Anal Cherry Blossoms

Spring arrived and with it the Harrington's garden erupted into blooming beauty.

Felicity and Nigel had spent most of the sunny spring day rooting out weeds in the garden, cutting back bushes, uprooting dead plants, and lamenting the loss of a lovely small Japanese maple tree that had not survived its first British winter.

Now they had both taken a relaxing shower to wash away the dirt and most of the aches in their bones and had retreated to the winter garden to enjoy the view of the result of their labors. Felicity pressed play on her phone and the music swelled from the bluetooth speakers.

She let the strings of Rossine fill the room, then looked at Nigel who was leaning back on a lounge chair in a big fluffy bathrobe, his bare feet crossed and looking out through the window. She gave him a slow, wicked smile.

"I think I have and idea" she said. "Get your hands behind your head. And keep them there."

Nigel obeyed instantly. Twenty-seven years of marriage had meant he understood all too well what that tone meant.

Felicity took something out of the pocket of her bathrobe, and put it on the side table. Then, she took off her robe, folded it carefully and laid it over the back of a chair, standing naked before her husband.

Felicity climbed onto Nigel's lounging chair, straddling his thighs. "Hands," she reminded him when Nigel reached for her.

He placed them obediently over his head again. Felicity grabbed the object from the side table and showed it to him. It was the bottle of lemongrass oil the Thai masseuse had left behind a few weeks ago.

She poured a generous pool into her palm, and warmed it between her hands with deliberate slowness.

Nigel smiled. "Are you intending to give me another happy ending, love?".

Felicity leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, but I was thinking we don't have to outsource all pleasure. I believe there is an advantage to some domestic... activities."

She began at his collarbones: slow, gliding circles that turned into long, possessive strokes up his arms, across his chest, over the small paunch he hated and she secretly loved. Every time he tried to move, she pressed a single finger to his sternum.

"Still," she murmured. "You'll get your chance to be greedy. But not now. Just wait."

She worked lower, tracing the line of hair that arrowed south, skirting his cock entirely, which was already standing painfully hard, a drop of precum glistening at the tip.. Instead she massaged his hips, his thighs, the sensitive crease where his leg met his torso, until Nigel was trembling and making small, desperate noises.

Only then did she wrap one oiled hand around him, slow, merciless, perfect pressure.

"Look at me," she ordered. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide.

"You are an absolute hypocrite," she said conversationally, stroking once, twice, thumb sweeping over the head. "All that moral high ground about clichés, and thirty minutes later you're paying a lovely young woman to toss you off on our garden furniture."

Nigel closed his eyes, savoring the feeling. "If I remember correctly, my dear, it was you who went on about clichés, just because I suggested I should be allowed to have relations with the maid."

Felicity tightened her grip fractionally and slowed to an excruciating crawl.

"I should stop right now," she mused. "Leave you hard and aching while I go and water the roses. Very Old-Testament."

"Please," he rasped. "Felicity, Christ, please--"

Satisfied, she sat back, shifted forward, and guided him inside her in one smooth, unhurried motion. Nigel made a noise that was half sigh and half whimper.

Felicity set the pace: languid, rolling, designed to drive him insane. Every time he tried to thrust up to hurry her along, she stilled completely and waited until he subsided, shaking. After minutes that felt like hours, she finally quickened the rhythm. Her own breath was coming in soft gasps now; the power was intoxicating. She braced both hands on his chest, nails digging in.

"Now," she commanded, voice cracking just a little. "With me, Nigel. Right now."

He obeyed instantly, hips snapping up, a broken groan tearing out of him as he came hard. Felicity followed seconds later, head thrown back, riding the aftershocks until the only sounds were Rossini thundering to its finish and two middle-aged people moaning the chorus.

She collapsed forward onto his chest, both of them slick with oil and satisfaction.

After a moment Nigel managed to speak, hoarse and awestruck.

"I unequivocally retract my request to fuck any of the help," he whispered. "This was... out of this world, my dear."

Felicity laughed breathlessly against his neck.

"Yes, but I loved to invoke the fantasy again, darling. I know you've been thinking about it now and then", she said, kissing the spot just below his ear. "Next time you feel like another happy ending and equality, do let me know in advance. I'll book Ploy for both of us. We'll call it marriage enrichment."

Nigel's arms finally came down to wrap around her, tender despite the tremor in them. "Deal," he said.

Felicity stayed draped over Nigel like a particularly satisfied cat, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart winding down from its recent sprint. The winter garden was quiet now, Rossini long faded, the air thick with lemongrass and the faint, earthy scent of their exertions. Nigel traced lazy circles on her back with one hand, the other tangled in her hair.

"Darling," he murmured after a while, voice still husky, "that was... enlightening. You would make an excellent Thai masseuse."

She lifted her head, propping her chin on his sternum, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I believe I gave Ploy a good thrashing in the happy ending department, didn't I?Though I must say, watching Ploy at work gave me ideas. All that oil... it's rather versatile, isn't it?"

Nigel raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift. "Versatile how, exactly?"

Felicity bit her lip, a rare flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She glanced at the bottle of lemongrass oil on the side table, still half-full and glistening. "Well... I've been reading that book club novel. The one with the Italian villa and the scandalous secrets. They get up to all sorts in it. Including... back-door activities, as it were."

Nigel's hand paused mid-circle. "Anal, you mean?" She swatted his chest lightly. "Nigel! Don't say it like that. It sounds so clinical. But yes. That." He chuckled, low and warm. "And you're bringing this up now because...?"

"Because we've got all this lovely oil right here," she said, reaching over to tap the bottle with one finger. "Slippery, scented, practically begging to be used creatively. But honestly, darling, I'm not sure. It seems awfully... invasive. What if it's messy? Or painful? Or I end up walking like I've ridden a horse bareback for a week?"

Nigel pulled her closer, kissing her forehead. "Fair points, all. No pressure, love. Though I admit, the thought has crossed my mind once or twice over the years. Purely in the spirit of marital exploration, you understand."

Felicity rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "Of course it has. Men and their frontiers. But... I suppose if we're being adventurous--and we do have the house to ourselves until the bin collection tomorrow--maybe we could try. Gently. With excessive amounts of that oil. And you promise to stop if I so much as whimper?"

"Scout's honour," he said solemnly, holding up three fingers. "Though I was never a scout. More of a chess club chap." She laughed, shifting against him, feeling the stirrings of round two already. "Alright then. But slowly. And if it goes wrong, we blame the book club."

She took the bottle from him, poured a generous amount into her palm, and gave him a look that promised the fun was far from over. Felicity's heart hammered against her ribs. The decision felt made in the space between two breaths. She took the oil bottle, her fingers slick from earlier, and poured a fresh, glistening pool into her palm. The sharp, clean scent filled the air between them.

She shifted off him, kneeling on the lounger beside his hip. With her oiled hand, she reached behind herself, between her own thighs, fingers sliding through her own wetness, mixing it with the cool oil. She gasped softly at the contact--she was still so sensitive from her last climax. Good. Sensitivity was the point.

Then, she guided Nigel's hand to her lower back, pressing it there. "Hold me. Steady me." Her voice was low, a thread of command woven with vulnerability.

With her other hand, she took his cock, now fully hard again, and slicked him thoroughly, the oil making him gleam in the afternoon light. She worked him slowly, from root to tip, watching his stomach muscles clench. So much power here, she thought, and I'm giving it all to him. How deliciously dangerous.

"Now," she whispered, shifting her body. She braced one hand on his chest, the other guiding him. She positioned the blunt, oil-slick head of him there, against a place that had known only the most tentative, solitary exploration.

She met his gaze. His eyes were wide, dark pools of awe and hunger. "Slowly," she commanded. "A fraction at a time. And you stop when I say."

"I swear," he rasped, his voice raw.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out, willing her muscles to relax. Then, she began to sink down. Nigel, slowly, carefully, moved his hips, just a little, to help ease himself into her.

The first sensation was one of overwhelming pressure. A stretching, burning fullness so alien and intense it stole the air from her lungs. Her fingers dug into his chest. "Ah--wait."

He froze instantly, his body rigid with the effort of holding still. "Okay," he murmured, his hand stroking her thigh. "You're okay. Breathe, my love."

She nodded, focusing on the in and out of her breath, on the feel of his warm hand on her skin. The initial sting began to recede, replaced by that deep, spreading pressure. It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was... immense. A claiming.

"Alright," she breathed after a moment. "More. Just a little."

She sank down another inch, and a low, choked sound escaped her. It was part gasp, part moan. The stretch was exquisite, a fierce, consuming fullness that seemed to reach into her very core. Her inner muscles fluttered, trying to accommodate him, and the sensation sent a shocking bolt of pure, electric pleasure straight to her clit.

Oh.

Her eyes flew open, locking with Nigel's. He saw the shift, the dawning shock of pleasure in her expression. A groan tore from him. "Felicity..."

"More," she demanded, her own voice husky with discovery.

She took him deeper, another slow, yielding inch, and this time the moan was pure, unadulterated sensation. The tight, hot clutch of her body around him was unbelievable, a friction so intense it bordered on madness. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him, mapped in excruciating, glorious detail.

"You feel..." Nigel panted, "like silk. Hot, tight silk."

She began to move, a tiny, experimental rock of her hips. The movement sent sparks shooting through her. The angle was different, the pressure against inner walls she'd never felt before. It was deeper than anything, a profound, intimate penetration that left her feeling utterly exposed and powerfully in control all at once.

She set a rhythm--agonizingly slow, deliberate. Up, then down, taking him a fraction deeper each time. Her breaths came in sharp, panting gasps that matched his. The world narrowed to the joining of their bodies, to the slick, clutching sounds that filled the quiet room, to the look of rapturous torture on her husband's face.

"Faster," he begged, his hands now gripping her hips, not to force her, but to anchor himself.

She shook her head, a sheen of sweat on her brow. "No. Not yet."

But her pace was changing. The initial shock had melted into a throbbing, deep-seated pleasure. Each downward stroke sent waves of heat radiating out from her center. She could feel her own arousal dripping down onto his balls, mixing with the oil. The obscenity of it, the sheer, filthy realness, made her clench around him involuntarily.

Nigel cried out, his head thrashing back against the cushion. "Christ, Felicity... you're milking me..."

The sound of his helpless pleasure spurred her on. She leaned forward, changing the angle, bracing her hands on the lounger behind his shoulders. The new position drove him even deeper. A sharp, bright cry was torn from her throat.

"There," she sobbed. "Oh God, Nigel, right there."

It was a spot she hadn't known existed, a place of pure, blinding sensation that ignited like a star going supernova inside her. She rode him now, forgetting her own caution, driven by a primal need to chase that feeling. Her movements became less controlled, more frantic, her hips pistoning in short, desperate strokes that focused entirely on that incredible friction.

The slick, wet sounds of their joining grew louder. The lounger creaked in protest. She was lost in it, in the feeling of being so completely, shockingly filled, in the sight of her husband unraveling beneath her.

"I can't... I'm going to..." Nigel's warning was a strangled gasp.

"Yes," she snarled, the word feral. "Do it. Give it to me."

Her command was all he needed. His body arched off the chair, a guttural roar bursting from him as he came, his release pumping into her in deep, hot pulses. The feeling of him pulsing inside that impossibly tight channel, the absolute surrender of his climax, triggered her own.

Felicity's orgams followed suit. It was a deeper, slower, more seismic shockwave than before, rolling up from the very depths he was filling. She clenched around him, over and over, a series of involuntary, rhythmic spasms that squeezed every last drop from him. A long, broken wail echoed in the conservatory as she shook, her vision whiting out at the edges.

She collapsed forward, her body spent and trembling, still impaled on him. They lay there, a tangled, slick mess of limbs and labored breathing. The fullness remained, a heavy, satisfying ache. She could feel the faint, aftershock twitches deep inside her.

After a long while, Nigel's hand came up, his fingers trembling as they brushed sweat-damp hair from her temple. "My God," he whispered, utterly shattered.

She managed a weak, sated smile against his neck. "Told you... the oil was versatile."

He laughed, a breathy, amazed sound. "That wasn't literature, my dear. That was... a religious experience." He paused, his hand drifting to her hip. "Are you... are you alright? Was it..."

"It was perfect," she sighed, the word imbued with a bone-deep truth. "A bit... present. But perfect." She shifted slightly, and they both gasped at the sensitive movement. "I may need help walking to the bath."

"I'll carry you," he said, his arms tightening around her. "Gladly."