Dreams in white

Doris pulls the cord and those sheer white curtains fall shut. Salome stands at the foot of the bed, hair pale as wheat, dress white as bone. Sixty-eight years behind her eyes and money to burn, Doris gives a little crooked smile, pats the mattress, then crooks her finger. Salome crosses the carpet, knees sinking into down. Doris has her peel the dress away one strap at a time, watches linen pool on silk sheets. The girl steps clear of it wearing only pale thigh-highs and nothing else. Doris places cold fingers between sunburned shoulder blades, drags them downward. "On all fours," she murmurs. Salome obeys, spine arched, ass lifted. The older woman spreads her open with both thumbs, blows softly across the damp seam, then slides two manicured fingers straight into slick heat. Salome shivers. Doris laughs low in her throat and works her wrist slow, deep, until every small sound the girl makes comes out of her throat like confession. When the sheets grow damp beneath them, Doris turns the girl onto her back, mounts the smooth belly, pins wrists above golden hair. She grinds down, clit to clit, until her own breathing turns ragged and greedy. Afterward she lets Salome lick the fingers clean, and the girl swallows like a choir child taking sacrament. Doris strokes her cheek. "Good girl." Outside a neighbor starts a mower. Doris tells Salome to stay naked another hour. She has time.