I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid

When I was a young fellow, being a toys r us kid meant you didn't wanna grow up.  As Peter Pan as that sounds, it makes sense.  I still haven't grown up, and I am not in a hurry.  There are grown-up aspects I possess, but I don't ever want to really grow up.

Talking with the Winner the other night, I realized how cool it will be to be and adult male who can come home to a woman at their residence.  It sounds silly, I know. Think about it, I implore you.  As a child (or someone living under someone else's roof), you never know that feeling of someone being in your house waiting for you to come home and have fun with.  I'm not talking about playing with your dog, either (although that will be cool too).  

As a professional business person, I would enter the house in my full suit.  Losing the jacket at the door, I would take a breath and absorb the comfort of being home.  All day I would have maintained my sanity and control while remembering just how soft her skin felt that morning.  How her cherubic hair fell like a river delta, flowing and nurturing, across my chest as I woke up.  The way she grabbed my hand on my way out the door, trying to tempt me to remain in bed with her for the remainder of the day.  Now I would be home, in the place I had made for myself, and for her.  In that thought, a man can take pride.  

My shoes would not allow me to sneak up on her, but I would try nonetheless.  As I track her singing down to the kitchen sink, I devise my strategy.  She greets me without turning, without looking to see that I was up to mischief.  She should know better, I haven't grown up that much.  My steps get closer and closer, and upon her finally looking to see what I was doing, my hands would be on the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up without hesitation.  

She doesn't wear a bra around the house, especially when she just got out of the shower and is waiting for me to come home.  The temptation is her fault, those supple, bountiful pieces of her have been in my vision every time I closed my eyes today.  The shirt off, my mouth on her breasts, teeth drawing closer to each other upon her exquisite nipples, hands tactilely consuming the skin about her sides and back.   She really enjoys having her breasts cared for, and I really enjoy our mutual pleasures.  Skin is skin, but the soft, virgin skin of a woman's breasts stands distinct from its integumentary companions.  

She begins unbuttoning my shirt while I rise to kiss those lips that had called me at 3 to remind me of how unfortunate my departure was earlier, how the articulate hands unfastening my collar had been forced to give pleasure intended for me to the only person still in bed.  The tie is pulled off in a hurry, and I stop her wandering palms to pick it up off the floor.   Now she can finally remove my shirt, which is thrown onto the counter, and begin the effort to return my torso to its natural state.  Once we both find ourselves in a state of northern exposure, she starts removing my pants.  Belt, clasp, zipper, in order, before my very aroused reminder of a long, throbbing day makes its appearance.  

The tie in my hands is placed around her neck, with either end covering up her nipples.  A woman in a tie is so sexy, and there is something I find irresistible about the idea.  Taking the initiative to give her a nice windsor knot to wear around her neck, I make sure the length of the tie is just right.  Now when I unbutton her jeans, the chevron inverts itself in the most directive of places.   We spend a fair amount of time pressed against the sink, the feel of her skin and the silk of my tie pressed against my body.  My height overwhelms her at times, and I make an effort to ease the bend in her neck by changing my body's position.  

Eventually the tie is taken hold of, and the woman is led to her bed.  As I remind her of the turmoil she caused me throughout the day with her explicit communication, that little girl appears in her smile, in her eyes, in her body language.  The woman then removes her jeans and gets on the bed.  Her form in the bed, a woman on the pedestal, is worthy of note.  

"Model that tie, sell it for me."

She shows me the sultry, Calvin Klein advertisement.  Curved back, fierce stare, carnal communication.  I ask her for fun, cute, All-American girl.  Her blonde hair, blue eyes and picturesque smile respond.  She jumps to her feet, and jumps on the bed, letting her hair dance around her in the most honest way.  I think I am sold on the tie, I'll buy three.

To be continued...