Trent and Mrs. Trent lay at opposite ends of the deep, wide soaking tub, the scent of lavender and vanilla bubble bath encompassing them and the mounds of bubbles. Trent’s eyes were wide open while Mrs. Trent lay back, lower in the water, the back of her head resting on a thick towel on the edge of the tub.
The marriage had been rocky from the beginning and their tribe suggested they discuss their problems in the tub surrounded by candles and gradually move the conversation from talking out their grievances to flirty, sexual talk. Just as she was beginning to call him a fucking dork and he was going to ask her where her mind had been, Trent realized he had to take charge here and lead his wife, so he started talking a little shit to get her in the mood.
“Uh, say that again?” Mrs. Trent said as she flicked at a mound of bubbles floating on the surface with her toe.
“I’m in this, baby,” Trent replied. “Whatever happens, happens.”
“Mmm,” Mrs. Trent responded. “Such a bad boy,” she said.
“The baddest, baby,” he said. “And our family is the baddest, too.”
“Ahhh,” moaned Mrs. Trent. “Yessssss.”
Trent could see her pelvis gyrating somewhat beneath the water as the mounds of bubbles seemed to grow larger and thicker. Something seemed off to him. He didn’t expect her to be moaning like that until he started the dirty talk.
A bubble popped on the surface of the tub and released a voice that said, “I like being bad, too.”
Trent sat up quickly. “Say, babe,” he said. “Did you hear that?”
“You said you like being bad,” she answered, her eyes still shut, her head still back, her breathing growing deeper, heavier, raspier.
“But I didn’t say it,” Trent said, a concerned look on his face. “A bubble said it.”
Mrs. Trent giggled. “You’re so kinky,” she said. “Just think if these bubbles were alive!”
“We are,” two popping bubbles said in unison. Upon hearing them, Trent began pushing mounds of bubbles aside, trying to see down into the bathwater.
“How did you do that?” Mrs. Trent asked. She giggled some more.
“I didn’t do anything,” Trent insisted, getting ever more agitated. “They did. Goddammit!”
“They who?” Mrs Trent asked, her voice growing deeper, throatier. “The bubbles?” She shifted slightly and moaned again. Her knees broke the surface of the water as she bent her legs, mounds of bubbles growing where she lay.
The motion of her legs sent more bubbles skating across the surface of the water, popping as they collided with the edge of the tub and each other.
“You’re my pretty whore,” one bubble remarked. “Such a good girl for daddy!” said another.
“How are you doing that oh my god!” Mrs. Trent gasped. Where her arms and hands before were simply resting along the tub’s edge, she was now starting to grip the edge, the muscles in her slender arms becoming more flexed, more pronounced. A shudder went through her body, stirring up even more bubbles sliding everywhere across the bathwater. “I’ve never felt this before, honey!”
Trent ignored her and began popping bubbles. “We might need to call it a night before we prune,” he suggested. It seemed that the more he popped, the more were stirred up. And of course they spoke as he poked and flicked them making them burst.
“Shaved pussy!” one said. “Check those lips! It’s like Arby’s down there,” said another. “Mmmm big brown nipples!” said still another.
“Goddammit!” Trent yelled. “This is spiritual warfare!” He slapped at the suds with his hands, small suds clinging to the dark hair on his knuckles. They had high pitched noises and although he couldn’t make out everything they said, he could tell they were taunting him. To make matters worse, the growing number of voices from the bubbles cheering each other on as Mrs. Trent began spasming and gasping with pleasure sounded like the roar of the crowd at the Super Bowl.
“I will defend this family!” Trent shouted as he pulled the plug and the water began draining from the soaking tub, taking the suds with them.
“Gah…fuck oh my… fuck,” she began mumbling but it devolved into high-pitched whimpers and gurgling noises. When Mrs. Trent ultimately climaxed for the last time that night her scream sounded like a response to such a violent attack that their children began pounding on the door, crying.
By the time the police got to the house, he had smashed every tub in the house with a large cast-iron dumbbell.
Later, Trent would tell his court-appointed anger specialist that he had been temporarily blinded by rage. The counselor suggested that he just had soap in his eyes. Trent called him a degenerate and punched him repeatedly in the head until two security guards and several samaritans pulled him off. He dreaded prison but was thankful that, like the county jail, there were no bathtubs, only showers.