It Was My Duty To Make Our Last Night Together Sexy And Memorable

I light the fifth and final scented candle on the window sill and turn to the full length mirror. I’m wearing a pink silk robe over my lingerie. I drop the robe and observe myself in mirror. I carry off a sheer black slip and thigh high stockings very well for a thirty-five-year-old mother of two. I know my husband will be happy. And tonight, I am desperate to make him happy.

The news came two days ago—the dreaded news every armed forces family fears once war breaks out. Tonight will be our last night together because tomorrow comes the tour of duty.

My husband and I face all the challenges couples who work in separate locations face, plus one more. Tomorrow, when we kiss each other goodbye, we will do so knowing that we might never see each other again.

The horrors of war.

He walks inside. We are in our guest bedroom. He has put the kids to sleep and now he has come to spend one night of desperate—almost pathetic—physical comfort before the war begins tomorrow for our entire family.

I am determined to make this night memorable for him.

He is a handsome man, my husband. Tall and lean even in his forties, with wiry strength from a lifetime of hard work and good habits. He is tanned much deeper than my natural bronze skin. I love how hard and angular and hairy he feels and how smooth and sexy he makes me feel.

We do not speak. There is nothing to say. He sees a tear in my eye and shakes his head “no.” He wipes the tear with his thumb and I jump into his arms, pressing my body as close to his as possible. He is bare chested but wears army fatigues from the waist down.

“What is it you are wearing, you idiot?” I say, laughing.

“That’s how soldiers roll, kid” he says.

Now his hands are inside my slip. He is slowly rubbing my round buttocks as we talk. I am rubbing my crotch shamelessly on his middle. The rewards are instantaneous.

A moment later he drops his trousers and his erection makes a tent like shape in his tighty whities. I run my hand on his chest, trace a line around his nipples and lovingly touch the diagonal scar across his stomach, just above his belly button. He has scars on his back, too. I know the places and touch them without seeing them.

He is sighing and standing. My hand moves along his bulge and I give it a tentative squeeze over his shorts. He moans and takes my wrist. I let him guide my hand inside and wrap my fingers around his throbbing manhood.

The shape is familiar, so lovingly familiar. I know the touch of every inch of his skin there, I have taken it in all orifices. It has filled my womanhood and made me pregnant twice. It has taught me the joy of being on your knees before your man. I feel I love my husband’s manhood apart from him as a person. Crazy thought, maybe, but that’s the truth of it.

I am on my knees. I love to be on my knees before him. He is my man.

I submit to him not because I am inferior but because I choose to submit to him. I like the look on his face when he strokes the top of my head while his dick in my mouth. He doesn’t know that I look, but I do. It excites me to see his closed eyes and his lips parted just one-third of an inch or so. And even though I sometimes feign disgust, I actually love it when he comes on my face and breasts.

I gently take his cock in mouth and suck him. My tongue traces a line across its base as I cup his balls and bob my head. Lovemaking between us is like a well-rehearsed orchestra, each member expertly playing their part. Tonight I need him to be happy.

Now I am on all fours in the bed. My slip lays discarded at the foot of the bedside table. Husband unhooks my red satin brassiere. I let the cups fall and my brown firm breasts become instantly perky. My nipples are maddeningly hard. He reaches across my armpits and slowly rubs them. I moan, “My man.”

“I own this ass,” he says and rubs my cheeks.

I wiggle my ass and laugh my best slutty laugh. He slaps my ass hard enough to sting. I love it when my man puts me in my place like this. He parts my ass cheeks with his hands and rubs my clit a little.

I am wet, I am dripping, I am hollow with arousal. I beg him to fill me. And he obliges. His cock rams into my cunt and he grabs my waist painfully tight. I turn my face for a kiss. He strokes my face lovingly and thrusts harder. I cry out in pain—he is large, my soldier, and he is hard. And right now he owns me. His cock disappears between my legs with each deep thrust. His balls hit my ass in a rhythm of their own. The old bed creaks under our weight.

“Oh, Baby…yes,” he sighs as rams his dick inside me, harder and harder.

I rest my head on the pillow and let him hammer me. When he brings me up to sit on my knees I see the pillow is wet with my tears.

He is now in our love chair. I straddle him and guide his lips to my nipples. I am proud of my breasts, they have served my lover and my children well over the years.

Now my man slowly sucks on one nipple while his hands cup my buttocks and guide me on his cock. I brace for the pain and impale myself on his hard cock. He kneads my ass cheeks with both hands as I move up and down, stabbing myself with his manhood again and again.

My breasts are marked with his love bites. Those marks on my breasts and his man juices inside my cunt are all I will have of him as a memory by tomorrow this time. As I realize this, I start pumping harder. I want it to hurt, I want him to own my body.

“Oh lover please don’t leave me,” I plead as I move up and down.

My man grabs me harder and we awkwardly walk in embrace to collapse on the bed. I wrap my thighs around his waist and allow him to pump me furiously for a few minutes. When he comes I keep his head pressed in my firm breasts and make sure every drop of his man juice is shot down my lady-well.

We spend the last few hours of this night in our family bed. But unlike our usual sleeping positions where we form a bracket around our daughters, this night I let him cradle both the girls on one side while I sleep with my head rested on his strong, hairy chest. I feel safe and happy, even if I know the safety is fleeting.

The next morning I jump in his shower while the girls are having their breakfast and give him a quick blow job. I drink his come and we finish showering together.

I am sitting in my home kitchen when he walks in. He is dressed for work and carries the army issued cap in one hand. He is dressed in his conservative dentist’s attire. Blue shirt and trousers. Grey tie. He carries his white coat over one arm.

“Your car is here, Sweety,” he says, and hands over my fatigue cap.

I am already wearing my army uniform. I place the cap on my head and stand up to hug him. I want to touch the appendix scar just above his belly button. I wonder if I will ever get to touch it again. The hug lasts a minute or a lifetime.

Neither my husband nor our two daughters try to hide their tears as mommy sits in the government vehicle and reports for work. It’s her duty to keep them all safe.