A House on Fire?

The house was on fire. She knew it. The party went on around her; why couldn’t the others smell the smoke?

Anna wandered from room to room, her nose in the air. It wasn’t stronger in one place than another. But she knew the house was on fire. It could burst into flame any second, but she didn’t want to alarm the guests until she knew its source. A handsome James Bond type holding a martini glass looked at her and smiled. He looked her up and down and smiled again. She knew he wanted her, but he didn’t know what she knew. Couldn’t he smell the smoke?

She was beginning to panic. If she didn’t find it soon, she’d have to ask everyone to leave. What would they think of her then? A cold sweat covered her forehead and popped out on her back. Her clothes would begin to stick to her soon. It seemed the heat was growing, especially when she opened the door to the guest room.

Constricted muscles snapped her body awake with the force of a taut rubber band. Panting, trembling, she realized what had happened. The house-on-fire dream. Again. Drenched in sweat and parched with thirst, Anna lay still, trying to regain a steady breathing rhythm. Damn this menopause thing. It sucked like nothing else, and she wanted it over with. She wanted it over now.

It was two a.m. Faced with the choice of trying to sleep or trying to cool down, Anna wondered why she was alone at this hour. She still felt like a beautiful woman with much of life ahead of her, but she wasn’t prepared for what her body was doing to her. The change came like a robber at a time when she felt most alive.

Anna rose, pulling her legs across the bed until they dangled off the edge. She caught herself slumping and righted her posture. Couldn’t afford to let that go now, no matter how tired and frustrated she was. Tired, frustrated and hot. No. Tired, frustrated, hot and horny.

Why now? Why, in the midst of her body’s betrayal, had her switch suddenly been turned to “high”? She was more needy for sex than she had ever been, but more alone than she had ever been. Why was it every man her age seemed older than she? Older, but far less mature. Most of them were like middle-aged high-schoolers, pawing her if she offered as much as a kiss and pouting when she refused. Life wasn’t fair.

With weary steps she reached the kitchen, peeling her nightgown away and tossing it toward the laundry room. Naked before the refrigerator, she opened the freezer door, inviting its frigid blast to surround her. Nipples stiffened by the swirl of icy air begged her touch, and she complied. She licked her fingers, then held them toward the frosty breeze. Closing the door, she leaned back against the counter. Cold, wet fingertips made contact with hard, puckered nipples. Stroking, squeezing and rolling them drew a hot sigh from her lips. God, that was sweet relief. It chilled her, all the way down her backbone. But it stoked the fire between her legs to an even greater degree.

She filled a glass with ice, then with water and a lemon wedge. Her body temperature seemed to be regulating itself, but her need for relief wouldn’t be denied. Standing in the dark kitchen, she took an ice cube from the glass and held it close to her throat. The first drop trickled off her breastbone and ran down between her breasts. It stopped just short of her navel, its life spent.

The sensation of cold water on hot flesh caused her to tremble. She desperately wanted to come, to prove herself still capable of accepting pleasure. Determined not to lose that part of herself to age, Anna leaned back and spread her legs, awaiting the next drop.

The second ran an icy rivulet along the same path, resting in her navel. The third followed the previous trail, taking a left toward her hipbone. Drop by icy drop, Anna let the stream have its own way with her body, holding the melting cube over each breast, allowing the water to cool her and cover her.

Her clit swelled with need, hot to its core, drenching itself in the honey that collected inside her folds. Unconsciously she rocked her lower body back and forth in a slow rhythm, as if fucking the very air she breathed. The cube melted completely away and Anna chose another. She wrapped three fingers around it, shivering as the cold hit her.

The next drops ran into the silken tangle of hair just over her swollen lips. And then it hit. The delicious chill of icy water on her feverish clit. Anna gasped, barely able to control herself. She drew a breath from deep within. Pressing on her hot lips with one hand, she held the ice cube above them with the other.

Ice water mixed with her own hot juices sent her soaring. With one hand she stroked herself, with the other she controlled the chilly waterfall. Her hips rocked with the strokes of her fingers. Anna gasped and moaned, indulging herself in her pleasure. Her body gave itself over to her climax as she spread her legs apart further, accepting the tremors of her climax. Relief. Deep sighs of indulgence. An orgasm was so much better than night sweats and bad dreams.

Trying to focus, she reached for a towel, dabbing the water from her body. She dropped the towel to the floor to let it absorb the drops that had fallen. Sipping the glass of water, Anna assured herself that she would always be a sexual being. Age was not going to take it away. How silly of her to think such thoughts. That’s what hormones can do to you, she told herself. Menopause was making PMS seem like a cakewalk.

She could sleep now, perhaps. She could at least relax. Maybe she would dream of James Bond with his raised martini glass, but this time she would be searching for another kind of heat. As she closed her eyes, she smiled. Where there’s smoke, there’s still fire.

© 2002 Jill. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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