A Quicie in the Itchen

If you like this one look for other stories about Claire and Harry posted under my former name, DrMemeory.

***

Claire came up behind him in the morning and leaned her body into his as he stood at the sink washing the last few dishes from the night before. She rested her hands on his hips, then slid them slyly lower, under the hem of his nightshirt, to root around between his thighs. She found his little shrunken and retracted nubbin, which warmed and stirred under her gentle ministrations. He whispered to her that he thought she should keep doing what she was doing, which she tacitly agreed to do.

He put aside the plate he was rinsing, and, as his little fellow strengthened and lengthened, he held onto the edge of the sink. He leaned back into her and moaned something incoherent to the effect that what she was doing to him was lovely. As he continued to stiffen between her fingers, she deftly turned him to face her and, steering him by the hips, guided him backwards across the kitchen floor until the backs of his knees bumped against a chair. Lifting his nightshirt to his waist, she sat him on the chair, loosened the belt of her robe, and swept open the soft folds of flannel, exposing the expanse of her pale belly and the flush across her breasts.

She straddled his thighs, slowly settling down and skootching herself forward to connect with and engulf his now fully aware and alert manhood, with a sudden intake of breath from both of them. With her hands on his shoulders, his on her hips, they shared their astonishment at the growing sensation between their bodies. They sat still for a few heartbeats until she began to flex deep within her pelvis and they struck up an ancient conversation, slowly and gently and patiently, aware only of their immediate airspace.

At a sound behind them they paused, foreheads touching in their communion, as Maggie, their long-term houseguest, walked casually from her room across the hall to pad cat-like across the floor to the sink. She filled a glass with water and, turning to face them, drank it down, slowly. The willowy and obviously naked shape of her was outlined by the sunlight through the filter of her nightgown. She placed the glass back into the sink, hooked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and watched with a (flirty?) smile at the involuntary resuming of the back and forth between the lover's hips, the ménage a trois of them aware of the growing tension. Her lips parted, her breath slow and deliberate, one hand casually tracing the swell of her breast. Catching his eye, with a wink, she turned and sashayed, with a little extra sashay, back to her room. leaving the door open.

When he came, it was quiet, rising in him gradually with fair warning, his back arching to push himself deeper into her, she opening herself further, a tiny cry escaping from her throat, and they both relaxed, her head resting on his chest, her hair falling in a cascade around her face. His hands slid up from her hips across the front of her, easing her robe open and up off her shoulders. He wondered at the stunning flushed beauty of her, her belly and breasts and the hollows of her shoulders.

Reluctantly, she stood, gently separating lingam and yoni with a sigh, and she stood for a moment over him, her robe falling off her shoulders onto the floor, reveling in the feel of his eyes on her naked body in the morning light. She moved to the sink where she wiped between her legs with a folded paper towel, unceremoniously relegating their combined precious bodily fluids to the trash can. She stood basking naked in the sunlight now flooding through the window, then bent to the sink, rinsed the glass Maggie had used, placed it in the drainer at the side of the sink, and slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of washing the rest of the dishes. He shifted his gaze from her backside to look into the shadows of the guest room. He watched Maggie as she lay back on her bed, her wool-socked feet on the floor, her legs akimbo, her chemise scrunched up above her waist, one hand draped protectively across her breast, the other idling between her tanned thighs, gently probing and pulling. She sat up, poised on one elbow, looked at him splayed and exposed and wilting on the chair. Without moving her fingers from their explorations between her legs, she gave him that same (flirty?) smile, and gently pushed the door shut with her foot.