This story is entirely fiction. It's intentionally short, with little character development; sort of an experiment for me, written in what I think of as an impressionistic style, a first foray into stroke stuff.
A very tiny, rather melancholy twist pops up at the end; hope you don't mind. Readers on another site complained about it.
*
I sat on the top step, in the shallow end of my pool. She sat on the next step down, her head leaning back onto my chest.
We had been skinny-dipping, shielded from curious eyes by a fence and a well-tended hedge. The sun was warm on our skin, late enough not to be much of a burn hazard, still early enough to be round and full and comforting. A steady breeze sang through the trees, keeping us cool.
I idly rubbed her shoulders, eliciting equally idle murmurs; from there, I moved down to scratch her back, just like she liked. She leaned forward to accommodate me.
After a moment, I slipped my arms under hers and moved my hands around to cup her breasts. I loved squeezing them, gently, feeling their supple resistance; solid thirty-six Cs they were, all natural, with nipples half an inch long when erect. They sagged a bit -- being past thirty will do that -- but they'd never swollen with milk, never deflated after weaning a child.
She leaned back into me while I massaged her lovely orbs, and said, "Feels nice."
"You sure do," I replied softly.
She turned her face to mine, and we shared a kiss.
When the kiss broke, she gazed into my eyes for a moment; then she said, "Eat me?"
I grinned. "How could I turn down a request like that?"
