a pampered wife
A pampered wife, in her standalone golden tub. She gazes at the dead branches of the tree in her garden dance in the winter air, her interlocked hair swims on the cold tile floor. She doesn’t hoist a finger, but she feels the immersion of a sponge on her fingers, her neck, her shoulders; and her mahogany skin steams grey aura from the hot lave. Her servants wash her, gently and when she comes out of the tub, they lather her with soft shea butter, cocoa butter perfume oil on the base of her throat and dress her in a rich satin kaftan, black and a gold embryoid.
She indulges in fruits that are ripe in odd seasons; six slices of a papaya and cold black coffee. Her figure is petit, and her posture is elegant; when she speaks, she holds so much poise, her breathe smells like watermelons? She doesn’t speak much so I couldn’t make out the exact scent of her breathe but it’s sweet, like she nibbles on red candy before she speaks. Her slender fingers fixed on the spine of a book, and her eyelashes that flatter in complete focus; she is otherworldly and self-indulged.
She frolics in her fortress, thumps her beautifully pampered feet on the Egyptian rugs, embraces the French doors with Peacock themed handles, in her office she disappears. The smooth harp music plays from the magic of her most elegant servant’s fingers, dressed in white abayas and turquoise headscarves, and she consumes herself in boredom, sprawled on her nest of pillows, journals and books near the colossal windows, she traces the feather of a peacock on her thighs and closes her eyes, the harp music transcends her into a meditation.
“Miss, your husband is home”
Quickly she rises, in happiness and longing, it had been a full day since she had seen him, since she had inhaled his masculine aroma, she wasn’t entirely sure if it was the desire deep in her womb or if she just loved smelling his musty pungent odour, even in his rich suits, the odour of his tobacco, incense and the oranges she packs for him when he goes away stuck with him, his hands; the short and shiny nailbeds, the wrinkles on his palm and his smile; when she reached the bottom of the stairs her large kaftan she bared on her body began swaying, she fell into his hands, and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, his snicker bought joy in her heart, the kitchen servants watched in adornment, “You’re back! Argh”, she chortled and embraced her loving husband.
During dinner, the soft vinyl plays, and they feast; wine, turkey, garlic bread and pineapple as a delicacy, just the two of them.
“Dance with me”
From her chair he guides her, through the step that leads to the living area, in his hands he embraces hers and her head lays on his chest, idly dancing, in relaxation.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing while I was away”,
“Not much, I had a bath and listened to harp music; read the Odyssey and waited for you for what felt like an eternity”
He grunts and coddles onto her bust and inhales the perfume oil that the servants smothered her in after her bath, he caresses her frame, and jolts up in remembrance of a thought, “wait right there, do not move”. On the tray, near their bed he took grapes and imported honey, and wrestled to twist the jar open, just after he plunged the grape unto the honey, he took the grapes by the strings and followed his movement with his eyes, he rested his elbow, so his fingers kiss his wife’s lips. “Taste this”, she suckled on the honey dripped grapes and closed her eyes to enjoy the rapture on her palate, slightly moaning, and rests her slender fingers on his wrists. Her eyes twinkled, and he watched her, in agape. “Arthur gave me this, said it’s from Nepal,” resting his chin on his shoulder, “What’d you think?”, he stares at her delight.“I think I’ve got a much better idea than dressing it around the grapes…. it’d taste so much better on your tongue, -” slowly she nibbles at his cheeks, producing soft smacking sounds all until the valley of his chest, and she inhales tobacco scent again, it’s warm and wild and pungent, and it makes her go feral, up she swings and perks at his lips, “it’d taste so good on your chest, and on your fingers oh baby, how I missed you”, they snicker and kiss, smacking, sighing and fondling.
The residue stuck onto his skin, and he prepared a warm damp towel so they could be comfortable again, but before he wiped his own chest, he took his wife’s foot and laid it on his own chest, slowly wiping under her foot, causing a tickling sensation and hearing a naughty snicker from her mouth, then in between her toes, the near her ankles which were drenched in hypnotic poison oil. He worshipped her feet, and kissed her thighs, then rested on her breasts, her fingers played on his shaven head, and they laid there, in synchronized breathing.
His pampered wife dances in the afterglow of their love making, and her skin glistens even during gloomy days, her husband who kills the weeds in her gardens, her husbands who taught himself how to play the harp so she could dance in front of him in nude, her husband that smooches her hands when they sit by the garden and watch the river current rush about and smash into the rocks, her husband who bathes her and never lets her hoist a finger, her husband who paints her candidly while she reads on the velvet couch in the sunroom, her husband who protects her, her husband who enjoys devouring her just for his own pleasure, her husband who built an entire house from ground up so it could become her fortress her husband who falls on her knees like Odysseus nearly fell on Nausicaa’s knees. Her husband who prays to the Muses to help him capture this Eros he feels for this woman, this otherworldly woman who smothers him and feeds him and trusts him and reads to him and kisses him and praises him.
A pampered wife who has the nature of a purring cat, a pampered wife who becomes a nymph in the afterlife.
so good!! Your writing is so descriptive—delicious 🩷🩷🩷
Truly beautiful 🤍