Two Side of the Same Coin
She hums and bangs around as she cooks, busy but relaxed and enjoying herself. She can cook 5 things at once without setting a timer or forgetting anything or screwing anything up. I've never seen anything like it.
They say that we enjoy watching our loved ones in their element, doing what they do best. But I am hovering around the kitchen for less altruistic reasons. I'm about to starve to death and I'm hoping to hurry this thing up before I'm forced to eat my shoe.
In setting the table, I notice a small package of whispy things set off to the side.
"Are these the new panties you bought?"
She immediately abandons her cooking to show me her new undies.
Standing by my side at the counter, she picks up a little thong and explains to me how the color will go with X and she will wear them with Y and she likes the frilly thing and the hem, blah blah blah.
I am standing there politely saying yes, uh huh, right. I am being an adult and a supportive partner and going through the motions. But I am also thinking dirty thoughts. Thinking about that little strip of fabric between her cheeks. There are chemicals being released in my brain and my body. My pants are getting tight. My skin is flushing. It is biology and psychology and what happens when Your Person does certain things.
And she picks up pair number two. Same thing. Pattern of material, fit a little differently, will work with these other shorts or pants or whatever.
And the third pair, granny panties, see the little bows, words-words-words. I nod encouragement. I don't let on that I am having minor difficulty in controlling the impulse to grab her and ravage her.
And the next pair. Little white crotchless things. She looks up at me to gauge my reaction. I smile, yes, ok, crotchless, I like. But in my mind I have taken her into the half bathroom by the kitchen and yanked her stretch pants down and raked the towel and the handsoap and the decorative ensemble off the counter and her legs are wrapped around me and she is moaning in my ear while I pull her hair.
It is Jekyll and Hyde. It is dichotomy and juxtaposition. I can be civilized and under control and appear reasonably normal while we talk about her underthings at the kitchen counter with other family members within earshot, while thinking about cramming my face in her crotch or tying her to the headboard and leaving a handprint on her backside.
Like two sides of the same coin. Inseparable. Of the same thing but different.
She has seen both sides of this coin. She thinks she understands. But thank god, Thank God!, she cannot read my mind.
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