Rub-A-Dub

I find myself in the most incredible bathroom I’ve ever seen. It is a huge room full of gleaming copper, gold-flecked marble tile and mirrors . . . lots of mirrors. As well as a tub, I realize when I see the over-sized whirlpool tub sitting in lonely splendor against the far wall.
"You can take a bath," I say while thinking that you would be less likely to fall if you are sitting. "It’s just the thing for soothing all the aches the flu left," I add when you frown and look toward the shower. "Sit here," I say as I deposit you on the toilet seat and hurriedly begin to run the water. To my relief, you don’t say anything . . . you just sit there . . . as if the effort of getting up the stairs had taken more out of you than you had expected . . . or was willing to admit. My poor baby, I think to myself . . . obviously he isn’t sick very often since he seems to have no experience at handling it . . . even though he only had a mild case of the flu. When the tub is half-filled with warm water I switch on the whirlpool jets and turn to see you sitting hunched over . . . with your elbows on your knees . . . staring down at the floor. "Come on," I say brightly, "I’ll help you get into the tub, and then I’ll wait for you in the bedroom while you soak." "Yes, nanny," you mumble as you stagger to your feet . . . your mind busily considering the possibilities . . . having her waiting in my bedroom sounds much better then having her go back down stairs, but not good enough.
"The shirt first," I say, bringing your mind back to the present.
"The shirt," you repeat as you yank it over your head . . . wavering slightly as the movement upsets your balance. "S’Okay," you mutter as you unzip your jeans . . . then kick them and your underwear off. I am very careful to keep my gaze firmly fixed on a spot over your left shoulder . . . despite the almost overwhelming impulse to glance down the length of your body. You glance up at my carefully still face and feel a surge of excitement at my expression . . . you stiffen as an idea occurs to you that just might work.
"Get into the tub," I order, "You may be used to standing around naked having conversations, but I’m not."
"You aren’t naked," you point out, but to my relief you obligingly take my arm and stagger toward the tub. Keeping your grip on me, as if fearful of falling . . . you climb into the tub. Carefully timing it, you suddenly plop down . . . pulling me with you where I land across your body with a splash that sends water everywhere. I yelp in shock as my body is assaulted by sensations on all levels . . . the warm, bubbling water soaks my clothes, making my skin more sensitive to other stimuli . . . such as the feel of your chest against my shoulder . . . your muscled thighs against my hip. I swallow nervously as I feel your aroused masculinity pressing against me. I take a deep breath, trying to think . . . but my mind is so overwhelmed with sensations that there isn’t much room left over for rational thought. Uncertainly, I peer up into your face . . . your eyes are closed but you don’t look peaceful . . . more like tense, I finally decide. Tense because I’m lying in his lap? Could he have deliberately pulled me into his bath? The thought is exhilarating, but not very plausible . . . since I don’t have the kind of body that drives men to those lengths. I decide the whole thing is probably no more than an accident caused by you weakness from the flu. "Why did you do that?" I finally ask.
"I was so overcome with lust that I pulled you into the tub to have my way with you." You tell the absolute truth, knowing that I would never believe it.
"How?" I shyly ask. You open one eye and peer at me.
"Well, nature equipped men and women differently. Men have a –"
"I know that!" I say before you can finish that thought, "What I meant was, how would you go about making love to someone in a bathtub?"
"Very carefully," you reply with a sly grin.
I giggle nervously, "I should think so. Just imagine what would happen if you were to start breathing heavily at the wrong moment. You could end up with your lungs full of water."
"You worry too much." You mutter as you pull me up toward you and cover my mouth with yours. The heat from your lips is only slightly hotter than the water that bubbles around us. I shift slightly, trying to fit myself more closely against you . . . to intensify the sensation of being a part of you. Unfortunately the movement sends a wave of water over my face and I choke.
You sign before you say, "You were right. Scratch lovemaking in the water. We’ll have to do something else." Rats! I mentally curse my awkwardness. "Soap." You announce.
"Soap?" I ask.
You nod as you say, "I’m too tired to move and since you’re already all wet, you can help. But first . . ." You grab the hem of my tee-shirt and pull it up over my head. "Better," you declare, "but the shoes have to go." I glance down at my feet and am surprised to realize that I’m still wearing my shoes. I hastily pull them off and drop them over the side of the tub. "Better still, but your jeans are irritating my skin." My sense of spiraling anticipation is suddenly arrested . . . much as I crave the feeling of his blatant masculinity against my bare flesh, if I take off my jeans he would see the slivery stretch marks on my stomach . . . although he hadn’t seem to notice the ones on my breasts, but those on my belly are much more prominent. I dither as I feel you fumbling with the tab on my jeans . . . slowly, as if you’re expecting an objection, you pull the zipper down. I try to stem my growing fears . . . thinking to myself that it won’t matter . . . the water will hide the marks and I can wrap a towel around me when we get out of the water. A sense of inevitability rolls through me as you peel the jeans over my hips. I have a weird feeling that my whole life has been building toward this moment . . . and now that it has finally arrived I fully intend to savor every single second of it. I wiggle out of the jeans, sending even more water splashing out onto the tile floor . . . finally getting them off, I toss them out next to my shoes.
"I was going to soap you," I say while looking around for a washcloth, "but there aren’t any washcloths." "Improvise," you reply while leaning your head back against the tub, keeping your eyes closed. I study your pale features as I consider your words. Improvise with what? Absently, I pick up the bar of white soap and begin to rub it between my hands . . . as I watch, a large soap bubble squeezes between my fingers . . . the over head light breaks against it, splintering into a rainbow of colors. I feel as if I am enclosed in a soap bubble, too . . . isolated from my normal, everyday world. I peer up into your face through the thick screen of my lashes . . . your stillness seems to underline my feelings. It’s so very quiet . . . the only sound in the room is the faint hiss of the tub’s whirlpool jets. Normal rules don’t seem to apply here, and that being so . . . I take a deep breath and slowly begin to spread the soap bubbles across my breasts.
This is no time to wallow in shyness, I tell myself . . . I might never get another chance to embellish the fantastic sensations I feel when I press my bare chest against his. Mentally gathering my courage, I lean forward, lightly brushing myself against your chest . . . your dense body hair scrapes across my sensitive nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. I close my eyes to better concentrate on the feelings . . . and then I press harder. A feverish flush burns its way across my cheeks as my nipples convulse into tight aching buds. I feel hot . . . burning hot . . . hot enough to vaporize the water we’re sitting in. A heavy throbbing starts to grow in my abdomen as I slowly rub my breasts back and forth across your chest . . . it makes me feel disoriented, out of control of both the situation and my own reaction to it. My ragged breathing whistles through my slightly parted lips . . . I move slightly . . . rubbing my hips over your hardness. The throbbing in my abdomen accelerates, twisting my emotions to a higher pitch. I force open my heavy eyelids and gaze up into your face . . . you haven’t moved a muscle. It’s as if he is totally unaffected by the sensations I am experiencing . . . a feeling of pique shakes me. He might be a lot more experienced than I am, but surely he should be feeling something . . . the emotion can’t all be on my side, can it? My eyes focus on your slightly parted lips . . . I inch forward . . . drawn by the irresistible thought of kissing you.
As my lips meets yours, I finally get a reaction as your arms close around me . . . you pull me up against you with a ferocity I find eminently satisfying. I shiver as you trace my lower lip with the tip of your tongue and I open my mouth, inviting deeper intimacy. Quick to take advantage of my invitation, you shove your tongue inside and begin to stroke it hotly over my inner cheeks. My arms tighten around your neck as tremors of reaction begin to overload my nervous system . . . I find that I am shaking, totally unable to control the emotions rolling through me. Your arms tighten and you raise your head . . . staring down into my taut features as if looking for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.
"You make a great washcloth," you finally say.
I feel a chill feather over my wet skin . . . he seems to view our lovemaking as little more than a romantic interlude of no great importance . . . my pride won’t let him see how deeply moving I find it. "The water is getting cold," I reply, deciding to break it off before you do.
"Do we care?" you ask, snuggling me closer to your chest.
I clench my muscles to control their unfortunate tendency to tremble and say, "You’ve had the flu. If you get chilled, you could get pneumonia."
"If you say so." You reply while letting your arms drop, inexplicably leaving me feeling bereft. "Get me a towel, would you?"
Get out of the tub and walk across the room stark naked? Let him see my body’s every imperfection? No way, I instinctively reject the idea . . . not even if I have to sit here until I turn into a prune. "What ever happened to chivalry?" I ask.
"Hadn’t you heard? It’s dead. Feminism killed it. Get the towel." You order.
"No." I flatly refuse.
"Oh, all right," you give in, gently pushing me aside to get out of the tub, sending water splashing over the sides. My eyes widen as my gaze travels up over the strong line of your thighs to your groin . . . I gulp as a feeling a longing burns through me. You are so gorgeous . . . so perfect . . . and so overwhelmingly different from me. Mesmerized, I watch the smooth ripple of your muscles beneath your wet skin as you walk across the room toward the only rack that has any towels on it . . . you’re so graceful.
You move as if to music . . . a symphony, buy what symphony? A dreamy smile curves my lips as I decide it’s definitely one by Beethoven . . . robust . . . firm . . . definite . . . bigger than life . . . building toward a climax to blow one’s mind.
"Here." Your voice breaks in and I reluctantly surface from my fantasies in time to see a fluffy blue towel come flying toward me. I automatically grab it before it could touch the water and holding it in front of me like a shield, I hastily wrap it around myself. I nervously glance at you, fearful that you might have seen my imperfections . . . but you are leaning against the wall. Your eyes are closed and your towel is loosely clutched in one hand. You look totally exhausted. I tuck the end of the oversized towel between my breasts, sarong-style, and step out of the tub. You need to get dry and into bed just as soon as possible. Trying to keep my mind blank, I take the towel out of your limp fingers and begin to rub it across the broad line of your shoulders.
"What are you doing?" You ask, your voice sounded slightly blurred.
"Getting you dry." I force a brisk note into my voice. "It’s either the towel or blow on you and I doubt that would be very effective."
You feel the muscles in your thighs tighten at the thought of my warm breath wafting over your skin . . . warming it to a fever pitch. You take a deep, steadying breath, trying to control your instinctive reaction. An overpowering urge to touch me shakes you . . . an urge to explore my body with your eyes . . . and your hands . . . and your mouth. Longingly, you peer down at me . . . I’m so earnestly drying your belly and trying to pretend that I don’t notice how aroused you are becoming . . . a feeling of tenderness fills you. While you know that making love to me while you’re so tired is not a good idea . . . there is a lot of ground between actual penetration and foreplay. There is no reason you can’t indulge your desires to that extent, you rationalize . . . no reason that you can’t snuggle up beside me in your bed and savor the feel of my soft, yielding curves against you . . . you decide that all you have to do is lure me into bed with you. I don’t notice your calculating expression since my entire concentration is on the feel of your muscles beneath the rough material of the towel . . . of the warm, soapy scent of your skin as I rub it dry. My movements become jerkier as my drying takes me down your body . . . I gulp, trying to pretend that I am not aware of the fact that you are definitely responding to my ministration. You sway slightly, your chest brushes my shoulder as I hurriedly finish the job and toss the towel on the floor.
"Come on. You need to get into bed," I order, hoping I don’t sound as breathless as I feel.
"Thank you," you mutter as you take a wavering step toward the door. I hastily grab you to help support you as you stagger toward the bed . . . once there, I try to lever you down, but suddenly you seem to collapse . . . falling across the bed and taking me with you. I gulp at the feel of your heavy arm holding me pinned to the mattress . . . the heat from your body is burning into my skin from shoulder to thigh, making me excruciatingly aware of you in every fiber of my being. I can’t stay here, I distractedly think to myself . . . I should remove myself from temptation. Tentatively I wiggle and your grip tightens as if in protest even though your eyes are closed and you seem to be totally unaware of me. I swallow nervously as I feel the scalding heat of you pressed up against my bare thigh . . . okay, so he’s almost unaware of me . . . maybe it won’t hurt for me to just stay here for a little while. He don’t seem to mind . . . infact, he seems determined to keep me near.
Fascinated, I study the way your dark lashes stand out in stark relief against the paleness of your skin . . . such thick lashes . . . I want to touch them . . . to explore their texture . . . to see if they are as soft as his hair or as prickly as his emerging beard . . . the urge to find out is irresistible. I carefully scoot closer to you and press my mouth against your left lash . . . it feels strange against my lips . . . strange, but somehow very right.
"What are you doing?" you open you eyes and look intently at me.
"I was curious about what your eyelashes felt like," I say honestly.
"Eyelashes?" you mutter. "What do eyelashes feel like? No, never mind. I’ll find out for myself." To my surprise, you lever yourself up on one elbow, hovering over me. But his nearness doesn’t make me feel threatened . . . it fills me with a wild sense of reckless excitement. Intellectually I know that lying in bed with a naked man is a very bad idea, but emotionally I can’t get beyond the fact that the naked man is him . . . and I want everything he is willing to give me. Your lips lightly brush across my eyelids and I jerk in reaction shivery sensation shoots through me. How can such a simple caress feel so good? I wonder in confusion . . . how can . . . . I lose my train of thought as your lips begin to wander over my face and the feelings escalate. My eyelids feel weighted, and they slowly close. I can feel the warmth from your breath drifting across my skin . . . tightening it . . . I shift restlessly, craving more.
"Of course, one should have a control group in any experiment," you murmur . . . giving into your compulsion to touch my breast, you awkwardly tug one end of my towel loose and push it aside. I tense, glancing worriedly down toward my stomach, but between the room’s dim light and the rumpled towel, I don’t think he can see my flaws. When you rub your fingers across my soft curves, I cease to think at all. You cup my breast with your hand and lightly flick your thumb over my nipple. "So beautiful." Your words echo meaninglessly in my ears as sensations pour through me, interfering with my breathing. "So perfect." You murmur as you lower your head to lick your tongue across the tip of my breast. I gasp as the nipple convulsed into a tight, throbbing bud of desire. Clutching your head, I pull you closer, wanting to intensify the sensation . . . my fingers thread themselves through your silky hair . . . holding you tightly as you take my nipple in your mouth and suckled. Wave upon wave of reaction crashes through me . . . collecting deep in my abdomen where it coalesces into a burning sense of urgency.
A muffled gasp escapes from between my clenched teeth as you slip your hand between my legs and lightly rub your fingers over the slick, satiny surface. The aching need in me tightens unbearably and I twist in agitation. I feel as if I am about to break apart from the force of the emotions he is generating. Time seems suspended, my entire being poised on the brink of some momentous discovery . . . a discovery I am sure will change my sense of who and what I am, forever. I moan in frustration as you slip between my legs and carefully position yourself. I can hear you saying something, but the words echo meaninglessly in my ears . . . nothing seems to have any substance beyond the driving need to follow this feeling through to its end. Acting on an instinct as old as time itself, I wrap my arms around your waist . . . pulling you down at the same time that I dig my heels into the bed and push upward.
Instead of the escalation of pleasure that I expected, jagged shards of pain rip through me. I bite down hard on my lip to contain the anguished moan that bubbles up in my throat. I had heard that the first time a woman made love there was some discomfort, but even so I don’t to stop . . . because I love him. This unexpected bit of self-knowledge hits me with the force of a blow . . . giving me a welcomed sense of numbness . . . somehow I have committed the monumental folly of falling in love with him. Your driving need suddenly reaches its apex and you go rigid as shock waves of sensation surge through you . . . leaving you limp and gasping for breath. Gulping in great lungfuls of air, you slowly surface through the layers of pleasure that had inundated you, to become aware of your surroundings.
What have I done? Your skin chills as the full impact hits you as you stare down at me in horror . . . I made love to my angel! How could I have done this? I hadn’t meant for it to go that far. What does she think? Worse yet, what does she expect? "I didn’t mean to do that." You groan as you struggle to your knees, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated. My mind must be muddled from the aftermath of the flu . . . and the most fantastic sexual encounter of my life.
I crush an impulse to burst into tears and then smack you . . . hard enough to make you share some of the pain I am feeling. I thought what we were sharing was so wonderful, and that is all he can say!
"I mean . . ." you say, closing your eyes . . . trying to still your whirling thoughts.
"I understand exactly what you mean." I cut you off. I can’t stand much more of this . . . if I don’t get out of here I’m going to start yelling at him . . . and the way I feel at the moment, I might not be able to stop once I get started. I scramble out of bed, barely noticing as the movement sends a wave of physical pain through me. The pain from my heart is far to great to let me notice much of the physical pain. Hastily grabbing your robe from the chair, I all but run for the door. I need time . . . time alone to put what happened in perspective.
You watch me go with a sinking feeling of loss. I shouldn’t let her go like that . . . I should go after her and try to make her understand . . . the problem is that I don’t understand myself, so how can I hope to make her understand? You start to get up, but the room seems to sway around you and you collapse back on the bed. Within seconds you are deeply asleep.

Written 11/98 by Night Angel