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Paul searched for a way to provide it. He raised his hands up from Marge’s buttocks to the spaghetti straps of her nightie. He quickly pulled them down. It forced Marge to release her embrace around Paul’s neck and drop here arms to her sides. Paul pulled down gently again to release her breasts from their lace encasements. The top of the negligee pooled around Marge’s hips. She was nude above her navel. It was a small act. The cove of Paul’s cabin was secluded and they stood on the porch within easy reach of the door. Paul was certain, however, that it was the first time Marge had ever displayed herself outside the safety of the inside of her abode. Paul expected her to try to cover up, which he was prepared to prevent. She didn’t, though. She took a second to allow the feeling of fresh air to wash over nude skin. Her nipples began to stiffen. A small breeze broke the stillness. Marge embraced Paul anew, this time on fire. As their tongues danced with their counterparts, Marge. It’s the type of bed, with its bright-white ultra high thread count sheets, which greets weary business men with fat expense accounts at the end of a long day’s journey. It’s the bed I never want to leave despite that its overly formal overtones do not lend itself well to the facts at hand. From the moment my lover led me into the well appointed room, laid me back against the tufted cream bedspread, and pressed my body deep into the crush of pale velvet throw pillows, it didn’t strike me as the sort of bed to which a cosmopolitan and fashionably modern male escorts his clandestine lover for an impromptu, undercover and hopefully uninterrupted week of mind bogglingly self-indulgent mutual gratification. Perhaps it’s simply my personal brand of perversion, but the questioning glint of the elderly innkeeper’s rather naive gaze as she visually inspected our recently bared ring fingers while we boldly signed the register with our own names, names that do not match, and slid the book back.
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