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One Again


One Again {Redman} {MF Rom}
(c) November 2000
Comments welcome at

Author's note - Thanks to: Morgan for copyreading,
Maggie for her low key suggestions, and to a certain
Canadian Muse whose e-mails inspired many parts of
this story. If anyone is interested in more stories
about Annie and Richard, please let me know.
Inspiration is always welcome.

More stories about these characters can be found at:

One Again
It's days like today that remind me why I enjoy being

As I drove home from work, I remembered all the
frustrations, missed deadlines, and aggravating co-
workers. After twelve years with the same company I
was beginning to carve out the niche I really wanted.
That's a good thing, but with increased responsibility
comes more headaches, more job hassles. It's easy to
let these things get out of hand, to allow them to
swallow up my life and make me lose perspective.

Then, there's Annie. As soon as I walk in the door, I
am welcomed with the smell of home. I always like to
open the door quietly and linger over the smells that
greet me on the threshold. A home smells different if
there's a woman there. Every scent that welcomes me
reminds me of Annie. Tonight the primary fragrance is
red beans and rice, so I know where to find her.

As I look around the corner into the kitchen, I see her
for the first time. She's a sight for a hungry man's
eyes. She's doting over the red beans and listening to
TV news coming in from the other room. She's stirring
the beans a little aggressively, so I guess the news of
the moment isn't good.

I love to look at Annie. She's wearing my favorite
denim jumper with a white cotton top; she's barefoot
with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. I
set down my briefcase by the door and try to steal up
on her from behind to give her a hug, but I know I'll
never make it. Not unless she lets me.

"I hope you remembered to pick up your dry-cleaning,
Richard," Annie says without turning around. But I can
hear the smile in her voice when she says it.

"It's good to see you too, dear," I whisper into the
nape of her neck as I draw her into a hug from behind.
I nuzzle around her ponytail and nibble at the base of
her hairline as my arms engulf her. Annie leans back,
melting into me, telling me with her body that she's
glad to have me home too.

I feel her breast, large and unrestrained against my
forearm. Her soft, generous buttocks mold against me,
wiggling just enough to press the growing bulge in my
slacks into the cleft of her beautiful backside. Best
of all, I catch the gentle flowery scent of my favorite
perfume, the perfume I gave her on our anniversary. We
save that perfume . . . for special occasions.

On smelling it, I immediately look around for the kids,
only to hear Annie chuckle. It's a deep, throaty
chuckle of promise and desire. It's the kind of chuckle
that would warm any man's heart.

"They're gone and won't be back for hours. It's just
you and me, Richard. Think we'll know what to do with

"Well Annie-my-dear, I think I may have a few
suggestions . . ."

The reason I love the denim jumper is because it's made
something like overalls. There's a bib in the front and
the sides scoop deep. The open sides beckon my hands
like an invitation to explore. On the one hand is the
lovely fullness of her breasts. On the other is a whole
world of mysterious possibilities down below.

I know that we are both of the same frame of mind
because not only did the left hand confirm she was
braless, but as my right hand slips down to rub her
gently rounded belly, I find out that she isn't wearing
panties either.

After leaning back and giving me a kiss on the cheek
over her shoulder, Annie begins to stir the red beans
again. My own hands move to the rhythm of her gentle
stirring, only mine are stirring Annie.

"How'd your day go, sweetheart?" I whisper into her ear
as I lean against her, both of us enjoying the warmth
of the stove and of our love.

"Hmm . . . same as always. Josie didn't do anything all
day except complain." Josie is Annie's secretary and a
source of constant aggravations.

Neither one of us is listening though. We both know
what kind of day she had and what kind she'll have
tomorrow. It's all just banter; vocals set to the music
of my hands moving over her soft skin. She could just
as easily be talking about the kids or about church or
anything else that fills our lives. My brain would hear
it and I would process it somewhere inside my head, but
my concentration and her own were both on what I was
touching and what she was feeling.

My hand snakes even deeper and plays through the
familiar grove of her pubic hair. Annie parts her legs
a little more and presses backward with her bottom ever
so slightly.

"I finished a newsletter today," I say as my finger
slips between her labia. There's just the hint of
moisture and I hear her moan softly as I begin to
wiggle my finger gently to and fro.

Annie slowly sets down one spoon on a paper towel and
picks up another to stir the rice. While she did, I ran
my hand underneath the cotton top, lifting her breast
away from her body as I began to squeeze it soothingly.
Annie never enjoys nipple play, but she dearly loves to
have the undersides of her breasts stroked and
massaged. As I begin to stimulate her breast in time to
the finger slowly caressing her vagina, my wife gives
her bottom extra pressure against me as her way of
saying she is enjoying my attentions.

"Katy's getting all A's on her report card, by the
way," Annie says as she sets the spoon down and tries
to turn around to face me.

As I disengage my hands reluctantly, she turns and
comes into my arms. Now we're able to greet each other
fully. For a brief moment, there is no TV, no food on
the stove and no kids underfoot. There is only Annie's
lips on mine, Annie's tongue dancing with mine and
Annie's luscious, familiar body moving against me.

It's a long, sensuous kiss that only long familiar
lovers could share. When we were young, our kisses were
hot, smoldering events. Only after years of practice
had we learned not to hurry. It took us that long to
learn that kisses and hugs aren't things we do before
we make love, they're things that we do while we make

Annie is tough as nails on most things. She outworks me
at everything we do together; housework, yardwork or
any of the many things a couple does together. In her
work, with our kids, in almost any endeavor, my wife is
a bundle of energy and creativity.

But when she's ready to be loved, she's slow and easy
and wants me to take the lead. I'd never say
submissive. Not my Annie! Pliable is more the word.
When I lean, she leans. When I grab, she's ready to be
grabbed. When I caress, she purrs.

So it is right now. For as long as I want to kiss her,
Annie kisses me. For as long as my hands explore her
back and bottom, Annie is willing to be my uncharted
wilderness. For as long as I want to handle and taste
and smell, Annie is willing - and more.

Expectantly, I pull back from her lips. Annie's eyes
are still closed, her lips slightly parted. Her face is
never more pretty than when she has just been kissed
and wants more. I know it's a bit heartless, but just
the look of her always makes me want to leave her
wanting more.

She finally opens her eyes and looks at me. I can see
the need in them, a need that matches my own, perhaps
even exceeds my own.

"I'm not really that hungry at the moment, love," I
tell her. Which isn't altogether true. We are both
hungry, but with a different hunger now.

"I can set these aside to cool," she says, nodding to
the food on the stove. Then she runs her fingers
lightly over the bulge in my slacks. "But we'd better
not let this fellow cool down."

"Not likely to happen with that perfume and no kids."

I went to cut off the tv as she put the food to the
side. Over the years there were many meals we had
skipped or delayed in the name of love. If I have my
way, there would be many more.

I meet Annie back in our bedroom as she is shrugging
off her clothes. I rush to catch up, and by the time
that I am down to skin, Annie is stretched naked on the
bed, a luscious invitation.

Seeing her there, laid out before me like a meal,
reminds me of a poem I had read to her on our third
night together:

"Away with silks, away with lawn;
I'll have no screens or curtains drawn.
Give me my mistress, as she is,
Dressed in her naked simplicities:
For as my heart, e'en so mine eye,
Is won with flesh, not drapery."

I know other men, and women too, are passionate about
lingerie in all its many forms. I vote with Herrick.
Annie won my heart with flesh, and lots of it!

As I crawl up between her legs, she starts to squirm a
bit. Annie hasn't had a chance to freshen up after a
long day at work. I know she's sensitive about allowing
me to kiss and lick her at times like these, but seeing
her there, and being just a little hungry for food,
makes me want to eat her all the more. It's funny how
the hunger in my stomach can fuel the one in my loins,
but it does. I press on and in, overcoming her
reluctance. It isn't difficult to do since my wife
dearly loves to be eaten.

So I take my time, reveling in her musk and the lovely
aroma of my good woman. She allows me this decadence,
only slightly guiding my endeavors with the tips of her
fingers. Eventually though, by some silent psychic
bond, she tells me that she needs more. I enter her
with my fingers and start to concentrate the dance of
my tongue on her clitoris.

Anne's orgasm builds up in plateaus. It's not a sprint,
it's a marathon. My fingers work at the pace of her
beating heart. My tongue can sense it through her
flesh. My eyes can see it in the rise and fall of her
belly as she breathes. As her heart beats faster, as
her breath comes quicker, so does the speed of my
stroking fingers, so does the rhythm of my licking

There comes a point where Annie's arousal is all
consuming. I can feel it in every portion of her body.
Her fingers become more insistent, entwined in my hair,
holding on. Her pelvis lifts off the bed toward me. Her
belly rises so high I can't see her closed eyes - her
straining face - any longer. That helps me to
concentrate, to put every ounce of energy toward
pushing her over the edge.

Finally, when every nerve is tightly strung, Annie tips
over that edge. Her thighs reach out to clutch at me,
though not fiercely. Even in release there's nothing
fierce about Annie. Her climax is a long, flowing wave
of pleasure. drawing back, I can see it washing over
her. She uses both hands to rub her clitoris through
each wave, pausing at the apex, reveling at the
splendor of each height. Down each trough and upward
with each progressively shallower wave, she strums her
clit. As she does, I know to move my fingers to the
cadence of her own, pausing deep within her when she
pauses, pumping quickly when she rubs.

Eventually the fingers slow and cease. She is beautiful
in ecstasy; so beautiful that man shouldn't be allowed
to see such things. Having seen such beauty and
intensity, what man can be satisfied with the rest of life?
What man, having seen a woman in such a state, can even
be satisfied with his own orgasm? A woman's climax is a
work of art; a man's, a comic-strip imitation.

As I place my hand over her, covering her vulva
completely, she is jolted. Even so, she presses back
against me and I feel through my palm the little waves
still running through her vagina.

My need is hard upon me, my penis rampant, but I grit
my teeth and stay strong for her and let her pleasure
run its course. I watch her eyes, knowing that when she
opens them she's ready for me.

Eventually I see her eyes flutter, then open wide. The
warmth and the depths of those eyes! Never deeper,
never warmer than just after orgasm. She raises her
arms and welcomes me, pulling me into her.

As I enter her, we are one again . . .


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