The Red-Tiled Bathroom

We turned off Route 146 in Massachusetts and headed north on I-290. The traffic was moderately heavy, but cars were moving easily at 70 mph and so were we.

Music was playing in stereo--a variety of selections we chose alternately and spontaneously: Maria Muldaur's Midnight at the Oasis; Three Dog Night's Joy to the World; She's Not There by the Zombies, and on and on and on.

What was about to happen, happened once before on this stretch of interstate. That was over a year ago, but it began happening again today.

We had our hands on each other's thighs, and were rubbing slowly and gently along them singing to the music. She knew all the words, and I knew most of them, so we were able to harmonize, she, much more beautifully than I, yet she complimented me on my singing.

She wanted to sing in another way, however. With her fingertips. She began pulling up my shirt in the front, but was unable to get into my jeans because of the tightness of the seatbelt. I could have graciously declined, and let her know that we should probably just drive steadily on and safely home, and save any such digital singing for another time. But I didn't. I got some slack in my seatbelt, and with her temporarily holding the wheel, I undid the button and zipper of my jeans.

Why this was happening now may have had something to do with what had happened back then--or today after our luncheon earlier this afternoon.

My friend and I had just delivered to a gallery in Providence, RI, six new panels for my cubic art installation. We decided not to rush back home right away, but to go out to lunch instead. She found a place that looked enticing--Nick's on Broadway--and after only a three minute drive, we arrived.

We had no reservations, so we had to eat outside on the patio, which was comfortably warmed by propane heaters. We ordered what turned out to be a delicious meal: a green salad that we shared, a fish sandwich with pickles and lettuce on focaccia, a bowl of pumpkin soup, and butternut squash risotto. We tasted bites of each other's entree and thoroughly enjoyed the meal, completely cleaning the plates and bowls.

We were sitting across from each other at the small table holding hands and talking about pertinent subjects. Like how we might react if one asked the other what they were thinking and they decided to say, "I don't want to talk about it now."

As we were having our freewheeling conversation, we made note of a couple at a table adjacent to ours, a man and a woman also sitting across from each other. When they finished their meal and left, I asked her what she thought the nature of their relationship was. She didn't hesitate: "Dating." From the brief comments that we had overheard, it sounded totally plausible.

There was another party at a nearby table who seemed to be a family of mother, father, and child and they were just finishing their meal as we paid our check.

I got up, walked around to her side of our table, and after she arose, gave her a big kiss saying, "I don't want anyone to misjudge our relationship as just 'dating'."

We then walked out together to the front and found the restaurant's bathroom. Impulsively I went right in with her. Perhaps I should add that when we had delivered the panels for the cube, we were shown where the bathrooms were by a man practicing drumming in the gallery. There were two to choose between. She had gone into one and I followed her in. She was a bit flummoxed and left it and went into the other one. I followed her into that one too. She beamed when she realized that I wanted us to be sharing the bathroom. And we took turns relieving ourselves.

So this time me following her into the bathroom wasn't so unexpected and she readily accepted my companionate presence.

It was small; barely big enough for two, but yet the two of us were inside. She went first, sitting on the low toilet seat, beginning her flow of urine. I recognized the cadence of the stream: strong, weak, then stronger again with a weakening finale. As she moved forward on the seat and carefully wadded a number of sheets of toilet paper, I turned away. I knew her wiping motion and the whole experience was arousing me, so I didn't need any more visual input.

Instead, I let my gaze travel the entirety of the room, noting the shiny large deep red tiles running from floor to nine-foot ceiling, interrupted by a horizontal line of black tiles midway up meeting to outline a large mirror on one wall with sink and vanity beneath.

My back was against the door. She raised her arms in a gesture of "I need help," and with my counterbalancing weight, I eased her up off the toilet seat. I let her fix her pants as she supplied me with the explanation for why she was unable to get up--that her knee was not quite strong enough yet after surgery.

She maneuvered to stand behind me as I unzipped and brought out my enlarging phallus. She began running her hand up and down my back and I asked her if she would please desist because I was already getting an erection which would make it difficult for me to urinate.

I started and finished in an ebb and flow manner as well, which I attributed to my partial engorgement. I zipped up, stepped aside, flushed the toilet, and then let her wash her hands first. I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her from behind and kissed her on the hair as she was washing, then I stepped back and waited for her to finish drying.

I found the light switch and playfully, I turned it off. The room grew dark but not totally so, as there was some light coming in from a small window high up.

"Does this remind you of the day we did Tantric Tango in the dim light of the dance hall?"

And of course It did. I switched the light back on to let her finish drying her hands, then I washed and dried mine. We opened up the door to find the family trio who had dined on the patio with us, standing there in shocked surprise, waiting for us to exit the bathroom.

We left without revealing anything on our faces, went out the front door, turned the corner, and walked a few paces down the street. We began giggling uncontrollably, imagining what they might have thought. But also with the joy of having a playmate in each other willing to take little risks to live life more fully than we could live it in our own little village back home.

Which is what we were continuing to do on our car ride home. Living life more fully. Because now she was able to sneak her left hand under the slackened seatbelt and into my silk underwear, to rub my growing bigness, invite it out, and beckon my verbal encouragement. I undid a top button of my shirt to give her the message that my nipples were hers to enjoy too. I say "hers to enjoy" because I was certainly going to enjoy it and she, I learned later, enjoyed watching me receive pleasure as much as she enjoyed receiving it herself.

So as the songs were playing, her fingers began strumming, alternating between the lower registers of my swelling cock and the upper ones of my burgeoning nipples, pinching them to exquisitely painful refrains.

I made a request that she put a finger into the folds of her vulva to retrieve a sample of her arousal. Which she did. The flavor of her vaginal juices was subtle but what lingered deliciously for me were the trace notes of urinary tang. When I described my tasting experience with its potent finish, she generously gave me a reprise.

With that added sensory offering, she was able to get me close to coming.

Given all the navigational distractions, though, I thought that I would not be able to relax enough to allow that to happen. But I was mistaken. For moments later, when she put some copious saliva onto her fingers and made them slippery-slick, I could not resist. The sensation of her sliding slickened fingers up and down my cock was too potent a simulation for me, as if my cock were sliding in and out of her wet vagina. I gasped, "I'm going to come," and I did. Big. Unfortunately, with my cock out, I shot cum all over the steering wheel, seat belt, my pants and shirt.

I screamed. I looked out the windshield into a full moon rising in a pale blue sky transitioning to orange at the horizon. I continued to scream for what seemed to be three or four minutes longer, somehow keeping our velocity within the speed limit, my two hands on the wheel, and our car In the middle of the three lanes.

Smiling broadly, her gaze at me unwavering, she looked immensely pleased at having given me such a pleasure, expressing her delight in how much she enjoyed watching me, and adding that watching me have an orgasm today was as good as having one herself.

I do know something of that feeling. For one memorable time we were together, and I was giving her a second or third rapture first with my fingers and then with my tongue, her exclamations of ecstatic delight put me into the orbit of another orgasm myself. I only wish that today we could have pulled over into a rest stop for me to thank her in some equivalent way.

Unfortunately, we had to keep traveling. We were miles away from our homes. And we both knew, it's never ever good to keep your spouses waiting.