She’s Not Into That

Hope and I were in the bedroom. Been a long day, so I’m drinking scotch and lying in bed with the laptop, and reading Naughty Heather’s poem “Soon Enough.”

Hope, in running shorts that show off her creamy legs and make me a little crazy with lust, crawled up on the bed. (When she does that, the words “sex kitten” come to mind with powerful force.) Her blouse, though, was a button-down white shirt. She snuggled up to me, pressing her breasts against my arm and her legs against mine, her mouth sleepy against my neck.

“Whatchya reading, Doc?”

“Naughty Heather.”

“Read it to me.”

So I do. I can feel her grinning into my sleeve.

Her legs shift a little.

“You write better than that,” she says in her light Southern accent. (”You raht bettah than thayat,” it comes out.) Her hand is stroking my chest, unbuttoning my shirt.

“Don’t be…” I start to say. Her hand slips inside my shirt and is playing with my nipples. “Um. You didn’t like it?”

“Didn’t say that,” Hope says, voice barely audible as she kisses my neck.

“You’re not into that spanking stuff.”

“No, but Ah didn’t say that, either,” she drawls. Her tongue is on my earlobe now, gently flicks into my ear and then back down to my neck. “You into that? Wanna spank my hot ass?” Her hand slips into my slacks.

Loud knocking on the door. It’s our oldest daughter. The hand comes out, but my right arm holds her right where she is. The door flies open as I whisper, “You are not going anywhere.”

Our girl has a litany of complaints. We dismiss them one by one until she is out of excuses for hanging around and spoiling mom and dad’s time alone. She hangs around at the foot of the bed, evidently not going anywhere.

“Honey,” says Hope gently.

Our daughter looks up.

“Go,” says Hope firmly.

The door clicks shut, and my hand is in between my wife’s thighs, travelling up and down.

“Read me that line again, tiger,” she purrs.

“I need to be covered in your sweat and your tears / and I need my ass to be reddened with your handprints.”

“That good poetry, Lit Doctor?” she asks, her tongue busy now on my nipples.

“Strictly speaking, no. No formal control,” I mutter. “But that’s not the only test of a good poem.”

“What is?” she hums.

My finger dips into the legband of her shorts, into the legband of her panties, and I feel the prickly stubble where she shaves herself, and my middle finger dips into the familiar labia, rubs up one side of one wet lip and down the other, drawing out the nectar. She looks up from my chest, her eyes smoky and unfocused.

“This,” I whisper to her, and bring my finger to my lips, the evidence of her literary tastes salty on my tongue.