Middle-aged lovers, a couple who’ve been together for many years and know each other’s bodies and reactions well, feature in this erotic vignette.
The old wooden door closes with a click.
She looks up from washing the dishes and smiles at him. He grins.
The top button of his shirt is undone. The sight of a few curling, grey hairs still has the power to start something moving inside her.
“Why have you closed the door?”
He just smiles, and bending, kisses the back of her neck in exactly the right place.
“Oooh.” The familiar melting feeling. “That’s why.”
“Do you mind?” He kisses her again, just below her left ear.
“Mind?” she echoes. The washing up is almost finished, just a few lost teaspoons beneath the foam. She wants to reach for the hand towel, so she can touch him without getting him wet, but moving would break the spell. She can feel the warmth of his body through his shirt and her top.
“Tell me if you want to stop.” He’s kissing her neck again, and stopping is the last thing on her mind.
His hands, warm and rough from the weekend’s gardening, are sliding up her back, under her top. It amazes her how, when he touches her there, it can make her ache in another place. The tension eases a little as he undoes her bra. She sighs when his hands burrow beneath her clothing, finding her breasts, holding, kneading, gently teasing.
She leans back against the comfortable wall of his chest. He nuzzles her neck, murmuring meaningless words of lust.
“Stop me if you want,” he whispers, his erection pressing against her.
She cannot speak, so he raises her long floral skirt and her pale pink petticoat. Underwear slips to the floor. She feels a brief chill against her skin, then the coarse fabric of his trousers. She hears the clink of a belt buckle, the slide of a zip, the rustle of a wrapper.
“Lean over.”
The foam and the warm water come up her forearms. His hot hard hands hold her hips. Her skirt and petticoat swish around her legs, cool, caressing.
Each bubble has its own personal rainbow. The bubbles are lifting her up, and she’s floating. She’s encased in a bubble. Now the bubble’s inside her. It’s growing, it’s filling her.
The bubble bursts, and she cries out: with loss, or with triumph. She drifts, back into his waiting arms.
© Jane New 2024
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