Just breathe

I start by slipping my fingers under her hair, just grazing her scalp in a slow, arcing motion.

“Feels amazing,” she murmurs, and I shush her.

“Just breathe,” I say.

She has a headache from squinting at her work laptop all day. We need to get her a separate monitor so she can emulate the setup she has at the office—shut down for the duration—but neither of us has felt equal to the horror-movie reality that is curbside pickup at the office supply store.

I’m naked—self-employment means I wear whatever I like before, during, and after work—and she’s still in the tie and tailored shirt she wore for a virtual meeting. I’m kneeling at her head, looking down the length of her tense body.

I’d started with a shoulder rub, but seeing the tension in her face, I knew she needed to be touched there, to help every tiny muscle remember how to let go. I don’t know much about massage, really, but I know her face and body with an awareness that drives her batty when I’m nagging her to tell me what’s wrong but that transports her when we’re in bed. Even if I’m only touching her head.

I keep stroking her scalp, alternating between fingernails and fingertips, hearing her breath change with the two sensations. Nails: indrawn breath, quickly caught. Finger pads: a sigh with a hint of an “ah” in it. My strokes lengthen, my hands reaching under her head where it lies on the pillow, fingers pressing briefly at the base of her skull. She grunts softly.

Her limbs have lost some of their tension, her arms falling palms up, her knees pointing in different directions. But I want her face to open as her body has.

I touch the fingers of both hands to the center of her forehead, then draw them apart, dragging them against the skin with just enough pressure to encourage her eyebrows to unknit and her forehead muscles to relax, the skin becoming pliant. I press in over the sinuses with my ring fingers, tracing her eyebrows with my little fingers, stroking all the way to her temples.

She inhales and opens her mouth to speak.

“Just breathe,” I remind her, a little sternly now, and I stroke down her nose. Then I massage lightly where her jaw hinges, feel her stop clenching her teeth. I keep rubbing with circular strokes under her cheekbones and all around her mouth. I don’t touch her lips yet.

I barely touch her eyelids, stroking them, using one finger to make a circle at the outer corners, convincing her to stop holding her eyes closed so hard. I dab dancing, tiptoe fingertips above her cheekbones and under her eyes, barely pressing, knowing the skin is too fragile here for stroking.

I pinch her chin with finger claws and draw them up her jawline, then squeeze the chin itself, all over.

Lastly, I trace my fingers over her lips. Her tongue darts out and retreats so quickly that I wouldn’t have been sure it happened if my finger hadn’t gotten wet. And that gives me an idea.

I lean farther over her, kneeling up and reaching forward to massage just above her breasts. I nudge the lapels of her shirt farther apart, and her breasts spill downward, nipples pointing to opposite sides of the room the way her knees are.

I can feel some of the tension return to her body—she doesn’t like when her breasts get “all floppy,” but I love it, love to bring them to the center of her chest just to watch them spill out sideways, grateful for the effects of age and gravity that make my tit-toys so much more interactive. I pull them up now, piling them together on her chest, let them fall back to the sides, jiggling.

I’ve turned that jiggle into a gif on my phone, one I watch more often than she can imagine, slipping my hand between my thighs at long red lights.

I lean over her, putting my palms on either side of her body, knowing she must be aware of my movement whether or not she opens her eyes.

With my weight on my hands, I can’t gather her tits the way I like to, so I nuzzle against one with my mouth and nose until I manage to maneuver it so that I can catch the nipple between my lips, suck it in farther.

She gasps, moans. I take more of her breast in my mouth and work the nipple with my tongue. She’s really only sensitive at the nipple, but I love the abundance so much I wish I could gobble it up, swallow the whole thing, and I love having my mouth stuffed full of her tit. I slobber, I suck. I release the tit and watch it fall, pinkened, and now shiny with my spit.

I shift to do the same with the other breast. She shifts, tries to lift her arms, but they are within the span of my arms and can’t go far. “Uh-uh-uh,” I say. “What did I tell you?”

“Just breathe,” she says, with a huff of a laugh. We are both inclined to be bossy, and we take turns giving directions in bed. It’s not a power dynamic—more like sharing the remote.

I suck, nibble, even gnaw a little on the other nipple. She’s shifting restlessly, and I know she’s waiting for me to move to her pussy, but instead I release the breast and sit back on my heels suddenly.

Her eyes fly open, and she twists her head to look at me. “Hey!”

I spread my knees and reach to spread my dripping lips. I gather juice on my fingertips, slather it over my pussy. Crawling over her, I position my cunt just above her mouth.

“Just breathe,” I say, and she laughs, releasing a stream of cool air that teases my pussy, sliding over and under lips and into crevices and making my legs shake.

“That’s it. Just breathe.”