The Trigger

Still Saturday

I followed her upstairs, followed her swaying, bare bottom into our bedroom.

The same late afternoon light, now deepening to an amber hue.

Rita closed the door behind us and l turned the lock. "Just in case ... "

She was still wearing the apron. She stepped toward me, put her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips to mine.

I had missed this for so long, and now she had transformed into a kind of vamp. It was still the Rita I knew, but her demeanor had changed completely.

Ever since Alex had given her those suggestions, she had been so open, so close... so affectionate. It was still the Rita I had married seven years ago, just a sexualized version of herself.

I untied the bow of her apron. She pulled it over her head and let it fall to the floor.

There she stood before me, just as God had made her...

At 47, her body was still perfectly proportioned, not a pound too much. The triangle between her legs had never been up for discussion, although I had suggested removing that bush several times in the past.

That was my chance to use the trigger Alex had implanted a few days ago ... I took her earlobe between my thumb and index finger, squeezed it lightly and held it that way.

Her body relaxed... she let her arms slide down. I looked into her eyes, her gaze was different, as if she were staring into infinity.

"Rita ... do you hear me?"

She answered almost soundlessly: “Yes, Sean, of course I hear you.”

"Rita, you have the idea of shaving your pubic hair; you want to fulfill a long-held wish of mine. You find the thought of how sexy that will look very arousing."

Her voice whispered: "Yes, I wanna remove that bush ... fulfill your wish ..."

The moment I let go of her earlobe, her arms wrapped around me and she kissed me ionately.

"Darling, I have a feeling ... something you've been wanting for a long time ... wait a moment ..."

She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel and spread it across the bedspread with a deliberateness that made my chest ache.

Back to the bathroom ... this time she returned with a small dish and my shaving kit.

“I’d like to prepare,” she said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

She filled the dish with warm water from the bathroom and carried it carefully to the nightstand. When she opened the shaving kit and removed the can of foam and the razor, my knees nearly buckled.

The apron dropped.

She sat on the towel, her legs spread wide, her vulva exposed. The hair there had never been shaved - not yet. Then she shook the can of foam and began to apply it. Slowly and methodically. The white cream covered her mound completely, and I watched her long, careful fingers smooth it into every crease and fold.

She picked up the razor.

I knelt at the edge of the bed. My face was inches from her. The scent of the shaving cream, soap and menthol, mixed with the musk of her arousal.

She started at the top. Short, careful strokes. Rinsing the blade in the dish after each , the water turning cloudy with foam and fine dark hair. Each stroke revealed new skin - smooth, pink, utterly bare. She worked inward, then downward, her lips spreading slightly to accommodate the blade. Her breathing had changed. Slower. Deeper. When she reached the most sensitive skin, the inner folds, she went impossibly careful - one finger pulling the skin taut, the razor moving with a precision that spoke of total concentration.

She finished. Rinsed the blade one last time. Used the corner of the towel to wipe away the last traces of foam.

“What do you think?”

I couldn’t speak. The skin was completely bare. Smooth as the inside of a wrist. Every contour of her was visible - the delicate architecture of her labia, the flushed pink of her clitoral hood already peeking out. I reached out and touched her with one fingertip. The skin was impossibly soft. Wet from more than the water.

“Rita,” I managed. “You are … that’s so sexy. So beautiful. I told you so many times before ... this looks just gorgeous!”

“Put the dish aside.” she ordered

I fumbled it onto the floor beside the nightstand. Almost knocked it over. Didn’t care.

She lay back on the towel. I lowered my mouth to her.

The first lick was tentative - I didn’t know how she’d feel, newly bare, newly exposed. But her hips rose to meet me and the sound she made was a guttural, throaty moan, nothing like the restrained sounds she used to make. My tongue traced the landscape of her. The smoothness let me feel everything, every ridge, every fold, the exact moment her clitoris emerged from its hood. I circled it. Her fingers tangled in my hair. Her thighs clamped against my ears and then fell open again, wider, inviting.

“Fuck me,” she said. Pleading, demanding - both. “Please. I need your cock now. I’ve been thinking about it since the grocery store. Since the toy. Since you walked in the door.”

I climbed up her body. She reached down and guided me in - she was so wet there was no resistance, just the sudden, enveloping heat of her. Her gasp was loud enough that I briefly thought about the open windows, the neighbors, Tom and Dana at their dinner table just about two hundred feet away. Then she said “harder” and I stopped thinking about anything else.

Her legs hooked over my shoulders, my thrusts deep and grinding. Then she rolled us, straddled me, rode me with her hands braced on my chest and her head thrown back. The towel had bunched beneath us. Her bare, smooth sex glided along my shaft, and the sight of it, the visual of her completely hairless, completely open, was almost enough to finish me.

Not yet.

She pulled off and got on her hands and knees. The view from behind: her spine curving downward, her shoulder blades winging out, the newly shaved lips glistening between her thighs. I got behind her and just had to lick her pussy, tasting her, making her moan even more.

Then I entered her from behind and she cried out into the pillow. My hands gripped her hips, the bone there, the softness above, and I watched myself disappear into her, over and over, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.

Her hand snaked between her legs. Found herself. Circled aroud her clit.

She gasped. “Just a little ... a little more ... I'm close ... don’t stop, don’t stop ... I feel it cumming ... oh yesss, that's it ... aaahhhh ...”

Her body clenched. Rippled. The sensation traveled from inside her to the base of my spine to somewhere behind my eyes. I let go, couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to, and we came together, her hips still bucking, my body still driving into hers, the world reduced to the singular, obliterating fact of her.

We were still catching our breath when the front door slammed.

“Hello? Nobody home?”

Ellen’s voice carried up the stairwell, muffled but unmistakable. The casual, slightly impatient tone of a twenty-year-old who’d expected someone to be in the kitchen.

“Mom? Sean?!”

I looked at Rita – she looked at me. I saw my semen running out of her open, gaping pussy. She leaned back on the bed with a devilish smile, spread her legs, and played with her labia and my cum.

I was off the bed in an instant, hunting for my briefs. Found them inside-out near the door. I pulled my shorts on and ran a hand through my hair. I unlocked the door and took the stairs two at a time.

Behind me I heard Rita closing the bathroom door behind her, the click of the medicine cabinet and the shower starting to run.

Ellen stood in the living room. Her backpack was at her feet. She looked at me - my bare chest, my bare feet, the flush I could still feel on my face - her expression flickered through something that might have been amusement.

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

Her tone was bone-dry.

“Mom upstairs?”

“She’ll be down in a minute.”

Ellen picked up her backpack and carried it toward her room. No follow-up questions. No eye-rolling. Just the quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of a young woman who’d decided, somewhere in the last week, that the mechanics of her mother’s marriage were no longer her business.

---

Dinner was pasta. The jarred sauce, the boxed noodles, none of us had the energy for anything elaborate. We sat at the kitchen table, the three of us, and Ellen talked about her day. She’d driven to the coast with Melanie. They’d stopped at a boardwalk arcade. Melanie had won a stuffed shark. A seagull had tried to steal her fries.

Rita laughed in all the right places. She wore a sundress now, simple and yellow, her hair still damp from whatever quick cleanup she’d managed in the bathroom. Her hand rested on my thigh under the table.

No one mentioned what Ellen had walked in on. What we’d been doing upstairs. What the shaving kit was still doing on the floor beside the nightstand, beside the dish of cloudy water.

Some things didn’t need to be said.

After dinner, Ellen retreated to her room. Rita and I did the dishes together, our shoulders brushing, her hip occasionally bumping mine.

"I love you!" she said.

"Oh yeah, I do love you too. And I love your new attitude ... and your snatch, so cleanly shaved."

She giggled. "Never thought it would look so nice, so pure. Now I can't believe I waited so long."

---

On Sunday we walked along the waterfront. Rita wore the white camisole under a light cardigan, the balconette bra beneath it lifting her breasts in a way that made her look both elegant and impossibly sexy. Men looked at her. Women looked at her. She noticed every glance and instead of shrinking from them, she straightened her spine.

"They're looking at me," she said.

"They are."

"I like it." A small, wondering laugh. "I thought I would hate it. But I like it. Is that terrible?"

"No, not at all."

When we got home, we had coffee on the terrace. I did some crossword puzzles and Rita had her tablet. I watched her across the table... saw her move a hand under the table to caress herself.

A lazy afternoon on the couch watching an old movie, her head in my lap, my fingers threading through her hair.

Ellen came home Sunday evening. The front door opened and closed with its familiar squeak, and then she was standing in the living room doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, her green eyes, so like her mother's, moving from Rita to me and back again.

"You're glowing," she said flatly. "Both of you. It's weird."

"Hello to you too," Rita said.

"Hi, Mom." Ellen dropped her backpack. "I'm going to Melanie's again. Just came by to grab my laptop. Is that okay?"

"That's fine."

Ellen hesitated. Her gaze settled on me. The usual hostility was there, but muted - something softer underneath.

"Mom seems happy," she said. It wasn't an accusation. More like an observation she was still processing.

"I think she is," I said.

"Uhumm." Ellen picked up her backpack. "Well. Don't screw it up."

She was gone before I could respond.