In my wife's view, this is not a particularly special evening. It's not our anniversary or the birthday of anyone special; just an ordinary Thursday night. The problem is that my lovely wife, for all her brilliance, warm-heartedness and all-round sexiness, just doesn't realise one important thing. The Ashes start tonight.

Perhaps it's for the best, since Charlotte was born in England and I was born in Australia. So The Ashes – with more than a century of rivalry between the two countries – could well be a source of contention between us. But she really could not give a shit about cricket. Not in the way that I didn't give a shit which suit she put on for work this morning (I carefully suggested the navy one, because I thought that would be her preference), but an entirely different level of not giving a shit. I've tried explaining it to her many times, and it seems that she knows less about it each time I explain it.

So I’m not altogether surprised when she rolls her eyes at my suggestion, “I'll just check the cricket score.”

I’d not even tried to argue that I should stay at home for the very start of the match. We’d both been outrageously busy and had hardly seen each other for days. Tonight was a chance to relax and reconnect. She’d wanted to go out to eat; I’d wanted to keep my testicles attached to my body. So, we had had dinner at the local Thai restaurant. Nothing fancy – just a chance to share a few laughs and flirt a little.

But I had been wondering about the cricket score and had resisted the urge to check the score on my phone all evening, so I figure I’ve earned the right to switch on the TV for a few moments.

I am very surprised indeed when she asks, “Is this one of those games that goes for five days, and then sometimes there's still no winner?”

“Yes, that's actually right! A five day Test match. Although once upon a time they had timeless Tests, where they just played and played until someone won. Except in 1939, when they had to call one off because the English team had to catch a boat home after the ninth day.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. How do you fit so much useless crap in that head of yours?” She smiles affectionately.

“Um, a gift I guess.”

On the TV, the English captain is waving his arms around, and a couple of fielders move around. The bowler polishes the ball on his pants, while the batsman wanders down the pitch and taps his bat on the ground a little.

Some English commentator drones on. It quickly becomes clear that he had been given the job for his ability to hit a cricket ball in his younger days, and not for any innate intelligence or skill at speaking in anything other than clichés.

This session is such an important one. Don't look away.

“And you want to watch this because?” Charlotte shakes her head at the TV. “Couldn't you just watch the highlight reel tomorrow?”

“Well, the highlights seem even more exciting after the dull bits. And you get to see the way the tension builds in between the highlights.”

I can’t resist the urge to stir the pot a little. It was probably our compatible senses of humour that drew us together; it's certainly that compatibility that has prevented us from killing each other – so far.

“Kind of like our marriage,” I add.

“Right.” She's frowning at me, but her eyes are saying that she's still amused. “This should be good. Explain exactly what you mean by 'dull bits in our marriage'?”

“Err, well, things like when we do the housework together, which is necessary and there's no one in the world that I would rather do housework with, but—”

“Or when you sit on the couch watching sport and crapping on, when we could go to bed?” she says, raising her right eyebrow.

I know what she’s suggesting, and I'm sure she knows that I know, but we do like to tease each other. Just another of the games that we play.

“I'm not tired. Maybe I'll just watch the cricket for a bit.”

“I'm not tired either.” Her eyes are open wide, and she's giving her best Mona Lisa smile, but I'm not giving in so easily.

The Australian batsman showing some resistance here.

Her smile slips a little, as she thinks for a moment. “Perhaps I'll just slip into something more comfortable.”

A couple of minutes pass before she returns wearing a tiny babydoll, which is more semi-transparent lacy nothingness than actual clothing. It was a Valentine's Day present a few years ago, but I don't remember exactly who bought it for whom. I also have no idea who has got the most out of it. I love to see her in it and she loves to be seen in it – by me, at least. Whoever purchased it, it was a fantastic idea. By almost all measures, it has been excellent value. Unless one was to measure it by total minutes worn because, somehow, it never seemed to stay on for long.

On the front, there is a black panel in the shape of the letter 'T'. It covers her nipples (but not much else of her breasts) and stretches down the front to the bottom of the dress, which is short enough that it only just covers her. As she walks towards me, every step offers a tantalising suggestion that I might see something more.

Well, things are really heating up here.

She stands in front of me and faces the TV. She knows that I like the rear view afforded by the babydoll. The back of it doesn't have any black panels. It's all mesh, and the only opaque clothing is the tiny threads of a G-string across her hips and disappearing between the mounds of her arse. Somehow, the small amount of covering excites me more than no covering at all.

She's blocking my view of the television, but I forget to complain for a while. I'm easily distracted by the mounds of her arse, partially hidden by black lace. And by the little globes peeking out from underneath. And by her long legs. And by the curve where her waist flares out to her hips. To be honest, I'm easily distracted by the female form and especially by the female form right in front of me. I know she worries about imperfections but, to me, her body is perfect.

The young Australian certainly rising to the challenge.

“So, anything happened yet?” she asks.

I snap out of my trance, and utter the traditional Aussie phrase reserved for situations where one needs to politely request that one's view of a sporting event be cleared. “Oi! Down in front!”

She looks over her shoulder at me, with a smile. I'm sure she knows the effect that she's having on me, but if she is in any doubt, then surely the little glance at my crotch must remove it. Then she moves her feet about a foot apart, and very slowly bends forward. The hem of the babydoll is raised inch by inch, exposing more and more of her arse. But I'm focussed more on the mound coming into view between her cheeks, covered by a thin layer of black satin.

Her flexibility (from years of ballet as a girl, followed by years of yoga as a woman) has always amazed me. My mind flashes back a week or so, serving up a vivid image of her ankles on my shoulders as I plunged deep inside her.

It's a mental game, Test cricket. A player needs to control his own thoughts.

“Better?” she asks, with her legs still straight, but her face down between her knees.

The lower half of the television is still blocked by two glorious half-moons, but I'm very nearly beyond caring. “Err, yes, that's a great view.” I'm curious, though, to see what else she might do, so I add, “I could watch this game all night.”

“Oh, really?” She straightens again and walks towards me, eyes focussed on my crotch. “You don't look all that comfortable there.”

“Well, these pants do seem to be getting a little tight.”

“Perhaps you need some...exercise.” She's practically purring in my ear. Her accent has always been a turn-on for me. “Like pumping...iron.”

Oh, the Aussie batsman just keeps that one out.

The commentator's accent, despite its similarities to my wife's, is not a turn-on. That helps me to keep resisting – if only to see what else she might do to tempt me.

“Great idea. But not while the cricket's on.”

We share a glance. I'm trying to weigh up whether she's offended by my comments, but she still seems amused. And determined to win. Whenever I ask her why she's not into sports, she always claims to be non-competitive, which I don't believe at all. But I don't argue about it, because she's always upset on the rare occasions when she loses an argument.

“You know,” she says, “when I decided to slip into something more comfortable, I didn't think very carefully. This G-string isn't very comfortable. Mind if I slip it off?”

The pressure is certainly mounting.

“No, I don't mind.” I take a deep breath. “As long as you don't block the TV again.”

She stands a little to the side of the TV and flicks up the back of the babydoll. With both hands she slowly pushes the G-string down, and lets it fall to the floor. She flicks the back of the babydoll down and starts to bend forward.

I catch my breath.

Then she turns to the side and squats down to pick the G-string off the floor. She turns to smile at me. I’m sure that she knows me well enough to know what I want to see, but she’s very careful to hide that – for now, at least.

I imagine everyone at home is glued to their sets, not wanting to look away for a moment.

I’ve hardly glanced at the TV for several minutes.

Charlotte walks slowly to the couch and I once again stare at the bottom of the black panel, hoping that it might bounce up just a fraction more than it does.

She sits down beside me on the couch, and leans back a little, so the black panel is barely covering her. “Oh, that feels nice.

I’ve often told her how much that excites me. I'm staring at the bottom of the black panel, which is the only thing blocking my view of her handiwork.

“Would you like to see it?” she asks.

I nod, hoping that I'm not drooling.

“Oh, sorry,” she adds. “Of course not. You're busy watching the cricket.”

Oh, what a brutal delivery.

She’s smiling broadly now, but I’m unmoved.

“Well, there will be an ad break in a moment. Perhaps a little peek...”

She hesitates briefly. If she were to insist that I follow her to the bedroom first, then I would. In fact, right now, I’d follow her back to England for a glimpse. Swimming the whole way, if necessary. But she decides instead to say, “OK.”

As the ad break begins, she rolls towards me slightly and inches the hem of the babydoll upwards. I stare as her bare lips come into view, glistening slightly with moisture. She runs one finger along her slit and lets out a soft moan.

Welcome back.

She pulls the babydoll down as the cricket returns.

I sigh. Just one ad between overs. Perhaps for the first time in my entire life, I find myself wishing that a commercial break had been longer. Much, much longer.

“Why don’t you just hand over the remote?” she asks.

“No, I wear the pants around here—”

She stifles a laugh.

“—and I control the remote.”

“Well, I’m not wearing any pants right now, which is why I think you should give it to me.”

Her hand is out for the remote, but we share a smile. She always has enjoyed a good double entendre. And not-so-good double entendres as well. I pull a face at her.

She chooses that moment to make a lunge for the remote and lands with one leg pushing down on my erection, and her breasts inches from my eyes. Her nipples are clearly visible pushing through the black panel on the front of the babydoll. Every move she makes towards the remote seems to result in her grinding against me.

I barely manage to speak. “You’re blocking the TV again.”

She rolls off and stares at me. Not angrily, but with a great deal of determination in her eye.

We’ll be right back after this short break.

“Oh, another ad break," she says.  "Where was I?”

She pushes the hem of the babydoll up quickly this time, and slides her middle finger inside herself. The scent of her arousal, which had been building slightly, now fills my nostrils, as the sounds of her moans and a slight squelching of the finger moving in and out of her pussy fill my ears.

I’m holding the remote in front of myself, on the edge of giving in.

The ad break finishes, and Charlotte quickly removes her finger and pulls the hem down, covering herself once more.

“When do they break for lunch?” she asks.

“Probably another half hour or so.”

She reaches across and runs her wet middle finger over my lips. “You know – you could eat a little sooner than that...”

England really looking in control now, but they just can't shift this Aussie batsman.

“I'm not really that hungry,” I say, before licking her finger clean. I've tasted her so many times, and yet the taste still has a power over me. I'm so close to cracking but I hope that the dull drone of the commentary can help me hold out for a little longer.

That run takes the score to sixty-nine for two.

She looks me in the eye with a smile. I look at the TV screen. All I see is the score, helpfully presented in the corner of the screen. Two wickets down. Sixty-nine runs.

Sighing, I look back at my lovely wife. She pokes her tongue into the inside of her cheek, and raises that eyebrow again. I'm briefly amused by the thought that she would never have my cock in her cheek – she would usually take me deep into her throat. The memory of those sensations feels almost real in my body, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to think of anything but sex. Then I'm overcome by another flashback, watching her face as her lips slid slowly down my shaft. That was maybe two weeks ago. Definitely too long ago.

I drop the remote between us, and she snatches it up. A huge grin spreads across her face. I can’t help but smile too. I’ve lost the battle of wills, but that was as inevitable as the loss is welcome to us both.

Oh, what has he done? The pressure was building, but that was a total lapse in concentration there, and he's out! Don't go anywhere, this game is... *Click*

She's found the off button, and we're going to the bedroom.

***

We share a quick, passionate kiss, before two pairs of hands work feverishly to dispatch all my clothing. She pushes me back on to the bed, kneels and practically devours my cock.

I want to make a witty comment about the TV's subliminal messages, but I'm already gasping for air, so I reach out and grab her arm. She knows exactly what I want and climbs onto the bed, one knee either side of my face. I hike the babydoll up with both hands – no time for slow teasing now, just an urgent need to sink my face into her pussy. Likewise, she dives in, taking my cock deep into her throat. She is already incredibly wet and her juices soak my face. I can hear her muffled moans, and feel the vibrations on my cock at the same time.

I take my tongue away for a moment, and she groans slightly. Then I slide one finger inside her, meeting next-to-no resistance. Curling my finger slightly, I search for her sensitive spot. I know I've found it, when a different sort of groan comes from down near my groin.

She has always claimed to be a multitasker, but always forgets to suck me as her own orgasm approaches. Not that I've ever complained, and I certainly won't tonight. I think any stimulation on my cock while listening to her come would push me over the edge, and I have other plans.

She sits back on my face, and I know that that's my signal to focus all my efforts directly on her clit. I've always loved to listen to the little sounds she makes as she comes. She's never been one to scream, and her moans really fade away. It's more like just a few gasps – the sexiest gasps I have ever heard.

“Oh,” she gasps breathlessly, as her body begins to shake above me. I hold her hips tightly with both hands, holding her down on my tongue, until she finally pushes down hard with both hands on my chest. I know that she can't take any more for a moment, so I let her go.

We share a sloppy kiss, her tongue cleaning her own juices from my face.

Then, she pushes me away gently, and with both hands quickly pulls the babydoll over her head. It’s possibly the longest that she’s ever worn it, but it’s not needed any more.

Naked now, she climbs onto all fours. Kneeling behind her, I push easily inside her. After a couple of slow strokes, I pause with my whole length buried inside her, savouring the feeling. Exquisite sensations, but beyond that, a feeling of being where I belong. Connected to the love of my life in the most intimate way.

Perhaps reading my mind, she looks over her shoulder and smiles. I reach forward and put my right hand over hers, and we squeeze each other’s hands. A silent expression of love and tenderness.

Then she leans forwards, burying her face in one of the huge number of pillows that appeared when she first moved in with me all those years ago. A silent reminder that tenderness is not exactly what she wants right at this moment – she wants to get fucked. Hard. And I am more than happy to oblige.

Grabbing her hips, I thrust deeply into her. She pushes her hips back against me, and we fall into a familiar rhythm. She buries her face in the pillow, muffling her moans. Her moans and my own raspy breath are almost drowned out by the slap of our thighs together as I pound into her. She reaches one hand back to play with her clit, and I know that she is close to coming again.

I can feel my own orgasm approaching deep inside me. I try to hold it off, trying to focus attention around my whole body. I want to prolong these moments as long as possible, but I don’t want to break the rhythm when I know Charlotte is so close.

She gasps again; her pussy going into spasm around my cock, and I know that I’m about to lose the battle to hold back my orgasm. Another loss that’s both inevitable and welcome.

It feels like my whole body is centred on my cock, which is pushed as deep into her as possible. The first shot of cum feels like a cannon shot exploding out of me, followed by more and more until I am seeing stars.

I lean forward, panting for breath. Charlotte reaches a hand back to find my hand and we share another gentle squeeze. Then she slowly straightens out below me, careful not to lose her grip on my cock. The first times we tried this, it didn't work, but now we stay joined until she is lying flat, with my body flat against her. I take most of my weight on my elbows, but I know she wants to feel my weight above her, and our skin pressed together. My right hand is underneath her, holding her left breast, feeling her heart beating strongly against the base on my hand. I gently kiss the back of her neck and the back of her ears, as her heart beat slows.

After a few minutes, I slip out of her, and we roll over into a spooning position.

“See, now, wasn't that better than a silly cricket match,” she says.

“Yes, actually, I think it probably was. At least a little bit. But I might just go and see what the score is.”

She turns and stares at me. “You wouldn't dare.”

“I might...” As I start to sit up, she wrestles me back on to the bed. Her hands are pushing my shoulders down, her hair falling over her face and her breasts jiggling above me as I make half-hearted attempts to get up. I feel the beginnings of a familiar stirring in my groin.

I sigh, and pull her face down for a kiss. It seems that we're going to add some more to our personal highlight reel. And that I'll have to sneak a look at my phone later to find out the cricket score.