the bubble bath

Maddie lounged in the Roman-style tub, rich, foamy bubbles creeping up over her legs and rising near her nether regions as the stupid old prosecuting attorney lurked just behind the half-open door.

A large man height- and weight-wise who was balding and had a comb-over — gray and wheat-colored strands sprawled across his glossy scalp — he stood there in a blue dress shirt and pressed gray slacks with black shoes, making clumsy, failed attempts at idle chit-chat in his semi-appealing Texas accent.  

He had brought a small black folding chair with him to sit on, and he held onto it, unopened, as he fidgeted, awaiting Maddie’s cue. But Maddie took her sweet-ass time. In fact, she purposely took longer than she had to so the dope would hopefully grow impatient and maybe even frustrated. Like he needed more of that outside the courtroom.

Maddie squeezed the last of the bubble bath out of the container, then filled it with water, shook it, and squeezed it out again. And then again — twice. She laid back and luxuriated in the steamy-hot water, caressing the smooth skin on her legs as the attorney jingled his pocket change and talked about his gravely ill brother.

Finally, Maddie’s privates were submerged, so she shut the faucet and scooped two handfuls of the bubbles and placed them on each breast for added suspense. Then she gave the attorney permission to enter.

He lumbered through the doorway hesitantly then banged his chair into the bottom of the sink and then into the wall near the towel rack as he opened it and placed it on the tiled floor. He then pulled out a small manila envelope from inside his suit jacket, plopped it onto the counter near the sink and sat down, and Maddie began to bathe.

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