Buttered Crumpets

She walked out of the room as I was waking-up, that mystery woman. Her perfume lingered on my hands and on her pillow. Her footsteps padding down the hall soft as a big cat's, receding with the memory of her parting kiss.

A smile washes over my face and I sink back into the Egyptian cotton alive in my comfort and smug to have invested in a thousand pocket springs, for this mattress, these sheets, are the perfect conclusion to a perfect morning, a perfect way to ease the aches of exertion and hold me close now she has gone.

The back door opens and I hear her beneath my window lighting a cigarette and speaking in a low friendly manner to a neighbour's cat.

I find myself alive again, every limb ready to stretch, my lungs ready to breathe, my cock rising to Heaven, my lips still curled in that delicious smile.

She closes the door and helps herself to kitchen supplies. The kettle, the cooker, the fridge. Coffee aromas and the smell of toast wafts through the open windows, out of one and into my room. I leap from my bed's embrace and run to the en-suite to pee, to splash my face, to brush my teeth.

Back into bed, as innocent as a lover in my deceit, I feign sleepiness and yawn as she returns with coffee, with Tropicana, with crumpets, olives and butter from the local farm shop.

I pull her down towards me and surprise her with my virulence - my confidence boosted by my hasty ablutions. We fuck and we love and we kiss and we hold each other in sweaty exhaustion.

The coffee grown cold, I feed my wife olives as she butters her crumpet and gives me a bite. I smile, we laugh, we talk.