Britney was spoiled. That's what Justin always told her and it had become a little joke between them. She would come home with a new pair of shoes or insist on gong out to some expensive new restaurant.

"Spoiled rotten," Justin would say, sniffing the air like he could smell something that had gone bad in the refrigerator.

Then they would laugh, because, as Britney always said, she wasn't really spoiled. She just liked the good things in life, and why on earth shouldn't she have them?

And Justin couldn't deny that he indulged her. It wasn't just the presents he bought her; it was the way he pampered her when they were at home together. He always had a drink waiting for her on the coffee-table after work, and the cushions on the couch plumped up so she could kick off her shoes immediately and lie down, sighing and sipping.

"Rub my feet?" she'd say coaxingly when he came in and sat down at the far end of the couch.

"Spoiled," he'd sneer, but he'd take her, pretty feet in his lap and knead away at them with his fingers while she purred and smiled. He loved to pamper her; she was his beautiful Britney, and her whole body seemed to relax and grow three shades more beautiful when he massaged her feet or shoulders or served her breakfast in bed. It made him feel good; it put a little glow inside him that wouldn't stop.

Sometimes, late at night, he'd wake up and see her lying beside him, one arm thrown over her forehead, both legs sprawled out crazily, taking up far more than half the bed. He loved just lying there watching her throat and breasts rise and fall, listening to the gentle noise of her breathing.

Before long he would touch her; he could never resist doing that. He'd stroke her right nipple with the tips of his fingers, feeling it
stiffen. He knew if he had enough light, he could see the aureole pucker a little as the nipple tightened, but he certainly wasn't
going to turn the light on and risk waking his princess.

He would play with her breasts for a while; he would happily spend up to an hour doing nothing but tickling her nipples, watching her move and shudder and whimper in her sleep. He'd never touch her so roughly that she'd waken. Never.

No, he would never wake her. Not Britney, not his princess. She may be spoiled rotten but she was his. And he had gone a long way to make her the way she was. Anything for her. And she knew it.