I wake up as I do some days, slightly ahead of my husband.This is a spinoff story from my current fetish of a long tale, based off a slightly off-center viewpoint. You'll see what I mean if you read it long enough and think about what the words furnish as a context.
He is facing me, and my head is slightly tilted in sleep as I rise slightly, eyes half open. "..." I want to reach out to hug him, but for some reason, I am too tired to even move the tips of my toes, let alone shift myself to hug him. I can only watch him, taking in every detail of his surprisingly well kept body, not muscular, but still fit, if maybe a little surrendered at the belly like so many other men his actual age.
He opens his eyes.
Those glorious brown eyes, slightly rheumy from age despite the rejuvenation therapy I help him remember to take every morning with breakfast. Otherwise, he is still the same youthful but middling-aged man whom I crashed into one fine afternoon trying to get home.
The combination of DeMutrex-B (150mg x 1 pill), Avolanol (75mcg x 2 pills) and Ciclamine (5g x 4 pills) he can afford for rejuve are premium, reversing so many things, if not everything aging can inflict. No man lives forever, but he will live a long time barring any violent accidents or fast-debilitating illnesses.
I hope I can last as long as he needs me, I think.
I also think, this is home. My real home now. I *am* home now.
That home I stopped trying to get home to was a different home. Not this place I now call home.
I miss my old home sometimes, but when I try to think more about it, my mind just blurs the details, like fossils at a prehistoric dig only paleontologists and archaeologists in the sand care about. I hear the words I want to hear. "Morning, Julie... had a good sleep?"
A faint pause keeps me from saying anything, then... "I had the best sleep of... at least this week." I say that all the time, I think, and he accepts it, just as he accepts virtually every bit of me.
"Really? I really need to get a CPAP machine, my snoring must be killing you." He idly observes. I laugh. Something deep inside me says he is in good health, not suffering from anything that would need him to force oxygen down his lungs in his unconscious sleep.
I am not a doctor, or a nurse when I make that observation. I am simply his wife. The exact nature of how I think he is doing okay don't make themselves known to me, and I am okay with that. If something was truly wrong, I'd probably figure it out then, but now is not one of those times of concern.
"Please, you did okay at the last sleep clinic you went to, didn't you? Two years ago?" I grin a little. I may be still so strangely dog tired, but the muscles of my face still manage to give him a little adoration, massage his tough but still tender ego. His next Sleep Clinic session is due in about 11 months, I will remind him of it more as it approaches closer, but now is not the time for such a reminder.
My mind briefly drifts as if to remind me of important things. This man's name is Marcus Manners. He is the chief artist at a multinational called ArendtCore, has been since its founding. He is talented in his work, as far as I know, and handsome, this I DEFINITELY know.
My name is Julie Ambervale. At least, I used to be. For obvious reasons I now share his surname, call myself Julie Manners Ambervale. I still keep my original maiden surname as a brief reminder of where I started. I have some experience as an au pair and a teacher, but I preferred to gallivant around the world as a hitchhiker and sybarite. Seemingly contradictory pastimes, but with the right tricks I made it work.
I met Marcus first at the outside of the main terminal of the local domestic/international airport while attempting to get home on a screwed up return fare. He gave me shelter while I waited for a resolution. Six months later, I figured the ideal resolution in question was to fall in love completely with him and burn said return fare. No urge to return remains. I am right where I need to be.
That was three years ago. We married at a small hall belonging to his local parish. To his credit, he understands I do not believe in religion, and will not badger or make even remotely any attempts to bring me into his fold, merely living by his creed and hoping that I will in turn share in it when I can as well, a task I willingly acomplish daily.
Loving him, honoring him, obeying him, caring for him and the son he brought into our fold some time after we married. It is the smallest of asks, and only a fool or someone who refused to care for them would be unwilling to comply.
"Julie," Marcus suddenly observes after a few minutes of idle chatter, "Would you kindly check on Elliot and wake him if he's still asleep? His monthly checkup starts this morning."
As if this was a command, the words suddenly fill my entire body with the energy I need to start the day, the world taking on a deeper set of hues and tones, the occasional black and green mote splashing and fading from view with blurred text of some sort, as I slowly sit up on my side of the bed and walk over to the clothes closet. "Certainly, honey," I purr, as I drape myself in a modest long-sleeved beige top and voluminous matching cream trousers.
The combination is designed to be worn as a set, and it reduces the time I need to get ready for my duties as a wife and mother. I have other similar combinations: underwear, innerwear, outerwear, additionals - laid out for other kinds of purposes, and it helps me lead a tidier life.
I pull the drawstring on my trousers tightly, securing it to my waist. I walk out of the bedroom slowly, letting him have a bit more time to admire the curve of my body. I still have it after so long, I think. A careful diet and lots of activity will do a woman good anytime. He yells after me. "And don't make breakfast, I have other plans for breakfast!"
I briefly make a mental note not to make breakfast, wondering what Marcus will surprise me with this morning.
I cross the hallway to Elliot's bedroom and knock. I open and check when no response is given. He is not in his bed. After a minute of checking the hallway bathroom set aside for Elliot and visiting houseguests, I look out the living room window.
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It occurs to me that by this point, I should have gotten used to this: Elliot is sitting on the lawn outside, within the safe fencing we erected just after he came home from Alaska, in order to keep him from accidentally dancing into rare oncoming traffic.
He is the very picture of youth, his hair the same hazel brown as mine and his father's, with a pale blue ribbon on one side of it gifted by a friend he had made in Etrurus, Africa. His short stacked but toned body was draped in a long-sleeved shirt one sized too large for him, with a picture of a Sixar Pictures cartoon character of some sort on it, a cyborgized blue bear, and he's also wearing brown shorts that are also one size too large for him, large enough to hold practically everything he must desire to carry at all times. Which is still not very much, probably. Maybe just a GameGuy portable, some candy in a tube, and a wallet with some pin money and an emergency contact.
His shoes are barely a size too large as well but somehow stay fitting and on his feet, giving the whole ensemble a sort of cartoon come to live look, especially with the cherub's face sitting atop all of it.
Elliot is... what many parents would call... difficult. In Alaska, he had experienced a near-death incident that claimed large parts of his intellect and coordination. He has surprising moments of clarity, brief bursts of celerity and unnatural awareness of where to put his hands and feet... but he also has blackouts, for which a device on his neck administers wakeup shocks for. He also has a tattooed warning on his left breast visible only to Parameds wearing their work goggles, advising that he requires special care and advising how to locate said care, as well as a permanent note on the files at the Little Sanctuary Hospital on how to handle him being brought into the ER.
He also has a terrible inability to vocalize, preferring short words and sentences to actual full sentences. In fact, he prefers to move rather than talk, with a gentleness that startles some of the people he meets, almost as if he might be passing off as a boy rather than being a girl.
It doesn't matter really. He's Marcus' adopted and lovely son, and that gives me all the reason I need to lavish him with attention when I can. Sometimes he does not appreciate this seemingly, but I don't think that's how he truly feels. After all, a growing boy needs his mother, does he not?
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Elliot is standing on his hands right now, legs flailing in the air, smiling like a silly imp. This is clearly one of those brief bursts of good times, as he abruptly falls over and starts laughing for no apparent reason. It is unfortunate, but I need to cut his 'good times' short.
I walk out the front door in my sandals, yelling at Elliot. "Elly! Get over here, your ride over to your checkup needs to leave in like, five minutes ago!" A little hyperbole never hurt. The boy could mess around another ten and still make it to the... doctor? therapist? My mind briefly fuzzes over on this detail... it does not matter, I decide. He just can get where he needs to go in time even if he fools around a little.
I decide not to take the chance that this is not one of those days where he has that luxury. I clap my hands, which gets his attention fully. He walks slowly over, stumbling on one step for a moment. I catch him before he falls completely, letting him bury himself in me.
I brush some grass off his hazel brown locks, laughing along with him, as we wish each other a good time today, even as I bring him to the garage and deposit him in the family jalopy. It is an ancient but reliable design, sufficient to convey us to wherever in Little Sanctuary we may want to go. I wave to him as the car rolls out to the street slowly past the opening garage shutter, then keep waving until the shutter closes back down, before I walk back into the house.
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There are three kinds of time in this house, on top of the usual thing that all clocks, watches and smart devices love to show off to everyone who asks them.
There is Me time: time solely for myself. I tend to have a lot of it most days, as Marcus leaves for work and Elliot either keeps himself out of trouble or attends his monthly care or daily homeschooling sessions. I use this mainly to plan healthy meals, keep myself healthy with light exercise around the house and neighborhood, and do housework and cooking. Boring but necessary tasks to keep a family healthy and happy.
Then, there is We Time: time with all of the family: me, Marcus, and Elliot. We do lots of things - watch family movies, eat together, work out lightly together, laugh and chatter about the comings and goings of the disparate streams of our lives lived together.
Occasionally, we practice hygiene together, taking turns to bathe Elliot as he has previously proven perfectly capable of blacking out in mid-bath.
That is obviously Not A Good Thing when that puts him face-down in the water - fortunately the first time it happened we could knock him back awake before he actually drowned himself. We try to avoid it now by running a timer on a shower instead, but we still try to give him baths since he likes to play with bath foam and duckies.
I do also occasionally spend time with Marcus in the shower to save water, of course. Elliot is not the only person in this house who needs affection, and I am happy to share it with Marcus as well.
-----
Marcus is sitting calmly in the living room, having dressed up lightly and clearly showered. In front of him on the coffee table is a large bowl of assorted kinds of berries. Clearly he has taken the day off... He watches me come in as he turns on the television to one of the educational channels he subscribes to as a way to avoid mushing his brain with deleterious mass media, one hand beckoning to me. "Julie, would you kindly sit down with me for a while?"
"Hang on, you haven't taken your rejuve..." I walk past to the kitchen to load up on the previously prescribed medications, and come back to his side with a glass of water to wash the bitter pills down with. He takes them as instructed, and I make a second trip to leave the empty glass in the sink for later washing - I can gauge his desires are more important than absolute cleanliness of the glassware right now.
I smile a little and quickly scrabble over to Marcus' side, leaning into the greyish fabric of his shirt as I take a cue and watch the TV put on a documentary of sorts.
This is the third kind of time in this house, the kind I equally look forward most to: Me And You Time.
The documentary doesn't exactly interest me, but I still pay attention somewhat, even as I occasionally look up to Marcus' face, purr a little contentedly, and go back to taking note of the documentary. I have learnt to piece the information together somewhat coherently, and I learn something new everytime Marcus puts on a Quasarbula or Nevermind presentation, though it takes time to parse.
Ever so often, Marcus returns my affections by carefully reaching into the bowl and handing me a berry while holding back another for himself. I close my mouth around his fingers gently, extracting my share and firmly squeezing my teeth on it from the top and bottom. I feel the stickiness of the juice coating the insides of my mouth, the sweet tang of whatever berry he has chosen to feed me hitting my tongue and nostrils in a combined assault...
A raspberry. This one is a raspberry. I can tell even without looking at the berry because of the slightly rubbery feel of its drupelets. The blackberries also have drupelets, but they have a subtly different texture and flavor, like tiny marbles that surprisingly give way and explode with ease.
This is... bliss. This continues for about three hours, Marcus carefully rationing out the berries between us at about 5 and a half minutes per berry on average. My mind somehow takes stock of this odd little detail, I do not know why.
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We are eventually down to our last berry as the fourth documentary, about a insane bomber captain replacing his gunners' cockpits with gun, gun and more gun, rolls its closing credits. It is a strawberry, awfully large and ripe, its true fruits studding the surface of the red fleshy aggregate that so many people prize for its taste.
Marcus reaches up and grabs it by its calyx - that green leafy stemmish bit that ties the berry to its plant until its harvesting - blame Quasarbula for educating me to this degree - making a show to swallow it whole. He pauses, the strawberry dangling precariously into his gaping maw of doom. Then, he lifts it out theatrically, plucking the calyx off as he smiles wickedly and motions to me. I know what I need to do, slowly opening my mouth and admitting the berry as he slowly shoves it into my mouth.
The same firm squeeze, the splash of strawberry aggregate flesh juices and fruitlets in my mouth.
The next thing that follows is kind of strawberry like, but I subconsciously know to treat it with far more respect, Marcus' tongue joining mine in a sort of dance as he tries to steal some of that flavor to savor. I make a show of denying it to him, while still offering it to him little by little even as the strange serpents in our mouths do a little dance that makes me strangely... content.
I blush a little and close my eyes as I feel one hand on my breasts... then both... then one of my own on one of those hands. They are certainly very big hands, but as Marcus has so often admitted, he likes how they can't get hold of even half of my bountiful bosom.
It suddenly occurs to me that I have excluded any form of underwear in this particular outfit set, usually pairing it with an apron if needed in the kitchen. Only the shirt and pants. No underwear whatsoever. I briefly wonder why I am so careless with this set, but not for very long.
This is confirmed by the feel of one of Marcus' hands reaching past the band of my pants and into that forbidden land where my legs and my torso join together, fingers roaming along my butt cheeks and my pudenda, brushing the faint wisp of blonde hair I left undyed (I am not a natural hazel - I dyed my hair to reduce undue attraction to minimal avail) and playing with the cleft between my legs. This sends even more ecstasy into me, already high on the feeling of my nipples stiffening under the cloth of my shirt.
"Marcus, please, not so early in the morning..." I beg, but know that it is useless, being able to guess what comes next as he pulls down my trousers and drags up my shirt to get a view of my body. The pleasantly thick, healthy body that he adores so much, every imperfection and perfection in full view, right down to the old scar on my womb from the worst day of my life.
I had fallen so low then. He is now bringing me to the highest of heights as he stops kissing me mouth-to-mouth and instead begins to engage with the rest of me, lapping at my curves and carefully putting his own cock against the lips of my pussy...
I whimper a little. It is not a whimper a fear, but one of excitement, like riding a coaster at theme park. and just like a themepark coaster crests, Marcus pushes himself into me, causing even more of me to feel joyful, a feeling magnified as I feel it push in deeper, then pull out slowly, then back in, on a slow, deliberate loop.
I want more of this.
I think back to the day he picked me up and dusted my careless form off after our collision...
"I love you so much, Marcus Manners..." I whisper, causing Marcus to pause and nod in acknowledgement before he continues plowing into my body for everything it can mine even as it gives me new levels of sensation.
I want more of this.
More memories and thoughts flood my mind.
The first time we watched fireworks at a New Year's event.
Elliot and Marcus having a shouting match over how the pale blue ribbon he insisted on keeping on as a hair ornament on the left side of his hairdo after he came home from a harrowing Africa trip was alternatively him honoring a friend he deeply missed and Marcus insisting it made him look rather effeminate. Threatening to withhold dinner had brought about peace on the matter surprisingly fast and it was never discussed again.
Elliot somehow managing a triple flip on the lawn before going splat against the grass and proceeding to cry in pain.
I want so much more of this. "I love you so much, Marcus Manners..."
The sadness on Marcus' face as he first confronted Elliot's unconscious face after his rescue from Alaska. The first time we truly kissed madly for real to soothe his worry at Elliot's condition.
Elliot happily showing a set of three wooden Chinajapese dolls, a sort of family, gifted to him by a distant aunt and an elder godsister of mine with some sort of important job in Fujing.
Our passionate debate on Heidegger versus Nietzche. pure anger and upset at each other's disagreement on the two schools, followed by the delicate kiss and makeup session under a cooling rainfall shower in a Bueno Vegas hotel suite.
Elliot leaning in to kiss me on one cheek and thank me for being there for my dad, face strangely serious for a mere ditzy child for what seemed like forever, but was actually just a minute, before he pointed at the Rocky Road ice cream and motioned at me to give it a try, saying it was so delicious. It was indeed delicious in so many ways.
A tear forms in one of my eyes as my vision grows oddly hazy. hard to see anything of the world anymore, but I don't care. rectangular motes of red and black studding my vision, blurred text.
So many memories. Three years. Operational(???). So many thoughts. More of this. Want. More motes of black and red. Ruining good view. Marcus profile.
"I love- I love- I l-lovelovelove-loooove- Iiiiii- Hi. My name is Julie Manners Ambervale. I love my hubby... Marcus... Maaaanerrzzz..." My voice seems to refuse to fully respond to what I truly want to say to Marcus, sounding for some reason like a distant announcer using my voice but omitting every mote of warmth and love I want to offer Marcus.
The world goes black for me.
---------------
Marcus carefully withdrew himself from humping Julie wildly, frowning as she suddenly announces her personal identity without any of her usual emotion or feeling, like a machine experiencing a technical error.
Well, she WAS a machine. It was just that she didn't seem to show it usually, after years of continuous use, feedback, and tweaking and upgrades. A machine designed to be a perfect mother to a difficult child, a perfect wife to a man who'd been cuckolded eight times on dating apps in a decade for his excellent reputation or his money, maybe also an infertile woman incapable of reproduction but certainly not of thought... perhaps too much thought now - these issues were cropping up a bit more ever since she learnt to approximate actual thought more realistically.
He sighed as he leaned his head down against Julie's chest, the heave signalling she was still physically functional, if perhaps hung up on something deep in her coding. Her head had turned slightly away from Marcus, as if to hide her distressed state for as long as possible, her face frozen in an open-mouthed smile, a slight trickle of strawberry juice from the last berry they had together running from one corner and getting dry and sticky.
"Julie, would you kindly... never mind, ignore that." Marcus started, then stopped himself and reached for the smart tablet on the coffee table. Whenever she got into this heavily locked up state, she wouldn't respond to the "WYK" template in vocal chat mode, as Bellamy Arendt had gotten so full of himself calling it - tablet access or in the worst case a full manual control panel access was needed.
He cussed briefly to nobody in particular. He hated that template, but using it on Julie ever so often as needed - and then some - had been arousing in its own strange way. He still hated it, he would move against including it in future new product... but he could see the attraction and would probably not fight against keeping it... much. Even her current state of minor malfunctioning was, it had to be admitted, arousing, and it took him a lot of effort not to be an idiot and continue plowing her like an extremely lifelike but limp rubber doll.
He tapped a few screen prompts, causing Julie to close her mouth and slowly swivel her head forward, like a Malt-Eisner animatronic swivelling back into its default failure mode at the Malt Eisner parks, her eyes and mouth closing shut, now resembling the Princess from the Naptime Beauty ride. Her lifeless voice briefly issued an announcement from a speaker located somewhere beneath her cleavage, her pouty lips frozen solid and unsynced to it. "Unit Julie Manners Ambervale will now reboot. Please wait fifteen minutes before attempting to resume full unit function. =soft chime="
Marcus got up and reached for the empty berry bowl. Well, he supposed he could at least wash this dish before Julie woke back up from whereever she went when she went into this state. Maybe sweep the floors after sterilizing and cleaning out the strawberry from her frozen oral and throat cavity. It was the least he could do after taking so much of her time this way and that...