A sexy short story. A middle aged woman satisfies her longing in the moonlight
I was awake, lying naked, uncovered, on the bed; the hot humid air felt like a suffocating blanket, confining me, holding me down. My husband lay snoring beside me in a deep, dreamless, sleep; his naked body flowing over the bed.
I rose silently, desperate to escape. The world seemed bright outside the heavy curtains even though it was several hours before dawn. I inched the curtains apart; just a tiny amount so that I could peer out.
Moonlight flooded the world below me transforming the landscape sucking the colour out of it; replacing it with silvers and greys intertwined with dark pools of ink, black, shadows. Everything seemed rendered in the precise detail of a high definition photograph. All was quiet and still as if muffled by an invisible fall of snow.
I pulled the curtains closed again and as I turned caught sight of myself in the mirror. A tired middle-aged woman looked back from the darkness. She had lost the litheness of youth, now she had a little too much belly, probably from a little too much red wine. Her big full breasts hung lower than they used to. I sighed and one word filled my mind – plump.
I breathed in deeply and stood up straighter. The shadowy figure in the mirror mimicked my movements. Curvaceous I thought, you could say curvaceous; not that my husband ever would. He probably didn’t even know what it meant. I couldn’t resist the urge to flee; unhooking my light silk robe from the back of the door I stepped carefully down the staircase, familiar with its creaks and moans. I opened the back door and shivered with excitement.
The night was completely silent; it felt as if the whole world except me was sleeping, mesmerised by the magical caress of the reflected light. I could feel the moonlight on my skin as I stood on the threshold, draining the colour from my body with its delicate caress changing me, altering me. It felt cool and alive whilst at my back there was the hot oppression of domesticity. I slipped on my robe, the moon had not completely claimed me, some hint of decorum, of domesticity, of my daytime life still clung to me. I stepped into the garden. The grey grass was not yet damp with the first dew and brushed softly against my feet.
I walked down the garden my robe falling open to let the silver light touch my skin, the lightest puffs of breeze brushed against me like passing spirits that seemed to flow around my breasts, over my stomach and between my legs, as if seeking out the last little vestiges of my existence and claiming them for the magical moon. In the silver light I was no longer a slightly plump middle-aged woman trapped in a humdrum existence with a husband who was neither kind nor unkind. . . just boring. I moved on tiptoe down the long lawn as if fearing the grass beneath might crack if it broke and the sound wake me from my dream.
I paused at the end of the lawn where the grass becomes longer and unkempt and my senses told me that there was something new, something unusual. Not threatening, just something different, something out of place. I examined the garden in front of me my eyes taking time to process the minute details unseen in daylight but highlighted by the moonlight.
A statue was standing close to the waist high wire fence that separates our garden from the one next door. It was a man, naked to the waist, his skin and hair polished silver by the moon so that he looked at once familiar but also unfamiliar, like one of those living statues that you see on the high street. He was stood, turned slightly away from me, as if trying to seem as if he had not been looking. I pulled my robe around me a little and, as I curiously moved closer, the statue turned towards me.
‘Still night,’ My neighbour Mark said, his voice so quiet I could barely hear him.
‘Too magical to sleep,’ I whispered back.
Mark had appeared next door a few months ago. Despite being around the same age as us and recently divorced he seemed to have a cheerful optimism. We had been round to see him soon after he had moved in and over a glass, or maybe two, of wine he had talked about art, travel and plays at the local theatre. After that I had often caught sight of him reading or writing in a series of notebooks all of which meant he had nothing in common with my husband at all.
‘Did you ..?’ I half gestured back up the garden towards the house.
‘Titania in the moonlight,’ he smiled. It wasn’t a leer; it wasn’t a broad grin that said he had seen me walking nearly naked across the lawn. It was a simple faint smile that said he understood.
‘You look fabulous,’ he said it in such a matter of fact way that I felt myself blush and was thankful that it was hidden by the grey light. There was a long pause. My thoughts would not assemble themselves into any sort of a coherent form. I looked up at the moon as if seeking guidance.
‘Shall I come round?’ It was half a suggestion, half a question. I said it without looking at him and so quietly that I wasn’t sure whether I had said it out loud or just thought it.
‘Yes,’ he smiled and held out his hand and our fingers touched over the boundary.
We walked toward the end of the garden each of us still in our own domain. Beyond the large dark canopy of the ancient apple tree honeysuckle had grown up entwining itself through and above the fence. Mark disappeared from view for a few seconds and I thought of turning back, returning to the comfort of my sane, domestic, life but the sweet scent of the flowers and glow of the light seemed to overwhelm me.
At the very end of the garden some long departed owners had set a small gate into the fence. Why they had placed it there always perplexed me. It was as if the occupants of the houses were saying to each other we’d like to meet occasionally but we don’t want you popping in all the time. I pushed the overgrown gate open. Beyond the apple tree we were out of sight of both houses. We had our own private patch of moonlight and the rest of the world melted away, ceased to exist.
‘Adam and Eve in their sacred garden,’ I whispered as I let the robe slip to the ground. The full primeval force of the moonlight played on my back and I took his head in my hands, and kissed him. He smelt clean and faintly of soap and I was sure he could smell the desire in me. I could feel his erection pushing gently against me through the material of his shorts and my hands glided over his smooth sliver skin to grasp the waistband and push them down.
We stood for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours caressing, kissing, being caressed enveloped in the light and the scent until an ancient lust swamped me. I pushed him back onto an old wooden garden bench and the real world intruded for a moment as I hoped it wouldn’t collapse under our weight.
Like a succubus I straddled him and look him deep, deep, inside me. I felt so powerful, so finally free that my fulfilment welled up like a knot tightening in my chest almost immediately. His lips pulled at my nipples and I abandoned myself to the passion. Never before had I reached a pinnacle of such excitement so completely or so quickly; years of sweaty fumbling dropped away from me in one glorious moonlit moment. I enveloped him absolutely, tearing at his skin. I bucked and threw my head back as if to howl at the moon like a she wolf as I extracted the last drops of new life from him.
I collapsed on him like a rag doll and felt his arms enfold me as I buried my face in his shoulder. I do not know how long I clung to his embrace until slowly, tenderly, I slid from him and turned and stood to face the moon. I could feel his eyes on me.
‘How would you describe me,’ I asked ‘my body shape I mean?’ I could feel my old, insecure, self creeping back into my body as if it was putting me on like an old, worn cardigan.
Mark stood behind me I could feel his hands on my waist, his soft penis brushed against the cheeks of my behind. He placed his mouth close to my ear and I could feel his warm breath as he whispered, ‘Curvaceous. . . and not only in the moonlight.’
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Books by Simone Francis
The Donnington Chronicles
Celia Donnington is known as The Ice Maiden in her office. Watch her thaw as she enters a world of BDSM at Hardend House. When she does will she become Mistress or slave?
Warning: Contains scenes of sex, spankings, whippings and BDSM fiction