The Morning Ritual

The Weekly Quickie Contest – Prompt # 54

The Morning Ritual

         The old woman stands on her porch in bathrobe and slippers; a towel draped over her shoulder.  Her hair is straggly silver gray, her face lined and haggard.  She draws a deep breath and starts down the five steps to the dusty path that leads to the barn. 

         Marge stops beside the private family cemetery.  She feels sadness and swallows her pain as she looks at the freshly turned earth at the back of the plot. 

         For forty-five years, she and Sam took their morning bath together, every day at sunrise.  They would bathe in the barn when the weather was bad and in the unused watering trough by the back gate, on days like today. 

         Today, the hot wind sweeps up from the south as she approaches the tub of clear cold water.  She looks up at the blades of the noisy windmill as the pump trickles fresh cold water into the trough. 

         Plunging her hand into the tub to test it, she looks around and to the horizon.  She is not looking for company as she slips out of her robe and hangs it on the fence post.  She can feel the hot wind and the morning sun on her aging, tanned body.  At seventy, she is still slim and fancies herself a good looker.  She slips one foot into the cold water, feeling its icy bite. 

         "Ain’t nothin’ I ain’t felt before…" She mutters.

         She settles her body into the tub; the chilled water causes her heart to skip a couple of beats.  Marge leans her head back closing her eyes and she can see Sam standing beside her. 

He’s twenty-five again, tall, tanned and slim.  His steely blue eyes gaze on her through the crystal clear water. 

“Ya’ll need a hand ma’am?”

“Don’t quite know! What kin ya do?” 

She watched him unbutton his jeans and let them drop.  “Why… Mr. Thompson, juss what is on your evil mind?”  Marge smiles knowingly as she watches him step into the water, planting his feet between her legs.  She gazes at his firm, partially aroused cock.  He kneels down and hands her the soap.

“It needs washin’ ma’am”

Without hesitation, she takes the soap and lathers his manhood; almost instantly he becomes rock hard and erect.  Holding the soap in the palm of her hand she strokes his cock from head to hilt.

“Why Mrs. Thompson, you have a real knack ta satisfy’in a man!”  He leans forward, tenderly grasps her head in his hands and kisses her gently. 

         Her eyes still closed, she clings to the vivid memory, the pain of his loss tearing at her heart.

She kisses him back and drops the soap, her hands and his genitals a mass of lather.  Laying her back, he rests her head on the edge of the tub; he slides down, kissing her chin and neck as he cups her breasts.  Marge runs her soapy fingers through his hair, directing his face and lips to her already hard nipples.  She raises her knees and encircles his frame with her legs, crossing her ankles at the small of his back.

         Her breath is shallow; her heart is beating hard and fast, as her long fingers massage her wanting pleasure.

Sam presses himself against her; the suds have washed away and cover the surface of the cold water.  His hard shaft enveloped by the fleshy lips of her vagina, he gently rocks his hips, tantalizing her, pressing the head of his shaft to her clitoris. 

Marge responds by pressing herself to him and rocking her hips to his rhythm.  In a swirl of soapy water he draws her nipple into his mouth and toys with it between is tongue and teeth.  Her arms are wrapped about his neck and down his back as their motion become more agitated and the water is splashing over the edge of the tub.  Sam pulls back and drives his shaft deep into her; she opens her mouth to scream…

         Marge gasps in release, her eyes open and the look of utter surprise and pleasure on her face.  Her body flat on the bottom, knees in the air and her feet hanging out on either side of the trough.  Her hands are buried between her legs. 

* * *

         “Yep, the Thompson’s lived here for over forty years.”  The gray haired sheriff said as he shelled and ate his peanuts.  “Old Sam passed two weeks ago and now Marge!” 

         The two sheriff’s officers sit in their cruiser, parked behind the Thompson’s barn.  Marge’s bathrobe is draped over the trough.  The remnants of an old windmill lay in the yard, smashed by a storm, long past. 

         The young deputy was writing the report as they sit in the car.  “Why naked in an empty water trough?”

         “Don’t know son!  That old trough hasn’t held water in ten years, just about the same time Sam had his stroke and couldn’t walk anymore.”  Sheriff Bailey started the cruiser’s engine and turned on the heat.  “She must’ve been dreamin’ it was summer or somethin’.”

Word Count = 845