The Young Flower

Stacey stood in front of the bathroom mirror, fresh out of the shower, water still beading on her pale shoulders. She turned sideways, studying the curve of her hip, the way her breasts sat against her ribs. Thirty-six C, still perky enough. Her fingers traced the faint stretch marks on her belly, souvenirs from two kids now in college. She looked younger than fifty, people always told her that, but what did it matter when her husband hadn’t touched her in eight months? Not a lingering hand on her ass, not a hungry look when she undressed. Just two people sharing a house, orbiting each other like tired planets. She grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, the fabric catching on her damp, curly hair. Thick, shoulder-length, that brownish-red color that looked almost copper in the right light. Her brown eyes met their own reflection, and she felt that familiar ache. Was this it? Was she just supposed to fade into invisibility, a middle-aged mom whose desirability had an expiration date? The thought gnawed at her as she dressed in a simple sundress, nothing fancy, just something to run errands in. She needed to get out of the house, away from the silence and the unspoken resentment. The coffee shop was half-empty, which was how she liked it. She ordered a latte and sat by the window, watching people pass. That’s when she noticed the blonde watching her from across the room. Young, maybe early twenties, with long straight hair that fell like a silk curtain past her shoulders. She was tall and lean, almost boyish in her frame, with the kind of pale skin that looked like it had never seen sun. When their eyes met, the blonde smiled, and Stacey felt something unexpected flutter in her chest. The girl stood up and walked over. She moved with an easy confidence, hips swaying just enough to be noticeable. “Hi,” she said, her voice bright. “I’m Maria. I hope this isn’t weird, but I’ve been sitting over there trying to figure out how to tell you that you’re absolutely stunning.” Stacey laughed, a nervous, surprised sound. “I’m old enough to be your mother.” “So?” Maria slid into the chair across from her without asking. Up close, her blue eyes were startlingly vivid against all that pale skin. “Age is just a number. I know what I like.” “And what’s that?” “You.” Maria said it simply, without hesitation. “I’m bisexual, by the way. Just so we’re clear. And I’ve never been shy about going after what I want.” Stacey’s mouth went dry. She should have been offended, or at least dismissive. Instead, she felt heat spreading through her belly, a warm pulse of something she hadn’t felt in years. Wanted. She felt wanted. “I’m married,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “I didn’t ask if you were married. I said you’re stunning.” Maria leaned forward, and Stacey caught the faint scent of her perfume, something clean and a little sweet. “Are you happy?” The question hit like a slap. Stacey opened her mouth, then closed it. “I don’t know anymore.” Maria reached across the table and touched her hand. Her fingers were cool and smooth. “Let me show you something different.” An hour later, Stacey was unlocking her own front door, Maria standing close behind her. The house was empty, husband at work until evening. The silence that usually felt oppressive now felt charged, electric. “Nice place,” Maria said, but she wasn’t looking at the decor. Her eyes were fixed on Stacey’s body, tracing the outline of her curves beneath the sundress. Stacey turned to face her, heart hammering. “I’ve never done anything like this.” “I know.” Maria stepped closer, close enough that their bodies almost touched. She was taller by a few inches, and she looked down at Stacey with an expression of pure hunger. “That’s what makes it so fucking hot.” She kissed her. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when Stacey didn’t pull away. Maria’s tongue slid into her mouth, and Stacey moaned, a sound she didn’t recognize coming from her own throat. Her hands came up, gripping Maria’s narrow hips, pulling her closer. They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went. Stacey’s sundress pooled on the floor. Maria’s jeans and t-shirt followed. When they were both naked, Maria stopped and just looked. “God, you’re beautiful,” she breathed. Her eyes lingered on Stacey’s breasts, the full weight of them, the pale nipples already tight and peaked. “Men are fucking idiots.” Stacey felt exposed, vulnerable, but also powerful. This young, gorgeous woman was staring at her like she was a feast. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Please.” Maria didn’t need to be told twice. She pushed Stacey back onto the bed and climbed on top of her, her small breasts pressing against Stacey’s larger ones. She kissed her neck, her collarbone, then lower, taking one nipple into her mouth and sucking hard. “Fuck,” Stacey gasped, arching into the sensation. Her hands tangled in Maria’s long blonde hair, holding her there. Maria worked her way down, lips and tongue tracing a wet path over Stacey’s belly, her hip bones, the sensitive crease of her thigh. She pushed Stacey’s legs apart and settled between them, blue eyes looking up with wicked intent. “I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name,” Maria said, and then she lowered her mouth to Stacey’s pussy. The first stroke of her tongue was electric. Stacey cried out, her hips bucking. Maria ate her out with skill and enthusiasm, licking and sucking, her tongue sliding inside then flicking over her clit. She knew exactly what she was doing.