Perfectly Perfect...and Very Hot...Especially When it's Not...

Shall I tell you what perfection is? I am sure you are all expecting me to wax poetic at any moment, right? I mean, after all, we've not heard from you in ages, Emily. Why should we expect anything different?

Well...you shouldn't.

Perfection. Ideals. Our perception of them changes as we change. That same perception grows as we grow. Or perhaps it is merely our expectations that do so.

Perfection to me used to mean something entirely different than it does now. I used to see it as this glowing, golden icon, untouched, in which there could be no flaws.

Alright, I freely admit it. I am in love. And it is not at all perfect as I always thought being madly in love would be. But I have learned that lust and love can go hand in hand, and that in fact there are two hands. I've also learned that every imperfection only makes me love more. And that love is fucking hard. It makes you worry and lose sleep, but it also makes you dream.

Dreams for me have usually been quite vivid. You know from my stories that even my daydreams are bright and imaginative, vivid in their clarity and yes, sometimes a tad silly. Hmmm. Sounds a bit like love. These days, many of my daydreams are coming true.

My Perfect Sir came into my life. That was a dream fulfilled. I call Him perfect. Is He? Not really. He snores. But I think that is perfect and it brings a smile to my lips every time I hear it.

Is it perfect every time we are together? No. We have disagreements, or not enough time alone. We are interrupted by life. Is that perfect? No. But the fact that we are learning one another, that we get to make up, and that we get to share time together with so many people we care about. Well, that is  perfect.

Now the sex. That's another story altogether. The sex is always perfect.

My Sir may not appreciate me sharing this little tale with you, but I have quite decided that it is far too funny to keep to myself.

Cold winter, last winter in fact, and my Sir and I were enjoying a cozy weekend alone. Ahhh....lovely.

We very much enjoy cooking together and anticipating that we had thrown together the ingredients for a nice warming, spicy chili.

My Sir is patient. Incredibly so. And that is pretty perfect. He is also an absolute whiz in the kitchen. Um. Also perfect. Every onion, every tomato, every pepper, chopped to well...you guessed it. Perfection. Minced and diced into gorgeous, colorful cubes of red, white, green, yellow, and orange.

By the way. The care He shows His culinary preparation is also the care He shows me. Though He does prefer not to dice me. Hehe.

We spent a happy hour or so preparing the chili, then left the kitchen, our aromatic dish simmering on the stove.

Retreating to the bedroom, I discovered that He had left a few gems there for me. A solitary chair in the center of the room, his belt very carefully hanging over the back of it, precisely even on both sides.
Um. Perfect.

My clothes were patiently, pain-stakingly removed in His meticulous way, each item folded and placed with pointed precision on the cedar chest. Every brush of His body near mine sent a spasm of want surging through me. His breath at my ear as He lowered my blouse bringing a tremor. Mmm. Perfect.

As my skirt pooled at my feet, His hands dragged upward, each finger pressing into flesh. Sensations flooded me completely and my trembling was accompanied by a long low moan escaping my lips.

(You all know I don't wear panties, so that was pretty much the extent of my clothing removal.)

Standing there naked before Him, with a whispered warning to "Be still," Sir's fingers began to travel my skin, gently stroking one exposed inch at a time. My cheeks, my neck, my collarbone. Blissfully perfect.

My shoulders, each fingertip alighting on a freckle, tracing a path, His own little dot to dot. Exquisitely perfect.

My back, up my spine, each vertebra tenderly teased, down to the hollow above my ass. Yummy perfection.

Heat began to flood me at His slow, methodical touch. Each moment that His fingers connected in heightened sensory enlightenment seemed an eternity of pleasure. Perfectly perfect.

His fingers began to blaze a trail across my abdomen, His arms wrapping me from behind as He neared the center of all the driving heat He had been building.

My body warmed as He continued, His hands nearing my pussy lips, now swollen with want and need of Him.

As His fingers entered, the heat overwhelmed me, a flush crawling over my entire body. Heat continued to grow as He explored his pet. And it grew, and it grew, right where His fingers were moving until it was so hot, I was burning and not in a so sexy way! NOT PERFECT! NOT PERFECT!

I started to wriggle, unusual for me when told to be still. then I began to squirm. Finally I squealed, crossed my legs and started jumping up and down a bit.

Yes, you guessed it. My own Sir Chef still had pepper oil on His fingers from His meticulous dicing earlier and that oil was now making me dance around like my ass was on fire. Which in fact it was. So NOT perfect.

Between gulping laughs and squeals, (His laughs,. my squeals.) He managed to get me into a shower where the matter was soon remedied. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Perfect.

Ahem.

We were of course able to continue our fun later with the chair, but...I'll keep that little gem to myself for now. But you should know that it was indeed...yes, my dear readers. It was perfect.

Alright, here's the poetic bit you've all been waiting for.
Perfection is never a golden gleaming icon unflawed and untouched.
Perfection is in every little nick and scratch. Every flaw. Every moment that isn't so perfect, still is.

Emily