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 cover of Jane New's Bubbles, a story about middle-aged lovers who know each other well.

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



And now for a sneak preview of “Good Housekeeper”, out now on Amazon!

Cover of Good Housekeeper, the first of Tracy Jones's erotic adventures. A naughty short story by Jane New.

Tracy loved wearing stockings.

She loved the feel of fresh air on the skin of her thighs as she walked down a city street in the middle of the day.

She loved their silky texture against her freshly waxed legs.

She loved the knowledge that she had a secret. Dressed in a conservative, charcoal grey suit with a pale pink blouse and black patent leather heels, she looked like any other woman in the City of London. She knew she was a little shorter than the average woman, but that didn’t worry her. Men liked her shapely legs and neatly rounded rear, her small waist and generous boobs. She enjoyed their glances and comments as she walked past.

She could have been a bookkeeper or a PA on her lunch break.

She had even more fun when she was on the Tube. She always sat facing inwards. Then, if there was an interesting man sitting opposite her, she’d part her legs a little and let her skirt ride up so a bit of stocking top showed.

A lot of the time she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

Today, on the opposite side of the carriage, a man had started looking, wondering, when he’d seen that telltale band of darker colour. The crowd between them parted and shifted as other passengers got on and off the train, and he tried to catch a glimpse farther up.

She was in a good mood, so she crossed an ankle over her knee to give him a clear view, just for a couple of minutes. She watched as the bulge in his trousers grew.

Then she got off at the next station. No pun intended.

The house she arrived at could have been in any of the many inner suburbs of London. It had a basement, three floors, and an attic. It was well maintained, prosperous, substantial, and set back a little from the tree-lined road. Bay windows overlooked the street and narrow stairs ran down to a lower entrance. She walked slowly up a grand flight of tiled steps, taking in the neighbourhood. The place was worth a couple of million pounds, at least.

She rang the doorbell in the centre of the vast, varnished oak door. After a few minutes, the door opened.

Today was indeed a good day.

He was in his early thirties, or possibly even younger. He clearly worked out often. Slim grey trousers fitted snugly around lean hips. A soft, white cotton shirt emphasized those broad shoulders and the well-defined muscles in his upper arms. His brown hair was neatly cut in a short style. His eyes were grey or blue and had a speculative look in them. If not for her reason for being there, she’d have thought he was checking her out. Naughty boy.

She would enjoy sitting across from him on a train. If she was being honest with herself, she would enjoy a great deal more than that—in a big, comfortable bed. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

She was quite a bit older than him, of course, but that hadn’t stopped her before. Tracy was in her forties, but she quite liked younger men. And older men.

Let’s face it. She liked men—plural. And she adored what they could do to and with her body.

“I’m Tracy Jones,” she said. “I’m here for the job interview.”

“Mrs. Jones,” he answered, with the faintest curve of his lips. “Mr. Browne is expecting you.”

Tracy was a little disappointed that the man before her was not to be her boss. She would have quite happily cooked his meals, cleaned his house…and kept him warm at night.

“I’m James,” he continued. “Please come with me.”

As she followed James down the hall, she decided he had the nicest arse she’d seen for quite some time. It was neat and round, and his trousers fitted him to perfection. She was fantasizing about sinking her fingers into all that hard muscle when he opened a door off the hallway and turned around.

“Mr. Browne will see you now.” That look in his eyes was still there, perhaps even more than before. He was peeling off her clothes, seeing through the austere jacket and plain blouse to the white, lacy bra beneath. Had he guessed her little secret already?

She sailed into the room, head high, as imposing as anyone who was only three inches over five feet tall could be. She loved her heels. They gave her a few extra inches of height, and she felt so feminine in them.

“Mrs. Jones,” purred a male voice. “I’m so pleased you could come today.”

I haven’t yet, she thought, but the day is young.

…to be continued.


Get “Good Housekeeper” from Amazon now!

The button will take you to Amazon Australia. If you’re in USA, click here. If you’re in UK, click here.

If none of the above work, go to your local Amazon page, select “Books” next to the search box, enter the ASIN code B0CTRL2F8M, and press enter.


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