am rewarded with the sweetest of
ambrosia (It's at times like these that I understand the phrase: Better
than chocolate). It is only when I look up and see your tightly pursed lips
and see that you are biting the inside of your cheek that it occurs to me
you are a screamer.
	A little public rendezvous is all well and good, but some things I
prefer to keep completely private so I decide to bring this to a close (and
quickly). I abruptly rise, but not without protests from you: thrusting
your hips and whimpering "no . . . please . . . no . . . not yet . . . You
haven't . . .wait." I quiet you with more shushing noises as I remove my
soaked panties and put them in your right hand, which I had to pry away
from the bar along the wall. You look so forlorn that I take pity on you
and kneel one last time to lick you hard from back to front, and give your
mound a chaste kiss. I have a flight to catch and if I don't leave now I
may not leave at all. I quickly turn to leave before I can lose my resolve
and finish things in the stall, but you whimper one last time and I briefly
retrieve my panties to scribble a quick note for a rain check in two weeks
time, leave you with a taste of your own flavor with a kiss, and I leave as
abruptly as I'd entered.
	Two weeks and an endless string of boring colleagues later I am
happy to be headed home after having been at a series of conferences on the
latest developments in nanotechnology for the past couple of weeks of the
holiday season. Even though I missed my family something fierce it's all
good 'cuz I have the next month off to be with them and (more importantly)
I'll be with the love of my life to ring in the new year (BIG plans
here). As I pass the sign marking the city limit I retrieve my cell (with
the attached headset: safety first) to phone home. After the fifth ring, I
just give up and decide to stop by the grocery for a few items that I know
we are probably out of (I don't plan on leaving the house for the next few
days: A babysitter has already been arranged). It's about 5pm when I
finally make it home and it's already starting to get dark outside. As I
pull my silver GS300 into the garage, I hear faint sounds of domesticity.
	After retrieving the groceries from the car, I enter through the
kitchen door and am assaulted by sounds of a house in chaos. I quickly turn
off the burners on the stove and put away my loot. I enter the living room
to find our two five-year-old boys scrawled not a foot from the tv on their
stomachs wearing nothing but their boxers, surrounded by bowls of now soggy
cereal and assorted toys with the tv blasting the Rugrats theme at full
volume. I am afforded only a cursory "Hey Mama" and two angelic smiles when
I quickly drag them both back a few feet from the tv (to avoid expensive
eye problems later on you understand). Only the fact that I am on a mission
prevents me from banishing them back to the family room where they should
be with their assorted mess.
	As I walk through the house, I realize why the boys were only
wearing underwear on a blustery winter evening (it must be at least 80
degrees in here). I hear the baby's cries coming from the vicinity of our
bedroom so I head in that direction. The sight before me nearly breaks my
heart; both my babies look like sick little puppies. I come over, give you
a quick kiss, usher you back to bed with promises of taking care of things
when you attempt to protest that you "have to finish the laundry and dress
the boys" for bed first. I stick to my guns and lay the baby in her
bassinet for a few minutes while I tuck you in with a kiss and a promise to
return once I've gotten the kids taken care of. You attempt to pout, but I
kiss it away and turn out the light as little Jaz and I head back to the
nursery.
	"Mama's little angel not feeling to good," I ask, but little Jaz
just keeps right on crying. She's all congested and miserable and needs her
Mama to make it all better. So I start with a changing, cold meds, and
cherry vaporub on her chest. I think that helped a lot because now she's
breathing easier and not crying as much. After a bedtime story, a lullaby
and about an hour in the rocker with me Jaz is worn out enough that she
finally succumbs to sleep.
	I decide to tackle the little monsters in the living room. I step
into the doorway and wait for them to notice me, which doesn't take long as
I've adopted my "I'm so disappointed in you aura" (My mom taught me well:
communicating parental disapproval without words is an art form). They
silently clear away their mess and then come back to hug me (one attached
to either leg) and murmur apologies for not helping out around the house
while I was gone and you were sick (Damn, I'm good: all this without a
word). I fix them a snack and send them to the family room to play for
about an hour or so.
	After making sure they're occupied with enough stuff to hold their
attention for a while, I tackle the mess that is the rest of the house. My
love is normally the epitome of good housekeeping, but my Boo has been
feeling under the weather and things got a little out of hand. I head to
the kitchen to square things away there and make a little chicken soup for
my Boo, who probably hasn't had much of an appetite lately.
	When I left sniffles were the order of the day, but now it's
full-blown flu symptoms. A little pampering and tlc from yours truly will
go a long way on the road to recovery, but first I've got to get the boys
ready for bed. After a light snack and quite a bit of rough housing (I
enjoy it as much as they do), I've finally worn them out enough that they
fall asleep as soon as their head hits the pillow. Now to take care of my
other baby.
	"Come on, baby, wake up," I whisper while wiping your face with a
cool cloth. No response. "You have to eat something." That gets me a mumble
that I couldn't quite make out and you turn away.
	"Are the kids sleep," you ask. I take your hand between mine, kiss
your palm and give you a nod and a cocky smile (I'm quite proud of my
domestic prowess considering the example I grew up with and you know
this). "I'm just tired, boo," you tell me, but I'm shaking my head before
you even finish your statement.
	"That's because you haven't been taking care of yourself," I say a
little harsher than I intend (we fight about this more than I care to
because you always put others before your own health and well-being and
that really pisses me off). I change tactics 'cause I know you can't resist
me. "Please, Boo, eat a little something for me and I'll run you a nice
bath afterwards," I plead with my best puppy dog look. "I'll even regal you
with the latest gossip I've heard," I say.
	You relent and I manage to get you to eat about half the bowl of
soup before you say you can't eat anymore. So, as promised, I run you a
nice bath with your favorite bath beads and straighten up the bed while you
undress. By the time I've changed the sheets you're stepping into the tub
and I slide in behind you and cradle you to me. "This is my favorite thing
to do with you," I say. "Even better than the little adventures in public
like the one we had before I left for New Orleans." I tell you. I sense
your smile and look around to see that it's a sad one.
	"I really wanted to cash in on that rain check you gave me," you
tell me.
	I chuckle and say, "We've got lots of time for that, Boo . . . lots
of time . . . and you better believe I intend to make sure you collect."
Life is good indeed.

THE END
Copyright 2001. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.