I am bathing her in the big vintage bathtub. I hold a massive sponge, heavy and pregnant with frothy soap.
Her breasts seem to float just above the water line, full like massive teardrops, and her head hangs back over the end of the tub, her neck cushioned by a once-dry towel. Her eyes are closed, but she moans to my touch.
I wring the sponge on her breasts, dripping them with white suds. I let it coat her tits like milk, and I use my hands to make it an even layer all around. I reach beneath the water, below her breast curves, lifting each as I sponge her creases underneath.
Bathing her is one of the intimate services she uses me for. I also do her nails, a mani-pedi, on a frequent basis. Sometimes he has me do her hair. And she uses me to shave her legs, as well as her pussy. She usually has me naked and high-heeled as I service her in these ways. Such is her pleasure. Such is how she consumes me.
Bathing her now, I do not wear heels, of course, on wet slippery bathroom tile, but I am naked, on a stool beside the tub, leaning toward her, my legs angled to the side. Her arm hangs over the side of the tub.
In some perfect moment we might be a painting by Degas, “two women in the bath” perhaps, with breasts like milk and skin the color of cream.