The day before, she went to the local beauty parlor and demanded a Brazilian. She lay on the table, the blonde Eastern European matron with the beefy arms parting her legs and twisting her in improbable ways like a Barbie, and she imagined his sitting in the corner watching her. Watching as she flinched as each strip of linen was ripped off her coated with green wax and black hair, watching as she became as naked and as smooth as a prepubescent. She imagined suffering under his watchful and approving gaze and while still wrapped in the gauze of pain she found herself wet.

The day before, she laid out her clothing, a sheerish summer dress printed with flowers and a pair of cowboy boots. The outfit said proper slut and that was what she wanted. In the dress, her breasts were barely visible, the puffed sleeves and sweetheart neckline showed off her lovely chest and arms, and her nipples poked like reminders against the fabric. The hem grazed her kneecaps, so it was a demure sluttiness, but it was sexy, sexy as hell, and the cowboys boots, she felt, would tell him to fuck her now.

The night before she did her best not to touch herself. She tried, she really did, but she couldn’t sleep, and she’d found anyway that an orgasm, or handful, didn’t diminish her desire the next day. So in the black of night, while thinking about her husband on the transport plane full of tired, giddy, nervous and posturing soldiers, she fucked herself into a fitful sleep.

The day of she washed and brushed the children. She showered and carefully shaved her armpits, her calves. She saw that her freshly waxed red prickling pubic mound had quieted into a slick-smooth inviting series of folds and curves. And as much as she wanted to press her pussy with her fingers in the hot drip of the shower, she didn’t.

She dressed, she met the parents. She was polite and upbeat. She greeted the other wives. They airkissed and made small talk. She waited, holding hands with the toddler, trying to be composed. Trying to imagine and trying to not imagine at the same time what it would feel like to have him take her body in his arms and kiss her.

What would he look like, a year gone from her? Who would he be? What would the war have done to him? The things he’d seen, the people he’d encountered as he’d searched Iraqi villages, the women hiding in corners under their wraps, the fear a scent in the air as much as the unfamiliar spices of cooking and unbathed bodies? What would the boredom of camp life have done to him? The year away and his busy, busy mind. What doubts would the excess of time and space raised in his mind? Who would he be?

Would he still want her? Because oh god oh god she wanted him badly. She had, predictably, kept a dirty t-shirt of his when he left. She had, originally, kept it in a Ziploc bag; in the first few months of his absence she had taken it out and smelled it when she wanted to steep herself in his loss, when she wanted to lave herself with it like a penitent. Then she had put it away, tucked it in a corner of a closet and tried to forget about it, and immersed herself instead in all the logistical details of parenthood and working. Recently, she had taken the shirt out of its protective plastic. She laid it over her face and inhaled her husband’s scent as deeply as a high school huffer while she brought herself to come again and again, imagining his body pressing down on her face in rapacious intimacy.

There, in the center of the base, like everyone else waiting in small molecules all grouped around that one missing person, she felt these thoughts swirl and eddy in her head, even as she held the hand of the elder child, the one who remembered her daddy, and shifted the toddler who did not as he squirmed on her hip. There, in the center of the base, the lawn browning at the edges like a cookie too long in an oven, she felt herself, even in her anxiety, get just a bit wet.

As the small band and color guard upped the register of their pomp and circumstance, two buses turned the corner into the center of the base, drew nearer , and rolled to a stop in front of the families. The crowd’s excitement rose in direct proportion to the proximity of the buses, crescendoing in shouts and cheers and the tired wails of a few babies.

One by one the men and women exited the buses, and the crowd craned their necks, bobbing their heads like a bunch of chickens to get the first glimpse of their Loved Ones. They look tired, the wife thought, and brown. One by one, she saw them exit the buses, and as she could glimpse each new pair of feet dropping down the buses’ steps, she felt her heart race just a bit more.

And then, finally, there he was. Smiling, his arms out, as if he were welcoming the world, which in a way he was. He saw them, his little molecule, before she recognized him. His hair was so short, his skin was so brown, his body so…hard.

Before she almost knew it, he had wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body close to him. His lips were on hers, and she tasted his spit, felt his tongue, smelled his body, the smell that seemed to have become a part of herself over their years together.

She felt him ripped away from her too quickly. Too quickly his arms were gone. Too quickly his body went away. Too quickly he was greeting the others—his children (she had to remind herself to remind the toddler to kiss his daddy), his parents. Too quickly and too long.

Jealously, fiercely, she wanted to pull him to her again, she wanted to rub her hands over the hard, molded contours of his flesh. She wanted to rub her face against his naked body like a cat, inhaling him all over, the delicate scent of his neck, the tangy-sharp scent of his armpits, the musky pungent smell of his cock and balls. She wanted to know him again because right now, right now she felt as if he were still new, still unfamiliar, still changed, and she wanted to be one with him now.

But she couldn’t, not yet. With the pomp and circumstance playing around them, some short speech by some high-ranking military man, some choreographed flinging of rifles to the syncopated beats of some drums, she had to wait. He held her hand, he smiled. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He ran his hand down her hip and she could feel its hunger through the sheer fabric of her dress,

His hand ran down her hip. It stopped. He leaned in to her and whispered, “No panties?”

She looked in his eyes and grinned her response.

And then it was over, the de facto military honors, and the families began to disperse, to make their ways back to their cars and their lives. She held his hand, guiding him to their car, not really listening to his answers to his parents’ questions about the flight, their children’s questions about his uniform and whether he’d brought anything back. Her mind was busy trying to figure out how she could get him inside her as soon as possible. Now, she thought, now would be good.

She imagined sitting on the back of that grey sedan right there, hooking her heels into its bumper, hiking up her dress, parting her thighs and pulling him in to her by his highly polished belt buckle, the sun beating down on them, the crowds dispersing around them, his parents looking on horrified, their children confused. She imagined him fucking her right there in the parking lot, while she laid back on the sunwarmed hood of the car, each thrust of his hips making her body slide to and fro on the car’s highly polished surface.

She laughed to herself and shook the image out of her head. She realized she just had to get home, and there, there she’d find a way. She looked at her husband, the soldier, walking beside her in his uniform, and saw that he felt the same.

She had wanted to take two cars to the ceremony, but his parents wouldn’t hear of it. They had rented an extra-big SUV just for the trip, they said, so that everyone could fit into the car. So reluctantly, she had buckled the toddler’s car seat into the third-row seat and had sat in the middle seat herself, anticipating the ride home, when the kids would be in the way back, leaving the middle seat to her and her soldier boy husband.

In the car, his parents in the front, them in the middle, the kids in the back, the generations stacked like a wedding cake, it wasn’t long before their hands found each other’s bodies. She sat there, upright on the outside, but heaving and swelling inside, as her husband laid his jacket across the seat and into her lap, giving cover for his hand as it moved up her naked thigh. His hand gripped her flesh, owning it, she parted her legs and felt like a teenager, afraid that at any moment a parent or a child would ask what they were doing, and also not caring if they did.

She moved closer to him, his jacket still over his lap, his hand still moving, pressing its palm, pinching gently with its fingertips, crawling slowly up her inner thigh. For once she felt happy that her mother-in-law could talk the ear off a goose; she was just prattling on and on about cousins and aunts, her garden and her hip.

Her husband answered politely, diligently seeming to pay attention to his mother’s chatter; his hand stole ever further up her thigh. She parted her thighs and scooted forward on the seat, welcoming him. His hand finally hit home, that warm and glowing center of her flesh, and she looked in his eyes when he touched her there, knowing that her wetness had welcomed him home.

He looked shocked and pleased. She looked at his crotch, wishing she could touch him, but knowing she could not—it was too great a risk, and she could see that he was hard, erect, his cock pressing against the fabric of his boxers and his uniform pants. She wanted to take it out, nuzzle it and comfort it in its moment of clear distress, but it would have to wait. Seeing him, though, in that state made her wetter, and she could feel her pussy wetness spread down the cleft of her ass.

His hand felt like a slice of heaven as his fingers knowingly touched her clit, flicking it gently up and down and then pausing to squeeze gently between his knuckles. She found herself gliding into that crimson state of just before coming, each movement of his fingers pushing her closer and closer to the precipice, her mind letting go of the danger, the parents, the prattling, the kids watching the Disney movie in the way back, and concentrating on the deft pinkwet pleasure that he was giving her, under his coat, beneath her summer dress, and between her legs.

She tried not to notice that they were making the series of turns leading up to their house. She tried not to notice anything but his fingers, the flicking and squeezing, the gentle rubbing, the frustration that he couldn’t in their seated position get inside her, nothing but the wet warm enveloping ever-pinkening presence of her coming, and she felt it flood over her, wave upon wave, the pleasure shuddering out from her center and flooding her whole body.

She coughed.

“Summer cold?” his mother asked, craning her neck to look at her. “They are the worst!” she said and chattered on as her son removed his hand from between her daughter-in-law’s legs, brought it to his mouth, and surreptitiously licked his fingers.

She hoped there wouldn’t be a huge wet spot on the back of her dress or on the seat. At least the car seat is dark, she thought.

Back at the house, everyone seemed to be clamoring for a piece of her husband. She felt annoyed at them, irritated that they had to be there, disgruntled that she couldn’t have him all to her self, angry that he wasn’t ripping her dress off right this moment and finishing what he had started on the drive home.

He seemed game to be part of the family, too. He seemed as if he wasn’t desperate to fuck her, and that made her angrier. He seemed totally fine, as if he was accustomed to making girls come in cars filled with family. As if his cock wasn’t needing the attention that she so desperately wanted to lavish on it. As if he didn’t need to fuck her like she needed to be fucked in short. He seemed fine, the fucker.

He listened and laughed, told a story or two, retrieved the briquettes for the barbecue, hefted the toddler in the air, kissed the top of the daughter’s head and got her gifts, he seemed fine, in short, and not as if he needed to get fucked at all, and this made her angry. She thought about all the hours she’d spent imagining their mutual ripping off of clothes, their frenzied mashing of body parts, the inexact coming together of coming together, the bodily expression of their missing one another for so long and so badly.

“I need to shower, if you don’t all mind,” she heard him say. “And change clothes. I can’t wait to get into civvies,” he said and laughed. She heard him ask his dad to start the flames, and she heard him tell them all he’d be ready in a half hour.

Then as he passed her, he took her hand, gripped it tight in his own and led her down the hall and into their bathroom. He turned the water up high, the steam would fill the room quickly. He turned to her and lifted the dress up and over her head.

Like an obedient child, she raised her arms and it slid off her in a swift silence. Her body naked but for her boots, she pressed herself against him; his hands were gripping her face and his tongue was searching her mouth, drawing her tongue in with a craving beyond hunger. Her hands wedged themselves between their bodies and she began unbuttoning his shirt, dragging it down his shoulders, drawing his t-shirt up over his head, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants and shucking them to the bathmatted floor.

And there in her hand she felt the velvet-steel of his cock. Its improbable weight, its shocking smoothness and unyielding hardness. She moaned and felt her weight start to drop to her knees. She wanted that cock in her mouth so badly, but as she dropped, she felt his hands gripping her ass and heard his laugh in her ear.

He lifted her up off the floor, depositing her on the sink before him. Bottles of moisturizer and tubes of toothpaste scattered as she landed. In a sweet swift second, she felt him part her legs and thrust himself inside her. She gasped and moaned.

“Shhh,” he said and put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened over the hand, and she arched her back towards him, opening her pussy to his cock and to her pleasure. Her boots locked behind his hips and drew him towards her with each thrust.

He was fucking her, she thought. He’s finally here and he’s fucking me. Their eyes locked and she could see his desire, his anger, his frustration, and his past year of missing her on his face, and she felt comforted.

She was not alone. And he was fucking her, and it felt so fucking good. His stomach muscles were taut; she could see each muscle tighten as he thrust his hips toward her, as he moved his cock harder and faster in-out-in-out-in-out of her.

Taking his wrist in her hand, she removed the hand over her mouth. She looked in his eyes.

Fuck me, she mouthed, a bare whisper over the sound of the shower. Fuck me, she said, and nodded. He looked at her, surprise on his face, quizzical almost.

Fuck me, she said again. And then, Harder. Harder, she mouthed, giving him permission. He didn’t need to be told again, and yet she said it again and again. Harder, she said, and he plunged his cock into her. Harder, harder, harder, she whispered under her breath, and he filled her completely, uncomfortably and ecstatically, over and over, and she smiled and encouraged him.

Fill me, she said and nodded her head, a small assent, a quiet submission. She saw his mouth open, wide and wider, she saw that momentary falter, that break in stride that always signaled his orgasm, and then she saw him shudder as she simultaneously heard him exhale the long quieted and ragged breath of his coming.

They held each other, there in the steamy bathroom. Her naked and dripping on the counter, her back against the mirror, her boots ankle-locked behind his back, him standing in the puddle of his pants and shoes. They laughed.

“Let’s clean up,” he said and picked her up from the counter, setting her delicately on her feet. They kissed, embracing, and shed their shoes and entered the shower.

“I missed you,” she said and made a pouting face.

“I missed you too, baby.” He said and ducked under the water’s stream.

She looked at him. He looked fucking gorgeous, there in the water, his body in gradations of tan—arms very dark espresso, chest the color of coffee with milk, legs the color of coffee with half-and-half, and only his ass and loins were their usual almond hue. His body had gotten hard, etched, muscular. He was a thing of beauty, she thought, and the tiny lines across his forehead and at his eyes only made him more handsome.

He was washing himself, one hand on his body, the other on hers, as if to let go of her would be to lose her again, which she found endearing. Watching him shower, she leaned in and kissed him, the salty taste of his mouth mixing with the sweetness of the water. She looked him in the eye, and keeping his gaze, kneeled in front of him, the water splashing around them.

She was now eye-to-cock. It was soft, now, vulnerable and curled in upon itself. She took the head in her hand and rubbed it on her lips as the water fell on her head, her breasts, on her eyelashes. His cock slipped easily into her open mouth, and she sucked gently, tenderly, flicking her tongue over the tip, as if she was getting to know it, formally.

He held the back of her head tenderly and groaned. Her mouth opened and she could feel him getting hard in her mouth. She used one of her hands to guide him in, to stretch the cock taut in her mouth, as she sucked the tip. He grew again, and she began edging him down her throat. She didn’t really know what was moving her—she’d never done it like this before. All she knew was that she wanted that cock in her mouth, and as the water beat down on her head, on her shoulders, on her thighs, as it pooled around her calves, she took him into her mouth farther than she’d ever done before.

Her head and her hand moved together as one, her other hand delicately cupping his balls. She wished she could fit all of it—his cock, his balls, his whole body, really—in her mouth. She felt herself gagging slightly and still she didn’t stop; she tasted her pussy on his pubic hair, and still she didn’t stop. She felt possessed, nearly, by how much she wanted this cock in her mouth.

She felt his hands gripping her under her armpits and pulling her up. His body was against her, his tongue was in her mouth again, wrestling against her own tongue, gratifyingly. He thrust her from him, and turned her against the shower wall.

Her hands braced herself as his hand groped between her legs, beginning to rub her clit again. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

I’ll do that, she told him. He looked surprised again, but removed his hand. Raising one foot and balancing it on the edge of the tub, she raised her ass to him, finally presenting it to him, her husband, her lover.

His cock entered her pussy again, a new angle, a new sensation, and she moaned, her right hand busily rubbing her clit. He bit the back of her neck and she moaned into the arm that was braced against the shower wall.

His hands held the curves of her hips, slipping on the porpoise-wet skin, as his toes dug into the shower-daisies at the bottom of their tub. He thrust into her, more slowly this time, but no less fully—his more acute need abated by the orgasm he’d had just minutes before, he could listen to his wife’s body.

He slowed down his fucking; he could feel as he entered her the pleasureshudders that ran through her body. He could feel her pussy tightening, clenching like a delicate fist, around his cock. He paused when his cock was nearly out of her, and he could feel her cunt give a subtle hiccup, a dainty contraction, then—just then—when he was nearly out of her.

His right hand crept down her hips, and he leaned forward, spread her ass cheeks, and drooled a thread of spit directly onto her asshole. Careful to shield her ass from the shower with his body, he moved his hand closer to her ass, and slowly began rubbing her little cherrybrown asshole in circles.

Over the water’s rush swish rush, he heard her moan. Dropping more spit, he paused in his fucking and carefully inserted his forefinger into the tight opening of her ass, slowly, slowly, until it was buried to the second knuckle in her ass. The sight was a beautiful one—his wife bent and spread, her hair wet-plastered against her shoulders in snaky strands, her legs open and welcoming, her ass tilted up, her back arched to him like a cat in heat, his finger and his cock buried in her.

His cock could feel her get wetter and tighter.

Fuck me, oh please, fuck me, she whispered over her shoulder. Fuck me, please please please just fuck me, she said and her body nearly shimmered there in the wet with her desire.

He did what she asked, leaning back, the water splashing off her back, and ass, his finger solidly, stolidly in her ass, pressing every so slightly down, his cock took a steady, relentlessly deep rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Relentless. Even. Hard and gentle was the fucking and the sound of the shower, the water and the falling, the steam and the smell of fresh washed hair the sound of the body slapping and the tighntesses around finger and cock her pussy the delicate clenching the fucking and the goodness the presence and the pleasure

and at the same time the ecstatic convulsions, the tender contractions, the pleasure washing over them in them around them in each other around each other together and loving it them and all

They came together, at last. We came together, she thought, at last.