What do we really want?
About the worst thing that my man can do - if he wants to please me - is to ask me what I want and then try to give it to me. It misses the whole point.
Asking me what I want puts me in the lead. It makes me drive the relationship. I don't want that. I want him to be in charge.
That doesn't mean that he has to read my mind. He doesn't have to read hints and figure out what I want through some mysterious psychic ability. Of course, he can notice little things along the way and keep them in mind in order to please me. There's nothing wrong with that, but it isn't going to fill that need I have to be taken and led.
In order to give me that feeling, he has to start from within himself. What really turns me on, is when he brings me around to the enjoyment of something that he wants to do with me. There's nothing more Earth-shattering than to have him create a sense of pleasure in something that I never knew could be so much fun.
One morning, a few summers ago, my husband came into the bedroom, just as I was waking up. He had a set of old clothes for me to put on, including a really ugly-looking scarf for my hair. He was cheery and encouraging and told me, "We're going to have fun today!" Not knowing what he was up to, but trusting his sense of playfulness, I did as he asked and put on the old clothes. He even helped me tie my long hair up and cover it.
I wanted to shower and not feel all morning-smelly, but he wouldn't hear of it.
He took me downstairs into the rec room. The furniture was gone. The built-in shelves were empty and there were drop cloths everywhere. Two cans of paint, two trays, several brushes, rollers and a ladder were sitting in the middle of the floor.
My heart sunk. There were a million chores I would have chosen over painting. I hate painting. I turned around and started to walk away, but he took hold of me and swatted me once on the behind. I half-expected it and turned back to him with a mixture of resignation and gratitude that he was going to help me do something that I needed to do.
The house we were living in at the time had been built in the early seventies and the rec-room showed it. Burnt-orange and off-yellow hadn't been in-style in either of our lifetimes. Guests used to comment that the Brady Bunch wanted their color-scheme back. We needed to paint, and this room was at the top of the list.
That's when the fun started. He took a can, stirred it and poured some of it into a pan. Instead of just handing it to me, he put his arm around me and took me to one of the walls. As I started to tingle inside, he took my hand, put a roller in it and guided me to apply paint to the wall.
There was a bench already set up to hold the tray. As I rolled the first couple of passes on the wall, he nuzzled into my neck, lightly brushing his nose behind my ear and down toward my shoulders. His hands circled me and gently hugged me without interfering with my painting. I was getting aroused.
After a few more rolls of paint, he stepped to my side and kept one arm wrapped in front of me at the waist. I knew what was coming and put one hand on the wall to steady myself. He administered sixteen sharp swats on my bottom, through the old worn pair of jeans. I wasn't sure how many there were going to be, and as he neared the end, the sense of panic started to build.
Thankfully, he stopped just as my tears were welling up. Then he hugged me again, this time from the side, and kissed the back of my neck. "You won't be sitting down on the job today," he said, and I laughed.
I continued with the roller, covering the walls in a pretty shade of rose that created a sense of warmth while keeping the relaxed atmosphere that the room needed. Bill took to painting the trim.
At times, when the work started to get tedious, I would slow down. Bill came over to me each time and gave me a few smacks on my bottom to get me going again and some hugs and nuzzles to keep my energy level up.
Eventually, after about the fourth time, instead of spanking me, he turned me to him and opened my blouse, unbuttoning it all the way down. He unhooked my bra and removed it through my sleeves, tossing it into the next room. My bare breasts were exposed and he bent down to kiss them while tickling the undersides. My hand went to the back of his head to hold him there so I could enjoy it for a moment.
That was enough to keep me going for another half-hour. Then, when I again slacked off, he came over to me and removed the blouse entirely. There were already spots of rose-colored paint on my breasts from roller-spatter. He admired my handiwork and the patterns on my chest, but this time kissed my lips as he hugged me to him.
I love being topless with him and stayed that way through the rest of the painting.