The lower half of her legs glistened with lavender-scented oil as she regarded me. “Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly but not in any sort of sultry way. This look was both a tentative peace offering and a clear threat. It said, I’m offering to trust you here, but if you try to take advantage, you’ll regret it profusely.

If I wasn’t sobered up before, I sure was now. That momentary oddity with her thighs had fully dissipated. Back to don’t-screw-this-up mode. I attempted an honest self-appraisal — she deserved that, at least — and I had no ulterior motives. No interest in going further. Cherish and nourish only. “Yes, I’m sure,” I answered.

She nodded and her eyes relaxed after only a slight hesitation. She stood and hooked her fingers into her waistband and pulled down her sweatpants in a very businesslike manner, revealing some understated underwear which I immediately and instinctively bounced my eyes away from (thanks to having read Every Man’s Battle only a couple months before). As she sat back down and resumed her relaxed posture, I kept my eyes averted, busying myself with preparing more oil.

And it was a good thing I did, because her thighs soaked it in as fast as I could put it on. After several handfuls, it slickened enough for me to begin rubbing. First with the front of her thighs, working my way up a bit higher than my fingers had extended before but maintaining a respectful distance, quarantining myself to the southern half of her thighs. Still keeping my eyes from taking in the sights further north, I slowly began massaging the outside, then the back, and eventually heading toward the inside of her thighs.

It was this last bit that did me in.

When I first started on her inner thigh, I thought I was safe. I’d though that whole lower thigh thing earlier was a fluke, perhaps the result of loneliness and separation, and it had passed. And why not? I’d never been big into legs before. And besides, my hands were remaining several inches from the panties that my eyes still refused to even glance at.

Although I considered it a treacherous slope, I concluded I knew the terrain. And my footing felt secure.

Then the ground shifted under me as my fingers applied almond and lavender into the tender tissue of her inner thighs. Here on the middle portion of her thigh, her skin was so satiny smooth, so satisfyingly supple, so subtly soliciting. That ringing chord I’d felt before hit again, this time like a sonic boom, resonating and shaking my entire being. That former spark from earlier was now a thunderstorm; the mere flare now an inferno. God, her thighs are perfect, I thought. I would love to — Keep yourself together, man, I told myself. You promised.

So while my fingers caressed the luxuriance of her inner thighs, I tried everything I could to steel myself against the tidal waves pummeling my self-discipline. I thought about baseball. I imagined cold showers. I mentally hugged my mother-in-law. I recalled the horrible taste of licorice. I threw everything at it I could. I even thought of glitter. It wasn’t working.

I didn’t understand. This was just thigh. Not breasts, butt, or anything due north. Suddenly I’m nearly defenseless. My stubbornness held on, but that was dwindling, too.

I worked back around her thighs, hoping to give myself a break, but felt no relief. Whatever her inner thighs had awoken in me still thrilled me all around the thigh, if to a lesser degree. Every minute that passed eroded my resolve further. I went to the front, the outside, and the back again, but all were so erotic and inviting. Then I arrived back at the inside again. And the effect multiplied this time. I was hanging by a thin thread, and still weakening with every squeeze of flesh.

And then her breathing shifted.

It wasn’t some sudden panting or anything, but it happened quickly all the same. The sensual energy flowing through me was somehow seeping into her through my touch, and her breathing became more a series of heavy sighs. I was blown away. I didn’t think her legs were so sensitive. Not like that. They never had been before, right? But she seemed to be enjoying herself, and she seemed in full control. So I kept going. Let her have some pleasure. She’ll stop me if she wants to.

After a few moments, though, she began mindlessly scooting down the chair, effectively moving my hands north inch by inch. She slowly spread her legs wider and wider as she slipped further and further down.

Within moments, my palms were caressing the highest, most succulent part of her inner thighs, and my fingers were desperately dodging the temptations a mere breath away. I began praying silently, God, I love this woman, and I want this woman, and though we’re separated, she’s still my wife. Help me resist. Help me be a man. Help me honor her. My resolve seemed to harden, but that wasn’t all that was hardening, and I still couldn’t resist touching her thighs. My hands and fingers, perilously close to the Holy Land, wouldn’t detach.

Then she rocked her hips. A small gasp slipped through my lips as my fingers accidently brushed panties. It was a gasp of surprise and desire and fear. I didn’t mean to. Would she be mad? Would she— then her hips rocked again. And again, and again, and again, occasionally brushing herself against my fingers.

I don’t think it was deliberate, but she definitely didn’t mind the contact.

Her hips rolled with emotion, her eyes stayed closed with comfort, her breath became heavier, and her legs spread as wide as they could go. There was no more averting my gaze; it was impossible. But at least I held the line, never reaching for more.

I kept caressing for minutes, and I brushed the enticing shape of her panties with a knuckle or wrist many times. Usually, the contact was light and brief, though at times when it coincided with the right hip movement, the pressure was firm and extended for a full second or more. Yet I never touched them directly, never moved them aside, never took control of the situation and gave more than asked for.

I was clinging to whatever strength God had given me when her eyes opened, and she scooted further forward, smoothly but suddenly. My eyes widened as I felt the luscious mound of her well-moistened panties somehow cupped in my hand. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I strove to keep my hand from quivering with frenetic desire. Then, after what seemed an uneasily exultant eternity, a strange contentment washed over her face and she plucked my oiled hand from its honored position.

With my hand in hers, she stood and pulled me as she walked silently to the bedroom. To her bedroom.

To my surprise, some strength in me asked the same question she’d posed earlier: “Are you sure?”

To my utter shock, she returned the same answer I had. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, turning to kiss me in front of the bed.

Originally posted 2015-06-19 08:00:03.