Viewing the local antiquities

The gift of water 

With ten minutes left, Ming's round face peeks out from under the clear shower cap that keeps her hair dry, dry for the next client. I soap her shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs: Washing her clean from our juices, clean for the next client, clean as the enamel of the hotel tub.

Kneeling, I soap her stiff twisty bush, the plump lips of her twat warm now in the showerspray, but cold when the lube met my fingertips as I started to stroke her. She was on all fours above me; I had my knees up and my legs spread, while she had her head down working my crotch:

Gliding warmth as she curled her tongue round my balls: kissed the wrinkled skin of my bag, liptugged the matted hair: using the same lips I'd later kiss: using the same tongue I'd later French:

She babied my balls, sweetly lapping and sucking: contouring them, cupping them, taking them into her mouth: as gently as if she were carrying eggs. Warmed and wetted, they loosen, hang low in their sack: She presses the tip of her tongue inward between them, finds the sweet hairless spot where I can feel her catlike roughness.

Her slit smiled before me flushed from my stroking but I only lipsmacked, licked, nibbled one cheek, then the other: then pushed her cheeks forward:

And she moved her head, and her tongue, further down. I swung my legs into the air and locked them round her back.

Kneeling, I soap the little saddlebags of Ming's cheeks, shaped so like Lan's. "In you go," Lan would have said, using her cozy voice.

Lan's skin was pale gold, though she called it "yellow." We brush our teeth at the sink in the morning, the mirror still steamy. Being so much taller, I stand behind her and caress the nape of her neck, her shoulders, back: but with my eyes only.

"Hirsute," Lan said her sister had called her, which I thought, then, merely, meant "hairy." That sister:

"17 grey hairs. My sister counted them."

That sister again, who had given her the front-opening brassiere in green (not her color) we'd cheerfully opened and stripped off last night.

The shower beats on my back; I've got my eyes scrunched shut against the soap and the steam and the spray but I sneak a look through my lashes, down at Lan's 32Bs.

Jaw set, lips compressed, Lan peers up at the work to be done: She scrubs hard as if she were cleaning the kitchen tile: Soaping and rubbing my armpits, chest, belly, thighs: She kneels into the spray: I brace myself and lift a foot, as if I were a horse lifting a hoof for the groom. She washes my sole, my heel, my toes:

Her hair, cut straight across her forehead, so carefully glossy, dry, will have gone dull now that she's gotten it wet; there's nothing like conditioner in my bachelor apartment.

Her hands stroke volume into my flesh, as a painter's brush strokes color into the canvas.

Behind the sliding glass shower doors, the world floats fresh and clean and new.

When we were very young, our father told us stories in our bath: Steadying my head with one hand, his other hand, cupped, pours water over my hair: A cascading life mask that flickers and vanishes.



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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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