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THE ANNIVERSARY (13 November 2007)

Their life had been like that of most other couples married five years:
two children, a mortgaged house, good friends, some good times and some bad
times. Their fourth anniversary had been a surprise, planned by him to
make it special for her. She blessed it with tears of joy. She had
planned and worked for months to make their fifth anniversary special for
him.

Her plan demanded physical as well as mental fitness. She was running
and lifting weights at the gym. Watching her muscles ripple, she smiled to
herself thinking of what his responses would be when she gave him the gift.
He had made positive comments on the changes in her appearance. He was
always positive and supportive for her, as she was for him.

She designed a new, white evening dress. It covered her from its high
collar to the flowing hem around her feet. The dressmaker had eyed her
knowingly when she told her what she wanted. The dress was really six
pieces, attached to each other with velcro. Skin tight, both hiding all
and hinting at much more, it was designed to be removed piece by piece.
Under her dress, she would wear six different items. She purchased
matching shoes, higher heels than would be comfortable, but she would not
be wearing them for very long.

She rented a small nightclub with an elevated stage and effective
lighting for their anniversary night. She arranged a caterer. She hired a
young lady named Vicki to assist her. When she told her brother she wanted
him to help her interview and hire an exotic dancer, he looked askance, but
knew better than to ask too many questions.

About a month before their anniversary, her husband asked if she wanted
to go away for a few days and take some time for themselves. She smiled at
him, a smile laden with hidden meanings.

"I've planned our anniversary celebration. I want it to be a surprise;
so please, don't ask about it."

The hook was set. She knew his curiosity would eat at him, and
anticipation is part of the fun.

He tried; she knew he really tried, but as the date got closer, his
anxiety about the evening increased. She would only smile, her secretive,
womanly smile designed by God and nature to drive men crazy.

"It's not much longer, honey," was all she would say.

A week before the date, as he was hurrying to leave for work, she handed
him a white envelope. Eyes twinkling, she told him, "Our anniversary's
next Wednesday. Please take off Thursday and Friday. This envelope has
your instructions. Don't open it until Wednesday morning."

"You're driving me nuts with all this secretive stuff!" he complained.

She smiled that smile and pressed herself against him. She kissed him
hard, deep to his soul, then her fingers slid down his chest to fondle him
before she pulled away.

"I know," she whispered. "Isn't it fun!"

She walked away sexily, rolling her hips. She knew he was watching
every movement and wondered if he would follow. From the kitchen window,
she saw him standing by the car with a look of total confusion on his face.
She smiled as she saw him sigh and open the car door.

He opened the envelope as soon as he got to the office. It read:
"Honey, be home by four. Shower. Put on only the clothes on the bed.
Directions to dinner are enclosed. Be there promptly at six. I love you."
In the evenings, he watched her as she did the dishes or read to the
children at bed time. She was serene and at peace. She would catch him
watching her, and that smile would flit cross her face. Gone in an
instant, it became a ghost walking the hallways of his mind.

Tuesday, when he moved in bed to touch her, she said, "No, baby, not
tonight. Let's wait one day . . . please, just this time." Her smile was
soft and warm, a genuine signature of love.

"I can't wait one more minute, let alone one more day! Are you trying
to drive me crazy?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration.

Her fingers touched his cheeks as she lightly kissed his lips. She
smiled like a cat with a canary, as she said, "Yes." She rolled over,
turning away from him. "Good night, my love," she whispered. She slept
like a child. He knew because he was awake a good part of the night.

He was home at four the next day. The house was empty and as quiet as a
tomb. He wondered what she had done with the children. He took the stairs
two at a time. When he charged into the bedroom, the only sounds were his
breathing and the ticking of the old clock on the bedside table. His
tuxedo was on the bed, neatly laid out, shirt freshly ironed and starched.
However, she'd forgotten his underwear. Or, had she omitted them on
purpose?

He bought flowers. The girl at the florist shop took his order for one
dozen red roses. "Looks like a special evening," she said. She smiled at
him, that knowing smile women have at these times when they can feel a
man's excitement. He decided to buy two dozen and waited impatiently as
she completed the order.

He arrived early, but waited, knocking on the heavy wooden doors at
exactly six. His wife was stunning, so beautiful and radiant that his
breath caught when she opened the door. She took his flowers and smiled at
him, a sensual take-me-now-or-regret-it-all-your-life smile, and slowly
turned so he could see her. She was dressed in her white masterpiece, her
coal black hair piled high on her head, emerald ear rings matching her
emerald eyes. He watched her sway beneath the dress as he followed her to
the table. She had always turned him on, it was a major reason he married her, but tonight he could not remember ever wanting her more.

The caterers had laid out the feast: warm spinach salad, lobster steamed
in white wine and served with drawn butter, angel hair pasta with red plum
sauce and fresh asparagus. Desert was his favorite: vanilla ice cream with
fresh strawberries served over home made pound cake which she had lovingly
made earlier that day. All served in small portions as to not dull their
other appetites, and wine with each course, naturally.

A beautiful young woman with long golden hair, dressed in a French
maid's costume with its low, square bodice and short, stiff petticoats, was
standing by the table. His wife said, "This is Vicki. She'll be our
waitress." As Vicki curtsied, he glimpsed the bounty behind the bodice.

His wife put the roses in two separate vases on the table. They sat
opposite each other, enjoying the outstanding food, the fine wine, as Vicki
provided impeccable service. His darling wife was a scintillating and
stimulating dinner companion, tonight more than usual as he sensed her
anticipation and exhilaration. As always, he was enchanted by her as he
floated in her corona.

After dinner, as Vicki cleared the dishes, his wife rolled in a large,
comfortable recliner and faced it towards the stage. She handed him a
glass of port and extended the foot rest. She gave him a fine cigar and
held the lighter as he stoked it to life. She sat on the chair arm, making
small talk, her fingers idly stroking his arm.

The house lights dimmed and lights flooded the stage. The music
started. Vicki entered stage left dressed in a flowing evening gown with a
cape.

"Relax and enjoy," his wife whispered in his ear.

She knelt at the foot of the recliner, removed his shoes and socks and
began massaging his feet. She watched his face. She could not see Vicki;
she did not want or need to. She knew Vicki's dance would last eleven
minutes and thirty five seconds. She knew it would begin very slowly and
build to a crescendo. She could listen to the music and tell what clothing
Vicki wore and each step Vicki took. She knew because she had
choreographed Vicki's dance.

Vicki had warned her. "No one does a dance this . . . well, this sexy.
He'll go wild."

"Good," his wife had replied, "let him go wild."

She sat at his feet because she wanted to watch him. She wanted to see
how he reacted when Vicki removed her clothing, particularly at the ten
minute fifteen-second point when the music changed to a hard, fast rock'n
roll beat and the last of Vicki's garments hit the stage. Vicki was hot;
she loved to dance and pushed the limits. His wife knew he would enjoy
Vicki and his tension would increase. After five years, she knew exactly
how far she could stretch him.

She watched her man as she knelt at his feet. She could see his
discomfort as Vicki's routine moved into its fifth minute. He would glance
at her furtively, tearing his eyes from Vicki to see if she minded his
reactions. She would smile at him reassuringly, to let him know he was
welcome to enjoy. She felt the tension in his feet as she massaged. She
felt him move, once, then again, to hide his erection. She looked away and
smiled to herself. She'd expected this and it was funny when he tried to
hide it from her. After all, she had selected her position to see him.

The music and Vicki were approaching climax. He was paralyzed, barely
breathing. She rose when the music stopped, looked at Vicki and was
startled. His wife looked at him. He was dazed. She knew it was a hot
number but it must have been something special when Vicki unleashed her
sexuality in the actual performance. She vowed to tip her for the extra
effort.

She stood behind him, rubbing his temples in a slow, circular motion.
She felt his blood throbbing beneath her fingers as he decelerated. She
refilled his glass and resumed her massage. As she caressed his cheeks and
scalp, his tension eased from her ministrations. He leaned back, eyes
closed. She let Vicki out and locked the door. They were alone in the
club.

The spotlights covered only part of the stage allowing her to move in
and out of the brightness, using the shadows to her design. He sat up when
she started her music.

She let her hair down as she slowly walked to the edge of the stage and
said to him, "We're alone. My dance is only for you. You're my man and
I'm your woman. I love you." She blew him a kiss and began, gently swaying
to the slow and easy rhythm.

Sometimes, if a man is lucky, he will find a real woman: an honest,
unique, three-dimensional creation of God. Something about her will burn
into his brain, becoming essential to his being, forever in his memory.
Perhaps it is a physical feature, or movement, or a smell, or aura, or
maybe a look, that fires him, forever molding him by the heat she created.
And, if that man is very lucky, she will become his woman and a great,
lifelong love will have been born.

When he saw her for the first time, she was dancing. Her movements,
lyrical and sensual, radiating energy and passion, mesmerized him. He knew
he must possess her. But, it was her many smiles, the ethereal and
undefinable kaleidoscopes of skin and muscle, which sealed his fate. Her
"take-me-or-lose-your-mind" smile which caused him to fall captive, her
"I-want-and-love-you-forever" smile guaranteeing their heat would never
cool.

She was so graceful, so lithe, as she moved in unison with the music,
each beat sounding a carnal movement by her as the woman animal inside her
was freed. Slowly, wantonly, she moved in and out of the light, artfully
using and then discarding the separate pieces of the dress in a vision of
eroticism, raising his temperature and hypnotizing his mind.

And her face . . . her face played on his soul as it mirrored her
passions to him.

She was sweating, her body covered with her wetness, undergarments
clinging to her. He was sweating, too. He wondered if he could last
through her dance.

She began to strip her lingerie, revealing pink skin, satiny and shiny
with sweat, covering flowing muscles. stockings and shoes gone; shapely
legs and feet revealed for him to feast his eyes. Perfect timing, building
towards an end he knew would come if he was strong enough to withstand
temptations and tensions unfolding at a maddeningly slow pace.

Her pelvis undulated as she undid the garter belt and tossed it aside.
Only the bra and panties remained as she gyrated barefooted to the ever
increasing tempo of the music. He was unaware he was also stripping as she
led them towards climax. All he knew was he was becoming a wild man,
desperately needing her and unable to withstand the torture much longer.

"No, no," she said with a wicked smile. Only then did he realize he was
stroking himself through his pants. He moaned, grabbing the arms of the
chair in desperation.

The music escalated as she removed her bra with painful slowness. She
would turn and twist, using light, material, her arms, to hide and reveal,
teasing him.

He managed to stand and remove his trousers. He moved to the edge of
the stage. She danced above him, seeing his tension and naked hardness.
She fell to her knees, moving arms and hands, covering, then finally
revealing, her breasts. She offered them to him, tantalizing, teasing,
withdrawing when he leaned forward to kiss an erect nipple. He grabbed her
legs. She pried his hands off, pushed them down, using all her strength to
guide his fingers to the metal rail. Her eyes never left his.

She smiled, a "you-want-me-so-badly-you-would-kill-to-get-me" smile,
passion dripping from every pore, as she moved above him. His knuckles
were white from holding the railing and the muscles in his arms stood out
like cords of steel cable, pectorals twitching from the stress he bore.
His breathing was shallow and ragged. The veins in his neck and forehead
throbbed like blue snakes under his skin. His eyes were glazed and
unblinking, stupefied. A tear ran down a cheek, a tear of tension and
frustration. He was on the edge where she'd hoped and planned he would be.

The music accelerated as did she, maximizing intensity, on her knees
before him, pulsating, slithering in wild abandon, her smell thick as a
field of flowers, her heat radiating in heavy waves. He was catatonic but
began to shake uncontrollably. Her face was the flame, her body the fire,
which would engulf him.

Body heaving from exertion and need, knees wide, heels under buttocks,
she lay back, shoulders to the floor, as the music stopped . . .

Silence! except her panting and the crashing of the blood through his
brain. panties gone, her pelvis inches from his face . . . shaven bare,
bloated with desire, glistening wet.

Like a wave rolling into the beach, she rose to put her arms over his
shoulders. Lithely she moved to lock her legs around his biceps. She
thrust her pelvis against his lips. He growled like a rutting beast.
Down, down his body she slid until her face was against his.

"Fuck me now," she groaned in his ear.

****

He awakened in his own bed, his body drained and sore. He shook
involuntarily upon remembering last night, the unbelievable force of the
maelstrom, the power of the passion which had consumed him. Every muscle
ached as he tried to sit up. He saw the nail marks on his arms and chest,
teeth prints on his inner thigh.

He threw off the sheets to look at her. Her face looked so innocent and
pure, incongruous to her womanly form and her wanton wildness a few hours
ago. He marveled at her, thanking his lucky stars.

Her eye lids moved; she stretched.

"Hi, stud," she said sleepily. "You were something!"

That smile flashed again and his guts churned.

"I hope you enjoyed it," she teased.

She pushed him down and lay against him, head on his shoulder, warm
softness of her breasts against him.

"Happy Anniversary, my love," she whispered as she drifted back to sleep
wearing a warm little smile, the smile of a woman in love.

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