The Routine

This story is fictional, as are all characters and incidences in it.
Although this is original work, I make no copyright claims to it. You should feel free to reproduce it as you wish, although appropriate credit where due would be greatly appreciated.
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When she heard him move, she paused in her rising.
The morning laid low over their home as she sat up in her bed, partly arisen from her slumber, and yet in some part, laying in the embrace of a tender, warm drowsiness. Her eyes ran over his frame, sharply defined and chiseled even through the covers and sheets. She watched, as the first rays of sunlight caressed his face, making their way through space and time to lay their gentle warmth on her beloved. She stroked his face, silent and adoring, even as his eyelids fluttered, his stubble crackling inaudibly through slender fingers, and long, painted nails.
6:00, proclaimed the clock on her bedside, as it did every morning when she looked at it. She should begin.
A last bit of his essence lingering upon her nostrils, she wore her slippers, adjusted her gown, and tip-toed her way towards the bathroom. It was early yet. A few solitary birds chirped bravely, even as the city enjoyed its slumber. Soon, there would be hustle and bustle. There would be the daily grind. There would be the noise and sights and smells and sounds of a grimy city, once again beginning its daily dance of sin and folly, its very fabric pulsating with the lives of its inhabitants, of those who populated it. Of rich men and poor men, and women virtuous and sinful, and of everyone else between.
The two bangles on her arm clinked and tinkled as she brushed her teeth and adjusted her dark hair, looking at herself in the mirror with a critical eye. She paused over each flaw, imagined or real, put off with their sheer number as she always was, and then grunted as she ambled to her own bedroom again. It wouldn't do to fret. Her nimble fingers worked with practiced efficiency as she wrapped the simple saree around her petite frame, barely pausing to glance at her own work, as her generous curves were wrapped one by one, held hostage by the cotton covering her mocha-coloured body. She worked quickly, quietly, even as her mind went over her many responsibilities for the day. There was breakfast to be made, and some cleaning to be done. At 7, she would awake her husband and her children, and pray to her gods as they dressed and freshened. They would eat, mostly in silence, for there was little they did not already know of each other. The children would laugh, and sometimes bicker, and she would raise her Anadolu Yakası Travesti voice ever so slightly when they became a little too heated. She would rise and pack their lunch as they prepared to leave. He would peruse his newspaper, with his customary glass of milk brought to him at just the right temperature, just the right amount of sugar. She would take care of these things. Then they would leave, the children and their father, and she would softly peck each, wishing them a good day.
She thought absently of the choices for breakfast as she affixed her bindi to her forehead, and adjusted the mangalsutra around her neck, both proclaiming the fact of her marriage far and wide, as effectively as any certificate one might produce. And just as she began to leave the room towards her kitchen, she heard him say her name.
"Meera."
She turned around and glanced at the clock. 6:39.
"Ji". Yes.
He smiled at her warmly, propping himself on one elbow, as she looked at him in mingled surprise and happiness.
"Come here, my dear."
She obeyed, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly as she walked towards him and sat by him on the bed.
"You are awake early today", she told him, smiling. It was not a question.
He nodded.
"It was the sound of your jewelry as you dressed."
"Oh? Well, I'm sorry, I --"
"Shh."
He put a finger on her lips and gave her another of those smiles that made her knees buckle slightly, and her brow become slightly damp with perspiration. He looked her in the eyes, his dark pupils like coals, radiating warmth and affection as he slowly brought her head down to his lips to kiss her softly.
"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever met, Meera. In more ways than one."
The sunlight caressed his face still, but on her it was a flame more than a touch. She sat, not quite finding the right words as the light seemed to blaze upon her, her own cheeks turning crimson red from the unexpected compliment.
He brought her closer, and she submitted, as he slowly fingered the folds of her freshly tied saree, tugging gently yet firmly, even as she stood up and reached out to the blinds to close them. He held on the the cloth, unwrapping it from around her body quickly, as he stood too, discarding the garment onto the bed, his hands roving her blouse and her petticoat.
She sighed pleasurably at his touches, her own hands drawn towards the buttons of his nightshirt as she breathed in the vague yet intoxicating male musk that seemed to pervade her senses, dimly wondering how she'd pack lunch for Antalya Travesti the children today.
"I'm afraid I've ruined 20 minutes worth of dressing up today.", he told her, smiling, as he deftly opened the hooks on her blouse.
"You've done worse to me.", she responded, an equivalent smile forming on her own lips.
"Have I?", he asked her, half joking and half serious, his eyebrows raised as he paused in her undressing.
She nodded.
"Sinful things. And making me have sinful thoughts."
He chuckled and resumed in his task, holding her closer as she ran one hand gently over his bare, muscled chest.
"Tell me about these thoughts", he said, beginning to rub his hands over her erogenous zones.
She purred, kissing his lips and tasting of him, her tongue roving and dancing with his own as she revelled in the closeness, in the touch, in the feeling of his breath on her skin.
"They are a secret", she said, breaking the kiss and proceeding to bite his earlobe.
Another chuckle, as he wrapped his hands around her hips, pulling on her panties.
"For shame, woman. Keeping secrets from your husband hardly become you."
She did not speak as he guided her hands inside his shorts, sighing as she began to stroke and pamper and feed his engorged arousal.
His own fingers reached inside of her, a small gasp escaping her lips as they penetrated, playing her with practiced ease of their own.
"Suckle me.", he said, his voice gentle, his words spoken with the commanding confidence of one who knows he would not be disobeyed.
She simply nodded, falling to her knees as he sat above her, pulling down his shorts and releasing his erection. The musk filled her nostrils yet again, seeming part of the very air in the room as her head bent in loving submission, and feminine lust, upon her man, each ridge and vein familiar to her mouth as she obeyed his command.
He continued to touch. Here and there. All over. His fingers magic on her as he pushed and pinched with quite enough force to make her squeak in a mixture of pleasure and pain, her voice muffled as she bobbed. She felt the touch of his trimmed nails on her skin, searing with the need to break from a crushing routine, as she added energy to her work, revelling in this opportunity.
"Mmm, I'm so lucky to have you as a wife, Meera.", he said, revelling perhaps in his own pleasure.
She'd meant to be gentle, but her thrusts grew savage as she massaged him and relieved him, the very act a joyful exclamation of unexpected delight. She would stay here forever, at his Ataşehir Travesti feet and giving him pleasure, his touches comfortable and wonderful, his smile like warm, languid water on weary joints.
"Take it all in", he told her as he pushed her head gently further, his shaft disappearing from view completely.
She smelt his scent again, the same that she had smelt many times, and now she realised why she loved it. It was the scent of his dominance and of her submission. It was the jagged edge in the tortured smoothness of a marriage that was ordinary and normal in every way possible. It was the tang of mint in her life, the orange tint in a conventional tea, the hint of impurity that stood for all that was enjoyable. And so she suckled with gusto as his own breathing seemed to grow perfunctory and sharp.
"Come."
Once again, a command, not a question.
He pulled her up, exchanging a glance, before effortlessly dropping her on to the bed, her legs already raised to him in her sweet surrender. He gripped her in his arms and pushed, hard enough for a sharp squeal to escape her lips and then pistoned, dominant, masterful, not any more tender than she desired.
"Mujhe apna bana lijiye!", she said softly. Make me yours.
She tasted salt on her tongue as a drop of sweat ran down her face, and to her, it too was impregnated with the essence of an ancient dance between male and female, the dance that they performed together, the dance whose sounds the small room rang out with. As the city rose from its slumber, and began its own dreary morning, a husband took what was his, took what was given with adulation and pride, adoration and desire. She held and tore her beloved bedsheets with her nails as he worked, her pleasure translating into gentle moans even as his thrusts quickened. She felt a twitch. Another. And then she was his once more, as he filled her, the already ruined sheets filled with their combined wetness as they concluded their dance.
He held her, and she held him, as he lay his head on her tummy, losing track of the minutes as a warm drowsiness threatened to overtake them both again.
"You are a good wife, Meera.", he told her absently, as she tickled his back.
She smiled, already looking for her blouse once again.
"It is time for your breakfast, but I'm afraid it will only be cereal today."
"Is there milk?", he asked her, glancing up at her, a question quite rhetorical and unnecessary.
"Of course."
And with that, they rose, the routine began, and the tentacles of the city came to life again. And in this throbbing city, there remained two children in one particularly grimy corner, who never quite understood (until they were much grown up) why their mother seemed flushed and warm when they received their little pecks that day. Little did they know that a third sibling would be their lot, and that rather soon.