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Shard 212: Domesticity

She wore only a pair of sheer panties as she ironed his shirt.
She had asked the concierge to bring up an ironing board and an iron, which she unfolded and set up next to the bed. She stood over it, ironing a brown button-down shirt he planned to wear at the conference the next day. His shirts got wrinkled in the suitcase, is what she told him. He sensed she simply enjoyed ironing for him.

She wore only a pair of sheer panties as she ironed, her ass pointing toward him as he lay on the bed watching her. He wondered if that was a conscious choice on her part, deliberately enticing him, or if it had been a decision made on some subconscious level. That it was mere coincidence seemed unlikely. He watched her ass move from side to side as she steered the iron back and forth. Her breasts swayed with each move, as if they were underwater, guided by the ebb and flow of the waves.

“I like watching you iron my clothes,” he told her.

“I like ironing your clothes.” She turned her head, wiggled her ass. “I enjoy being domestic for you.”

“I enjoy you acting all domestic.”

The word “domestic” was followed by a quiet, telling pause, but was unremarked upon. He said, “You realize they don’t even really need to be ironed.”

She chortled, then returned to her ironing.

“They don’t!”

“You dress very nicely, dear,” she said, taking some effort, it seemed to him, to not sound dismissive.

He said, “So, okay, they’re wrinkled a little. Maybe my socks are a little threadbare. It’s part of my rakish charm.”

“Your rakish charm?” He could not see her face, but could hear the smile in her voice.

“You know. My boyish demeanor.”

“You are raffish,” she said, her voice sparkling like crystal.


“Insouciant, one might even be tempted to say.”

“Yes. One might,” he said, laughing.

She put down the iron and turned, clearly aware of the effect her breasts would have on him. “I like taking care of you. Grooming you. Trimming your goatee. Brushing your hair.”

“I like it too.”

“I wish I could do it every day.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the unexpected enormity of the statement. His gaze on her was steady, but he said nothing in reply. The resultant pause lengthened into a gravid stillness that hung in the air like last night’s perfume.

Very quietly, almost whispering, he said, “I do too.”

His arm whipped out to the waistband of her panties; he grasped the elastic and pulled her onto the bed, the material ripping as he did so, the sound of the rip filling the room, replacing the charged silence with something more immediate. He rolled over on top of her, holding her wrists down against the sheets. The scent of her enveloped him: her hair, her skin, her pussy.

“Every day,” he repeated, in a voice as soft as wings. He took his hand from her wrist and grabbed her hair in his fist and bent her neck back, exposing her throat.


The Shard series is a collection of flash fiction pieces that focus on short scenes from the experiences, memories, fantasies and dreams of the narrator. Think of them as shards of a broken mirror.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2018 Verbal P. Incandenza | Yeah, not my real name, but I still wrote this. Be cool. Please don't steal it.

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