One Date Changed Everything – Thighs

fields of lavender
This entry is part [part not set] of 7 in the series Echoes of Lavender


Breathing a thickening haze of lavender, I swore this woman might just have more muscle in her thighs than I had in my whole twiggy-yet-flabby body. And from what I could tell, all the dread, trials, and burdens I’d given her had fermented in her lower thighs just above the knees. It was tight like steel in a vise under a steamroller in the center of a black hole. That is to say, she seemed tense.

I fully let down my guard and let us just be.

Keeping her skin slick with oil, I determined that before she got up from this chair, I’d undo at least some of the damage I’d done. Perhaps I couldn’t do anything to heal her soul from the wound I’d caused it, but if I poured all of what I had into my efforts, maybe I could help her body.

If I left all hesitation, insecurity, worry, doubt, fear, and shelter behind, giving myself over to the uncomplicated act of massaging five inches of unyielding muscle… well maybe it wouldn’t help really, but she deserved such an effort at least. And so much more.

So I took a step outside my shell of strategy and forethought and planning and method, opting instead to mindlessly exert my hands. I just let go, maybe for the first time in our whole relationship. I don’t know if I helped sooth any muscles. In a way, I wasn’t even concerned about results. I just loved this woman with a drastic desperation, and my palms, fingers, knuckles, and even elbows at times had become expressions of that love. I fully let down my guard and let us just be.

I felt the soft, supple flesh under my fingertips. I tasted the perspiration running down my face. I smelled the soothing lavender that now permeated everything. I heard her breaths flow in and pour out, occasionally as contented sighs. And it was then I saw something life changing, in a very male sort of way.

In this primordial blend of love, pain, rest, touch, and simple giving of myself to her in an intimate but nonsexual way, I saw that this woman had the most startlingly sexy thighs I’d ever laid eyes on.

This may sound stupid, but I’m serious. It just clicked. In all the years we’d dated, and in all the years we’d been married, she’d never been much for showing her legs thanks to her insecurity. And I’d never been much of a legs guy, so I never tried to coax them out. But now, I was an instant convert, and this highly platonic — even spiritual — atmosphere was struck with a ringing major chord of sensuality that sparked and flared. And apparently she felt it too.

I couldn’t help but see the way her thighs slipped under my fingers like liquid sex. I had to notice her occasional sighs thicken ever so slightly with somewhat less relaxation but no less pleasure for it. I still smelled the lavender, but it was now blended with this empowering pheromone that was almost tangible. And I began to taste something of her: hunger for her, desire for her, and love for her. And oh how I touched… seemingly of their own accord, my fingers boldly slipped up her pant legs and onto her middle thigh and felt the silken flesh hidden from sight and a shiver ran down my spine like ice water in a hot shower.

In this primordial blend of love, pain, rest, touch, and simple giving of myself to her in an intimate but nonsexual way, I saw that this woman had the most startlingly sexy thighs I’d ever laid eyes on.

I knew I needed to settle down, to scramble to gather up my wits. To regain my hesitation, my shelter, my self. I had no right even to trace fingers up those few inches to rub that which was covered, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself there. So, instead I moved down the field a bit to set up my defense, letting my fingers ply their trade as I focused mentally on reigning in the desire before I lost sight of the purpose of the day. Maybe I couldn’t stop my fingers, but I could stop myself from pushing any further.

I got my attention back on soothing, relaxing, pampering. Cherishing and nourishing. Not her thighs. Definitely not those exquisite thighs. Definitely not. What thighs? Oh, these things? Pah. No big deal at all.

I slowly drained myself of the sexual charge I’d been assaulted by, and the room returned to the prim purple perfume of lavender. Even that faint response I’d detected in her breath had subsided.

My fingers still quested past the cuff of her pants, but now it was more to do as thorough a job on her mid-thighs as I’d done with her lower thighs. At least I could finish what I started and be done with this, though I’d certainly take my time getting there. Occasionally, I had to use one hand to hold the pant leg open or back while the other hand did its work, but it was clumsy at best. And apparently distractingly so.

She opened her beautiful eyes and grimaced — a relaxed grimace but still a grimace. She indicated her sweatpants with a wave of her hands. “If I take these off to help you, can you control yourself?”

I was in no hurry to be done, and I certainly didn’t want to stop the comfort she’d worked up to. Besides, this whole thigh thing was obviously a glitch. I’m not even a legs guy. I’ve got this. I’ve settled down already. No problem. Surely. Possibly. Maybe. I think.

“Absolutely,” I answered, trying to inspire my own confidence with my tone as much as hers.

Originally posted 2015-06-15 08:00:21.

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About Phil (250 Articles)
Philip Osgood is a Christian husband, father, and writer who considers himself a passable video game player, fiction reader, camping and hiking enthusiast, welder, computer guy, and fitness aficionado, though real experts in each field might just die of laughter to hear him claim it. He has been called snarky, cynical, intelligent, eccentric, creative, logical, and Steve for some reason. Phil and his beautiful wife Clara live in Texas with their children in a house with a dog but no white picket fence. He does own a titanium spork from ThinkGeek, though, so he must be alright.