Kawthar is my wife. Now, I don’t mean to get all in a huff and political, but that’s how it is. I changed my last name, moved in with her, and am, in every fashion, for her. My name is Ahmad, and I lay each night with an angel.
Kawthar and I met online. Risky, we know, but it wasn’t like we sought one another out in some single’s site or on some horrible chat room. We met on some message board discussing one remarkably geeky thing or another, and we fell in love. Now, I also mean to be clear about love. I mean true love. The kind that sees you through my manic depression and her physical weakness. The kind of love that, genuinely, does conquer all.
I am eighteen years old, bordering on nineteen; she is twenty-three bordering on twenty-four. Our birthdays are the same week in September. Where I am toned from being an avid runner in school, she is voluptuous and plump like all beautiful Egyptian women. I like to think of that as complementary. Her hair is long and feminine. What distinguishes my Angel most is not her appearance, but her lack thereof in a certain respect.
My Angel cannot speak. When she was very young, an accident claimed her voice and left her communicating with instant messages and sticky notes. But, she doesn’t ever need to. Her eyes tell me she loves me, her touch shows she cares… her tongue reminds me that no one can come between us. Ever. I work, attend classes, and am up late into the night, reading, writing, and refining one skill or another, while she tends to domestic issues, finding the workforce hard for a Silent Angel to enter… she tells me, with her writing and her sad eyes how useless she feels sometimes, but she is my Angel, and that is the greatest use she could be to me.
With that necessary background handled, today is Valentine’s Day. A day where couples the world over celebrate love. Kawthar and I have been together for two years, and married for much of that, and would probably point out that we celebrate our love every day were it not a tradition we enjoy. Being slightly dorky, Kawthar and I, on the day before, follow Japanese custom and make chocolate for one another by hand. Honmei Chocolate, as it is called in Japan, signifies that the recipient is the ‘only one’ to the girl who offers it.
Valentine’s day being Saturday, I get to spend it entirely with her. Of course, we likely will have trouble waking before noon. My Angel is physically tender and delicate, so sleeps often, and I go to sleep remarkably late. But from that moment, Valentine’s Day will celebrate my Angel.
Kawthar awakens to see me, beside her as she enjoys to wake, and gently stroking her hair. Of course, I’ve been up for a while, made food for us to share. After a nice breakfast, we’ll watch a show with some sort of cute lesbian porn implications; knowing us, it’ll be sensual hardcore movies and will take a length of time. After a candlelight dinner with fine pasta and sake, we’ll exchange our honmei chocolate and retreat to bed. It isn’t about gifts for us, it’s about love.
And love is the next item on the agenda. Note that for most of the point leading up to now, we will likely wear little if anything at all, as is customary for us in our little blissful world we call home. Anything we wear for the sake of temperature at this point will be a distant memory as I caress her, and trace over her neck with my finger, to remind her that even her ‘imperfections’ are perfect to me. Then, softly, I’ll kiss her neck, on each side, before progressing down her chest. My Silent Angel has a quality of innocent beauty that I think only she can pull off. As my tongue dances over nipples stiffened, I know, by me and not the cold, I think on these things, and the many aspects of my wife I so dearly love.
Her hands, which until now will have been stroking my hair, will guide me up into a kiss and she’ll look at me. She won’t need her sticky-notes to communicate that thought; I’ll see it in her eyes. Love and lust, desire and romance… it is only fair for us both to be pleasured on Valentine. With a warm smile I’ll nod and lay her down before positioning myself atop her in a standard, staple position — 69.
I’ll moan into her, making my tongue vibrate deep in my Angel’s sanctuary as hers plays across my cock. I keep my pubes hairless, mainly out of personal taste though I know she’s grown to enjoy it, and she grooms hers neatly, which is the only manner in which she actually appears older than me despite being five years my senior. As I slip a finger into her and begin to gently suck on her clit, I can feel her stroking my hard cock and eliciting such lovely feelings.
Now, my wife tastes divine. Were I able to bottle her, which would be what I’d drink with fine dinners in opposition to sake or wine. But this night, I want to give her something we haven’t done in some time. I want to lock eyes with her as we cum. So I abruptly reverse my position above her and press down upon her with my fullest of force, our breasts pressing under the pressure of our bodies and our now dripping genitals pressing together and making such beautiful sounds. I like to think of it as ‘kissing’ in a way. Then I guided my cock into her wet pussy.
She doesn’t moan, so I love this position. She shows me her pleasure in her eyes. The eyes of an Angel. I smile and kiss her deeply as I fucked her slowly and very deeply and our pubeses grind together making those beautiful sounds, making us tremble, making us soar. And I break the kiss and increase my tempo, my force, my love. My hand gently rubs her cheek and she nuzzles into it, our eyes locked, as we both feel ourselves reaching greater and greater heights, the sounds driving us on.
In the moment before orgasm, it seems like there is no world. When my Silent Angel loves me, only she exists, and in this moment, the world is merely the venue in which our perfect love is displayed. We know what is about to happen, and neither of us make a sound, save the sloshing of our fucking, grinding and squeaking of our bed. Our eyes tell the story. Our eyes say “Forever, only you”. And then, I moan. A moan loud and high enough for both of us as we erupt together, soaking one another, soaking our bed, soaking in pure happiness, as I filled her womb with rope after rope of my copious cum.
I roll off her, and she looks at me with a smile. She offers a giggling expression and grabs the pad of sticky notes she keeps on our nightstand and slaps one on my chest, meant to be read from that angle reading ‘Happy valentine’s day’. I smile, and curl up close to her, and whisper softly in her ear, “Every day is Valentine’s day, when you sleep beside an Angel.”