Message-ID: <23968asstr$957427815@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <20000504033931.18393.qmail@web705.mail.yahoo.com>
From: Susan Susan <susan282@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Subject: {ASSM} Kansas (f-mast, fm, ff, long)
Date: Thu, 4 May 2000 04:10:15 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/23968>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw
Kansas (f-mast, fm, ff, long)
You know the rules: Don't read this if you don't want
to or you're not supposed to. Depictions of sex and
all that. Don't steal it and post it on a pay site.
Don't take credit for my work. Eat your vegetables.
Brush your teeth. Sit up straight.
Yes, it's long and wordy, but you know what? This is
what real life is like. You want a quick stroke, skip
to something else. You want something that comes from
the real me, read this.
Semi-autobiographical, but I'm not telling which parts
are which. Intelligent comments appreciated, all
others ignored: susan282@yahoo.com
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She was doing it to me again. She stood in front of me
in the doorway to my room, one arm leaning up against
the doorjamb, one arm loose against her side, white
cotton camisole with spaghetti straps, white cotton
panties.
"You like business trips?" she asked.
"They're a pain," I said, folding dresses and packing
my garment bag, trying not to look at her. "I have to
cart this thing around. I have to be on stage ten,
twelve hours a day. I have to smile and laugh and
pretend I care about the product. I have to go out for
dinner and drinks with them when I'm the only single
woman in the room. The only nice thing is they pay for
all of it, everything."
"That would have to be fun, though. Nice hotel. Go
away for a few days. Eat in decent restaurants. No
more spaghetti every night."
She lowered her arm as she talked, leaned to the other
side. I could see her breasts shifting through the
thin cotton, nipples brushing against it. Her
underwear was cut high on her hips, elastic bands
curving up on either side of her pussy. It seemed
snug. I kept busy putting socks in the corners of my
bag, and looked at her. She was gazing away, running
her fingers through her dirty-blond hair. I was still
in my sweats.
Another night at home. Laura envying me going away on
another trip, another high-tech marketing
extravaganza; me envying her staying home, sitting on
the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry's, watching
cable. She was chattering on about how much she hates
cooking; I was nodding, folding, wondering if she
sometimes likes to press the pint of cold ice cream
against her cunt just long enough to feel it burn, the
way I do sometimes, standing in front of the freezer
in the dark.
I looked at her breasts heaving through the white
cotton. Her boobs are bigger than mine, at least
another size; we joke about it when we borrow each
other's clothes, how she stretches out my sweatshirts.
Her nipples were clearly standing out now, casting
little shadows from my bedroom light. I glanced
between her legs again, wondering if I could see her
lips outlined. I looked up at her, and saw her looking
right at me.
Did she know?
-----
Why did she do this to me? Laura and I have been
living together for a year and a half. We met through
friends, both of us looking for a decent apartment in
Boston at the same time, hit it off right away.
There'd never been so much as a raised eyebrow between
us for the first year - just hanging out, complaining
about guys and our jobs, going out, renting movies.
We're single, we're in our twenties, we're roommates.
There are thousands of people like us in the city,
right?
So why had she taken to wandering around the house in
her underwear? Ever since it started getting warm, she
was forsaking her sweats for a t-shirt and underwear.
Once, I swear, there was no underwear. She was sitting
on the couch and I was across from her in the big
green chair, and I thought I saw fuzz between her
legs, and when I couldn't stop looking I made myself
get up and leave the room.
I hadn't had a boyfriend the whole time we'd been
living together. There was Rick, a guy I saw now and
then, but we weren't really a couple, just friends who
fell into bed together every couple of months when we
both needed it. Laura had a boyfriend for a while,
Travis, who made her pant and moan like thunder in the
bedroom, and always made me uneasy when he hung around
our kitchen. They'd split up months ago. We admitted
to each other that we liked it better having just the
two of us around.
I'd been paying more attention to her boobs. Did she
know? I don't know how it began, I just realized that
I enjoyed the way she swayed in her sweats. Then she
started wearing less clothes.
I started wondering what she was doing in the bathtub.
I mean, I knew, of course, but I started thinking
about it. Weekend evenings she'd soak in there for an
hour, just the little bulb over the sink lit up. I'd
be sitting on my bed trying to read, and then I'd
start to feel strangely constricted, distracted. I'd
read the same sentence three, four, five times.
Finally, a few weeks ago, I quietly stepped into the
hallway and sat down outside the bathroom, listening.
I could hear water swishing, I could hear low moans. I
knew what those moans meant.
The last couple of months, she'd been leaving the
bathroom door open when she took a shower in the
morning. First just a crack, now wide open. "Laura,
you want me to close this?" "No, thanks, I'm just
letting the steam out, if it doesn't bother you." It
didn't. I'd walk past in the hall and see the vague
outline of her hands, her legs, her hips through the
curtain. I'd stand and gawk. I knew she could probably
sense me there, too.
I told myself I was just appreciating Laura as a
beautiful woman, which she was - about five-five, firm
upturned breasts, taut ass, legs looking longer than
they really were. Dirty blond hair that hung straight
and ended just above her shoulders. She worked in a
hair salon, so she always had to look good, and she
also got a discount. She got invited to cool parties,
too.
I told myself I was just admiring her body. Harmless.
People painted nude women because they were beautiful,
not because they were horny, right? Besides, she's my
roommate - I have to share a place with her, pay the
bills, argue about cleaning the fridge.
I fought it for a while. I was still fighting it. I'm
no prude: Every woman has those strange dreams now and
then, the ones that don't really mean anything, the
ones that just mean you really feel close to another
woman. I've had lesbian friends, co-workers, whatever.
One night at a college party, drunk and happy, I
kissed a girl from my drama class on the back porch --
hands on each other's hips, chests pressing against
each other, my face so flushed and red, but it didn't
feel right enough to do anything more.
So why was I feeling this way about Laura? Was she
sending me signals? Was she leading me on? Was I
imagining it?
Had she seen me staring at her cunt? Did she know?
-----
"I've never stayed in a really nice hotel before. You
know, nice furniture, big bed, marble sink. Is that
the kind of place you stay?"
"Sometimes. The DuPont in Delaware was like that. It
had this huge bathtub and all these nice bubble baths
and soaps. The bed was a little higher than normal, so
I felt like I was on a pedestal. I told everyone that
I was feeling a little ill, so I didn't have to go out
with them, and then I went back and took a long bath
and put on the terrycloth robe and sat at the window
in the dark."
She knew what I'd been doing in the tub, I was sure.
She was sitting now on the wooden floor of my room,
legs crossed, the white triangle between her legs
tugging at my eyes, her nipples perky as hell. My
boobs are smaller than hers, like I said, but as I
stood and swiveled and reached into my closet and bent
over my bed, I could feel my own nipples scraping
against gray cotton. I felt warm.
"But most of the time," I said, "it's just all right.
A nice hotel, but a small room. It's always jammed
with my stuff. And it's not like I'm even going to
these places to see the sights - it's just meetings
and meetings and then these forced dinners. Like this
week, I'll be in Kansas City for four days, but I'll
probably never go downtown or eat the barbecue or hear
any music, because I'll be so busy demonstrating
products and all this shit."
"Poor Susan," Laura pouted. "All alone in her little
room. No one around but boring old guys. Nothing to do
but soak in the tub."
I threw a pair of black hose at her. "It sucks.
Really. I'd rather be at home. You're going to have
the place to yourself for four days. You can do
whatever you want. You can meet some guy and have wild
sex on the floor and I'll never even know. You can - "
"If I do that, I'll be sure to tell you," she giggled.
"I'll brag about it for weeks. It's been too long, you
know?" She threw the hose back at me and stared. She
kept staring when I turned away.
"How long has it been?" I asked.
"Something like four months now."
"What's the longest you've ever gone without getting
laid?"
"Something like four months." She giggled again. This
is the kind of thing she did to guys when she wanted
their attention - tease, flirt, hint, but leave it to
them to finally have to make a move. Usually, then
she'd shut them down cold. It was cruel to watch,
sometimes. But I was starting to understand about the
giggle.
"What's the longest for you?"
"A year and a half, when I was in college. After
Charlie broke up with me. I just didn't want to do
anything with anyone."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. I stayed at home." And because I was in the
dorm, I couldn't take a long bath and slide myself
under the faucet. And because I had a roommate in the
top bunk, I couldn't throw off my sheets and rub
myself in the night. And because I couldn't do any of
that, I tried not to think about any of it, and just
pretended like I didn't want any of it.
Should I say it? I opened my mouth and said it:
"A year and a half is a long time to go without coming
once."
This wasn't an offer, wasn't a pickup line, just a new
kind of confidence between us. We'd talked about guys,
of course - how long they were and how long they
lasted, if they went down on us without being asked,
if they made funny noises when they came. They'd have
slunk out the back door, tails between their legs, if
they'd ever heard us talking the way we did. But never
had we talked about orgasms. Laura made a big show of
dropping her mouth open.
"I don't think I could last a week without coming
once," she said.
There. It was out. I smiled, looked at her. "I
couldn't either, now that I know better," I said. "So
that's why staying in a nice hotel can be nice."
She had this devilish look on her face now, the one
she gave to guys when she decided it was all right for
them to start resting their hands on her thigh in a
crowded club. "Especially if their bathtubs are nicer
than ours."
-----
Airports always turn me on. I don't know why.
Something about the people coming and going, strangers
all crammed into the same place for a few hours, the
anonymity, the movement. When I was a girl I'd watch
old black-and-white movies and imagine myself in one
of those train stations, decked out in some sexy
A-line dress and a hat that cast glamorous shadows,
waiting for my dark-haired mystery man to arrive on
the midnight express. Then I got older and found out
about sex. And I started going to airports.
Walking through Logan in a tan skirt and a blue
pullover, garment bag over one shoulder, canvas
briefcase over the other, I looked like a million
other travelers. Nothing special about me. Don't look
here. I certainly didn't fall asleep with my hand
inside my panties, picturing my roommate's nipples, a
fingernail scraping my clit, my open mouth biting at
the pillow to keep from yelling out.
Airports turn me on. Couples are standing in corners,
getting ready to say goodbye after long weekends at
the shore or in the country. Couples are embracing in
the middle of the hallway, wrapping themselves around
each other in long, deep kisses. Good-looking men are
sitting in those deep bench seats, eyes scanning over
the top of their Business Weeks, watching women like
me walk by. College kids are going home for the
weekend, ready to tell their high school friends about
the wild shit that goes down in their dorms. Wives
leave their husbands for a while. Boyfriends leave
their girlfriends for a while. They go away, to places
where nobody knows them, where no one will recognize
their face in a smoky bar, where they can watch a
dirty movie late at night on the hotel pay-per-view,
where they can wander through the "Anonymous" books at
a Barnes & Noble and not have to worry about their
boss spotting them. They sit in hotel bars at night,
drinking on the company tab, telling half-truths about
their lives and falling together for a night or two.
Airports turn me on, but it's not all in my head. Over
there, where the plane from Cleveland is letting out,
the guy with the sharp haircut and gray suit is
wrapping his arms around his girlfriend in the yellow
sundress. She's not wearing a bra; the straps are too
thin, the material is too light, she's feeling him
press against her chest, he's feeling her back,
kissing the side of her neck, whispering something in
her ear. He slips his hands down her hips, feels
nothing, whispers again, smiles. She's wearing nothing
underneath. She grins and holds his hand as they start
walking toward the parking garage.
When Charlie went away for spring break in our
sophomore year, that was me. I stayed on campus,
borrowed my roommate's car, picked him up at the
airport in a long print dress with a neck that
billowed nicely open when I bent over. He got off the
plane in jeans and a flannel shirt, like always; I
leaned over to kiss him, watched his eyes work lower,
until he realized he could see all of me. I had barely
kept my hands off myself in the car that day.
At the baggage claim, I squatted on my haunches in
front of him, pretending to look at the straps on his
bag. He looked down, saw me naked between my legs,
smiled. In the garage he took me around to the side of
the car and pressed my back against the glass, his
hand pulling the dress up until he could reach me. He
slipped two warm fingers inside of me and I came,
effortlessly, quietly, chewing my lip, thinking it
would only get better in the car and back in the dorm
and when we got home, thinking it would always be like
that, that when I picked him up from all the business
trips he'd take in the next 50 years, I'd never wear
underwear. It would be our little secret.
Charlie left. The thing about airports didn't. I liked
to take a seat where I could watch the crowds, eyeball
the guys with cute asses in old Levi's, watch them
watching me, watch the couples hand-in-hand, watch the
older men in impeccable suits and strong silver hair
and a firm presence about them. They'd cheat on their
wives for me. I'd let them.
Of course, I never did; it was just fun to watch and
imagine before diving into a marketing report. So it
was completely harmless, when I sat down in Logan, to
aimlessly watch the women too.
There were the professionals - black miniskirts, black
hose, briefcase, sharp yellow or blue blouse, jacket.
Which ones were the wild ones, the ones who fucked
three different guys one day years ago when they were
feeling out-of-control, the ones who bought vibrators
on their out-of-town trips and brought them home to
show their husbands, the ones who liked to be tied up?
I watched them strut past with their wheeled
carry-ons, imagining what they'd look like in
wild-eyed passion - mouth open, eyes shut, hair
flying, squeezing their tits hard in their hands,
squatting over a dildo and fucking themselves silly.
There were the students - jeans and t-shirts and
plenty of layers, hair cut wild and dyed unnatural
orange. Which ones were the ones just coming out, the
ones who were learning about other girls in some funky
candlelit dorm room, the ones who decided to let their
armpits grow, the ones who smeared their blood on
their chests one day in the bathtub just to see what
it felt like? I watched them curl up on the benches,
imagining what they'd look like all curled up with
each other, fingers tracing lines down each other's
sides, ducking their heads between each others' legs,
tongues swirling in their cunts.
There were the wives - khakis and light summer
sweaters, maybe a couple of kids to keep an eye on.
Which ones were finally learning to embrace their own
orgasms at home in the afternoons, keeping nasty porno
videos hidden in their underwear drawers where they
think their husbands won't find it, rubbing themselves
silly on vacuum cleaner hoses? I watched them saunter
past in comfortable shoes, imagining what they look
like in mid-afternoon, lying with their legs splayed
on their newly-made beds, fingers a blur digging into
their bush.
Jesus, what was I doing? I looked around, convinced
someone had seen my thoughts plastered on the wall
above my head: "Average-looking black-haired woman
here, turned on by imagining sex lives of other women
walking past."
Or this: "Still obsessed with idea of kissing
roommate, feeling roommate's nipples in mouth,
touching roommate's pussy, trying to crawl into bed
with roommate one night on pretext of being upset."
Or this: "Multi-orgasmic when she's in the right mood,
utterly unpenetrated in months except by her own
fingers, wondering what she'll do with four days and
no plans in Kansas City."
What the hell was wrong with me?
-----
She's not my type. Frizzy brown hair billowing around
her head, a simple light blue business suit, white
hose, ugly flats. Maybe a year or two younger than me.
Nothing alluring. Nothing exotic. Standing behind her
in line at Starbucks, no one would look at her twice.
But I wasn't behind her. I was sitting next to her for
two and a half hours from Logan to O'Hare, me next to
the window, her in the middle seat, a dozing
grandfather on the aisle. Our conversation petered out
politely - traveling on business, going to Phoenix for
a meeting with other bank execs, hoping we make our
connections in Chicago. She pulled out her stacks of
spreadsheets; I took out my New Yorker and started
reading about Brazilian politics.
I didn't get far. The same paragraph, over and over,
my mind wandering. What was she going to do in
Phoenix? Was she looking forward to a hot bath by
herself as much as I was? Was she going to sleep
naked, or still wear the ratty old t-shirts and
panties she wears at home? Was she even conscious of
her body?
Oh, shit. She's not even good-looking, I told myself,
even as my eye kept wandering to see her breasts from
the side. Pretty nice, actually. I looked down to
where her skirt was riding up. She was sitting with
her legs spread, one tapping up and down rhythmically.
I watched. I kept the magazine spread on my lap for an
hour, through the little veggie-wrap that United calls
lunch, through the drink service, over Pennsylvania
and Ohio. I didn't read it. I kept looking at her
side, looking down, imagining the shape of her body,
imagining her stripping off her hose in Phoenix,
imagining her stepping out of the airport into the hot
Arizona afternoon, feeling a trickle of sweat running
down her back. I saw her lying on her stomach on her
hotel bed, biting her lip, humping her hand, wondering
if she could come if she'd only let herself stick a
finger inside.
It was too much. I made a pretense of turning the page
every couple of minutes, but I wasn't reading. I was
fantasizing. It wasn't just her - it was me with her,
me sitting in a chair in her room, watching her
undress; me running my hands up and down her
stockings, feeling them silky along her thighs; my
fingers drifting through her messy hair, my mouth
tasting the back of her neck, my hands squeezing
another woman's breasts, feeling her pussy get wet.
Jesus. I was getting wet, too. I crossed my legs and
crossed them again; I felt mushy, hot, flustered. My
bra felt tight; I looked down and could see my nipples
outlined through the fabric. This was too much. This
had never happened to me before. I squeezed past her
and past the old man, waited in line at the back of
the plane and closed the bathroom door behind me.
I flipped the plastic seat down and sat on it, my
skirt bunched up around my hips, and pulled down my
panties. They had started out light blue that morning,
old and reliable. Now they were soaked through in the
middle, a dark blue splotch two inches long. I held
them in one hand and poked at the stain with my
finger. It was more than wet - it was a puddle.
One foot on the door, one on the sink, and I was off.
I started the way I always do at home - pinching my
left nipple hard, suddenly, pulling on it, and then
grasping the whole boob in my hand, wrenching it.
Right hand circling my slit - start by tickling the
hair, stroke up and down the wet skin, plunge in two
fingers when I can't stand to wait anymore. Switch
hands. Repeat.
Even after squirming in my seat for an hour, unable to
focus and heating up slowly, I still was able to keep
myself under control. No wild moaning. No feet
pounding against the door. This wasn't some
long-hidden fantasy of mine - pulling myself off in an
airplane bathroom - and the cruddy old plastic walls
weren't exactly erotic. This was simply how I come
when I want to come quick, when I can't sleep or am
wracked with cramps.
So why, when I switched hands again, did I find three
fingers slipping easily inside my pussy, not just two?
Why could I feel the impact even harder than usual on
my g-spot? Why, when it finally hit me, did the
shudders keep moving through me?
Finally, I put my feet down and figured I'd better get
out. The bathroom didn't smell too bad. I looked at my
wadded-up panties sitting next to the sink and
realized there was no way I was putting that wet thing
back on me - it would have been like putting a wet
swimsuit back on after I got dry. So I pushed them
deep into the trash barrel, washed my hands, and
headed back up the aisle with my pussy drying in the
air.
Sitting back down next to Miss Average, I tried to
convince myself that I'd stopped my silly lusting. I
picked up the New Yorker and focused on yet another
piece of incomprehensible English fiction. And I
started reading the same sentence over and over, until
I looked once more to my right.
-----
She never noticed, of course. I had a bit of a scare
when I reached up to pull my garment bag from the
overhead bin, but then I was out walking through
O'Hare, as anonymous as anybody else, picking up a
slice of pizza and a Coke, sitting with my legs
tightly crossed in a booth by the wall, and heading
for a comfortable spot at my next gate to kill another
hour.
Faces walking by. Bodies walking by. Imagining what
the men and women in front of me looked like naked -
dangling balls, jiggling boobs. Picturing men with
their cocks hanging out, me able to just walk up and
grab one, no consequences. Picturing women with their
tits on display, me able to stroke them and watch
their nipples rise, kissing them passionately in the
middle of the airport. I looked down and saw my own
nipples pressing through my shirt. I was definitely
getting out of control. What was I going to do about
it?
I got up, hoisted my bag over my shoulder, and walked
down to one of the far gates. I strolled down the last
row of facing seats, where a collegiate hippie chick
with long red hair was sitting against the wall
reading "Steppenwolf." Figures. I plopped my bag down,
made brief friendly eye contact, sat down across from
her and opened the New Yorker once again. I was never
going to read this magazine.
First I sat with my legs crossed demurely, swinging
one foot and savoring the little vibrations it caused.
Then, after a few minutes, I planted both feet on the
ground with my legs a little bit apart. Hippie Chick
looked up, looked around, looked at my face, looked at
my legs ... kept her eyes there for a minute ... and went
back to Herman Hesse. I waited a minute or two. Then,
pretending to be engrossed in a ballet review, I
folded my right leg under me and settled down on it
like a cat, spreading my thighs a little.
This caught her interest. She looked up and kept
looking up. I could sense her eyes on me, but I
focused on the page in front of me, little black
squiggles on white. She was sitting on the floor, her
eyes even with my crotch. It was bright and sunny in
our corner, down by the windows. She could see me. She
could see my black curly hair. Maybe she could see my
lips, still swollen and puffy and wet, spreading
slowly apart the way they do when I'm excited. Maybe
she could tell how excited I was.
I shifted in my seat, just to see what she'd do. Her
head shot down to her book again. We sat for a few
minutes, her looking up occasionally to see what she'd
see, then looking down again. Could she see my clit
swelling? Could she see it fiery red, begging to feel
a fingernail against it, wishing for a cock to crash
against it as some faceless guy pounded me again and
again?
I hadn't planned any of this. I tried to figure out
why I was doing it, why I was flashing my cunt at a
random girl in Chicago, why I had to show myself to a
woman like this. I couldn't answer. Of course it had
nothing to do with Laura, I said. Of course not.
Then I pulled my other leg up and propped both of them
in front of me, heels on the seat, knees up. I knew my
cunt must be hanging there obscenely, lips clear and
slick, squeezed together between my thighs. I buried
my face in the magazine, but could just see her head
to the side of the page. She was staring, of course -
at my pussy, at my face, at my pussy again. She
shifted in her seat. She had to know something was up,
didn't she? Or was she young and clueless enough to
think I was older and clueless?
I must have sat like that for 15 minutes, turning
pages occasionally, feeling one drop of juice after
another drip down to the crack in my ass. It was
excruciating. I wanted to touch myself. If she had
reached over to me - she was only about ten feet away
- I would have let her touch me, would have gripped my
knees and moaned as she stroked me. Instead, I sat
there, getting frustrated, getting horny. I thought
about stroking myself, but it would have been too
much. I'm not ready to go that far ... although, I
wondered, who would ever know?
This couldn't go on. I had to stop. I had to catch my
plane. I suddenly set down the magazine and looked her
straight in the eyes. She blushed, jerked her head
down toward my lap. If I were some kind of
super-confident, super-sexual woman, I would have come
up with some witty line for her. Instead, I kept
looking at her until she looked up at me. Then I
smiled wide, stood up, straightened my skirt and
walked back to my gate.
I could feel my thighs trembling.
-----
No twenty-something woman next to me on the flight to
Kansas City. It was a newer plane, one with two seats
side-by-side, me by the window and a fellow in his
late 30s sitting on my left on the aisle. No worries
about reaching up to the overhead bin; they made me
check the garment bag. I pulled down a blanket to
stretch across me in case I just had to touch myself.
Naturally, he wanted to talk. Wedding ring, polo
shirt, jeans, curly black hair and a mustache. I hate
mustaches. He was heading out to Missouri to update
the systems on a big metal stamping machine, or
something.
"My name's Bob, by the way," he said.
"I'm Laura," I said. "Pleased to meet you."
He talked about the business of installing big metal
stamping machines. He talked about the boat he hoped
to buy and sail on Lake Michigan in the summertime. He
talked about his family, about his daughter going into
sixth grade and starting to have trouble with her
homework. I didn't care. I made up scandalous lies
about myself, telling him I was going to present a
road show for a hot new Internet IPO, how I was living
on nothing but Ramen Noodles and stock options,
working 80 and 90 hour weeks in a hip office where all
the programmers had nose rings and took me to crazy
bars that didn't get hopping til 3 a.m. He obviously
didn't know Boston bars close at 2.
He was eating it up. I was loving it. I felt
shameless, the way Laura often does, the way I never
can. I crossed my legs and pulled my right arm under
the blanket, resting my hand in my lap, testing myself
to see how many minutes could go by before I started
touching myself.
"How long have you been married?" I asked. Fifteen
years. He talked about marriage, talked about his
wife, asked me if I had a boyfriend. No, I said.
"Free and easy," I told him, "and I plan to stay like
that for a long time."
"That's fine, but don't stay like that for too long,"
he said. "Wait too long and suddenly you'll find
you're all alone."
He was probably right, but I didn't like hearing it on
principle. "I haven't had a steady boyfriend for two
years, but I don't get lonely," I said with a snort.
Let him chew on that for a while.
I dropped my hand into my lap. Slowly, slowly. He's
right next to me. Keep breathing normally. Keep a
conversation going. Talk about music. Talk about cars.
Talk about anything where I can just say, "Uh-huh,
uh-huh."
On the other hand, why not?
I slowly worked my skirt up, shifting right, shifting
left, pushing the hemline up past the edge of the
seat, under my thighs. He didn't even notice me
shifting back and forth, didn't notice my hand
sweeping around under my blanket. You poor dumb
sonofabitch. I let out a big sigh in the middle of one
of his interminable sentences. I didn't even like him.
I looked across the aisle; the people on the other
side were sleeping, reading, wearing a Walkman. I
turned my head and looked straight at him.
"Bob, flip up the armrest, will you?" He did.
"Now put your right hand on the seat between us." He
did. Oh my God. It was happening. I could feel my
nipples tenting again.
"Now move your hand under the blanket, slowly."
"Uh, Laura ..."
"Just do it," I snapped. "I want to show you
something." He still hesitated. I pouted for just a
moment, then turned it into a smile, the way Laura
would. "Just do it, Bob."
He did it. He stopped cold when he felt my bare thigh
against his hand, withdrew. "Keep going, Bob." Slowly,
slowly, he put his hand back. "Now keep moving your
hand toward me."
My God, how long had it been since I'd felt a man's
hands between my legs? This felt good. I didn't care.
He reached my pubic hair and stopped again. He was
considering madly, I knew - was this wrong? What kind
of girl was I? Why wasn't I wearing panties? Isn't
this the kind of thing he read about in Penthouse but
never believed would have really happened to him?
I looked him straight in the eyes and whispered, "Bob,
I want this. I want you to touch me. I need this. Do
it for me." I stopped, saw hesitation in his eyes.
"I've been thinking about this since I sat down next
to you," I lied. Then I looked at the seat in front of
me and closed my eyes.
He started rubbing me with a finger, got it a little
bit moist, and stuck it right in. He was clumsy and
wrong and had no sense of timing. I tried spreading my
legs a little wider to make it easier, but it didn't
help. It felt all wrong, but somehow, it worked. I
could feel myself building to a climax, praying that
he wouldn't stop, praying that he wouldn't screw it up
somehow.
"Keep going," I whispered between my clenched teeth,
not even opening my eyes. He kept going, sticking in a
second finger and poking me harder, and it wasn't long
before I could feel that familiar flush creeping over
me. It was all business - catch in my throat, hold my
breath, squeeze, red flash in my head, and suddenly my
genitals were sore. "Stop, stop now," I said, still
not looking at him. He stopped and slowly pulled his
hand out, setting it down on his lap. I could see his
finger glisten.
He kept trying to make conversation, but I wouldn't
bite after that. I scrunched my skirt back down to my
knees, wrapped my arms across my chest and looked out
the window. I'm sure he was wondering what he had done
wrong, but really, he hadn't done anything wrong. I
didn't feel like explaining. Hell, I couldn't have
explained it to myself.
Kansas City was getting closer. I could see flat,
square farm fields giving way to suburbs out the
window. What was I heading into? What was I doing?
-----
At the baggage claim, Bob kept trying to ask me if he
could see me again. Nice dinner. Drinks. Nothing
serious, nothing has to happen, he just really enjoyed
talking to me, thinks I'm something special. Where was
I staying? Did I want to share a cab?
I acted cold and distant and I lied, lied, lied. I
caught a cab by myself to my anonymous Hyatt in the
suburbs. I watched the office parks and the strip
malls whiz past, keeping my legs tightly crossed,
feeling no urge whatsoever to flash the cabbie,
feeling vaguely depressed.
Twice today I had come in airplanes. Once fantasizing
about a mousy banker with ugly shoes - a woman, don't
forget - and once as a guy I felt nothing for stuck
his fingers up my cunt. I had no idea what was pushing
me to do this, what was turning me into this kind of
slut. It was wrong. I dragged a married man into going
to third base with me. I looked at everyone around me
today as a body, an object, not a person. I had these
crazy, utterly hopeless feelings for Laura, and I was
acting out in ways that were so out of character.
Sitting in the air-conditioned cab, watching this drab
landscape roll by, listening to top 40 songs on the
radio, I wanted nothing more than to go back to
Boston, crawl into bed alone and read Jane Austen
until I felt like myself again.
I checked into my room on the twelfth floor, admiring
the beautiful view of scenic Overland Park. The
windows were sealed shut. I turned off the air
conditioning, opened my bags, hung my work outfits
neatly in the closet, stashed my jeans and underwear
in the dresser, set out my makeup and toothpaste and
shampoo, put the New Yorker on the nightstand, and
crawled into bed.
Okay. I was getting control of myself.
-----
That night I dreamed of Laura. She was dressed in some
sort of dominatrix bitch goddess outfit, all black
leather and metal studs, with black stockings and
garter belts and a whip in her hand. I was lying on my
back on a wooden floor, she was towering over me in
high heels, and all my friends were standing around,
laughing. I was, of course, completely naked. I wasn't
tied down, but I couldn't move. My co-workers watched
me squirm as Laura walked around me slowly. My college
friends listened intently as Laura told me I had to be
punished for thinking my dirty thoughts. I wanted to
fuck a woman? Okay, I was going to get fucked by a
woman. Laura was smiling wide, like she'd wanted to do
this all along. My friends were enjoying the show,
probably because they'd always expected to see me
involved in something like this. I was shocked, too
stunned to really move, getting closer and closer to
the edge but unable to reach that peak, gritting my
teeth and clamping my eyes shut, trying to block out
the jeers of my friends, accepting my shame, turning
redder and redder ... but it was never enough.
I awoke panting and sweating, too mortified by my
dream to finish myself off. Normally I don't have a
hard time coming - Charlie taught me I didn't need
perfect silence and perfect stroking to come like a
banshee - but this unnerved me. Laura with a whip. Me
at her feet. When I finally woke up and took a shower,
I didn't even want to play with the detachable shower
head.
I dressed conservatively, acted calmly at the day's
meetings. Four days of this to go. I didn't even feel
that horny - maybe these urges were finally going
away. Of all the people I met, none of them appealed
to me. Except for a woman in her 30s, working in the
back of the room at the client company, none of them
were even remotely near my age. That made it easier.
Meet, demonstrate, talk, pile into a cab for dinner,
pile back to the hotel, go to bed, read the New
Yorker.
It's nice to be here in bed by myself, I thought. It's
nice not to hear the TV, to hear Laura's old boyfriend
talking about himself in the kitchen, to hear the
neighbor's stereo through the walls. I bet Laura was
enjoying herself too ... and as soon as I pictured her
lying in our bathtub, the single bulb illuminating her
form, the thought pinned me against the bed, arms at
my sides, legs spread.
I could feel my pussy lips spreading wider inside my
panties. They were heating up, swelling, growing
puffy, alive. I knew they were bright pink. I knew my
nipples were standing up, starting to ache. I could
feel myself moistening. My only movement was my chest
rising, falling, as I breathed deeper.
Laura was leaning back in the tub, one hand lazily
trailing down her belly, teasing the blond fuzz
between her legs. Laura was drizzling water across her
soft skin; she was slowly stroking the insides of her
thighs, scraping her nails against her, watching her
muscles tense. She was propping one leg up, making a
vee with her cunt in the middle. She was feeling the
water lapping at her nipples, warm and inviting. She
was rubbing, stroking, fondling. She was licking her
lips, opening her mouth, waving her tongue into the
steamy air. She was thinking of me.
I got myself off through my clothes. I grabbed my left
tit roughly, I plunged my other hand against the
cotton between my legs, and rubbed hard and fast for
90 seconds until I came, a few brief gasps and a white
flash before my eyes. I lay there, my own tongue
swirling circles in the air, and knew I needed more.
I walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I
stand five-foot-six, about 120 pounds when I'm not on
the rag. My hips line up with my shoulders; my boobs
are smallish, at the upper edge of 34B, but I happen
to think they're beautiful - pert and pointy, filling
up the cups of my bras, curving deeper at the bottom
than the top, standing on their own when I'm braless.
Black curly hair, still cut above my shoulders, enough
space at the back of my neck for someone to kiss me
and make me come.
I stripped off my t-shirt slowly, watching in the
mirror as the nubs of my nipples became visible.
They're big, like gumdrops almost. I can grasp them
firmly, and I do, pulling hard on them when I come. I
slid my panties off next, looking at my furry bush. Is
that a turnoff? Should I keep it neat and trimmed like
I've seen in Charlie's Penthouses? (All right, all
right, like I've seen on the Web?)
My God, I said, I'm beautiful. I am a sex machine. I
can make a man crawl across a room to get between
these legs. I can wear him out all night, and then I
can get his best friend, too.
I watched myself as I started stroking again, harder,
faster, watching the red flush spread blotchy across
my chest, watching my chest heaving, watching the way
I trembled until I slumped against the counter, my
fingers a glistening blur. I wanted more. I sat down
on the floor and looked closely at myself in the
mirror. Reaching down with both hands, I pulled away
at both sides of my cunt, watching the lips separate.
They really were puffy. I could see folds within
folds, pink and fleshy and jumpy to the touch. I poked
at my cunt curiously with my fingers - I'd never seen
myself up close like this before. This is what guys
saw - my clit hiding under that pink flap, my lips
wider, my lips wild to their tongues. To Laura's
tongue.
I jammed two fingers into me, reaching up to grab my
g-spot, while my other hand tore at my clit. I came
again, within seconds, watching myself panting in the
mirror, watching my eyes roll and my lips writhe. I
wanted more. I grabbed my nipples; it wasn't enough. I
wanted more. I wanted to be wild.
I reached up onto the bathroom counter for my big
makeup bag and emptied it on the floor, eyeliner and
nail polish and compacts clattering around me. There
in the center was my hairbrush, a big wooden handle
gnarled and worn. I wrapped my fingers around the
brush and held the handle against my pussy lips,
savoring the view, teasing myself. I had never done
anything like this before, but now it seemed so right,
so firm, so solid, so big. With a wiggle of my hips I
slipped it into me, feeling the bumps slide over my
clit, feeling the end bump up against me, feeling my
body adjust to a strange firm object inside me. It
wasn't like a cock - too thin, too straight - but it
was close. I started sliding it in and out, twisting
it like a butter churn, riding myself like a joystick.
In the mirror I saw myself wild-eyed, saw the muscles
in my arm flexing and bending, saw the lips of my
pussy sloshing and stretching.
I came again. It wasn't enough. When I pulled the
hairbrush out my lips stayed open, leaving a black
canyon between the lips. I wanted more. I reached over
and grabbed my shampoo bottle out of the shower: This
would be a challenge. It wasn't enormous enough to
make the whole idea laughable, but I still couldn't
get my finger and thumb to touch when I wrapped my
hand around it. I started by sliding its smooth, cold
edge against me - not much friction, but the motion
felt exquisite. Soon I had worked the top of the cap
inside me and was pushing with one hand, trying to get
the whole end in me, using my other hand to tease my
clit, poking and pulling and scraping, making my whole
chest flush red, feeling my breath get shorter. The
woman in the mirror was humping a shampoo bottle, for
God's sake, pressing the wide top into her, trying to
feel her cunt expand to accept it, to fill something
insatiable inside her.
I leaned back to make the angle easier, but still the
shampoo bottle wouldn't work, not yet. I dropped it in
frenzied frustration and fished around for something
else. My toothbrush case - too narrow. A vitamin
bottle - wide enough to feel very nice, but not long
enough to push it deep. A tube of hand cream -just
right. I slipped it in, out, in, out, the crimped end
of the tube sliding very nicely against my clit.
My free hand found the string that I keep with me when
I travel, with a couple of clothespins tied to it so I
can hang clothes up to dry in the shower. I had an
idea. Leaving the tube in my pussy - it looked so
obscene there in the mirror, a white blob sticking out
of me - I held my left breast in one hand, teasing the
gumdrop with my fingernail until it strained to be
touched, then snapped a clothespin down on it, hard. A
searing flash of pain and then a warm glow, one that
filled my whole body, made me shiver. When I snapped
one on my right nipple next, I came instantly.
This was too much. Looking at myself in the mirror -
tube in my pussy, string tied to my nipples, sweat
cascading between my breasts, cunt juices puddling on
the floor, my hair wild around me - I was turned on
just watching myself. Is this what Laura looked like
right now? Was she jamming a hairbrush into her cunt
too, water sloshing around her and spilling onto the
floor? Was she calling my name? Was she dreaming of
me? I pounded and pulled and pushed, my body
screaming, my mouth wide, my moans echoing off the
tile floor, until I simply collapsed.
I don't know how long I lay there until I disengaged
myself from my improvised fuck-toys. I stood up when
the floor started getting cold under my ass, when my
pussy felt uncomfortably squishy as it tried to
recede, when the clothespins on my nipples started
looking foolish and hurting like hell. I got into the
shower, and this time, I used the massager. When I
went back to sleep, I didn't dream.
-----
The next day, I knew exactly what I was heading for. I
squirmed my way through another day of meetings,
another dinner of smiles and edgy casual talk, my mind
wandering far afield from software specs. I had gotten
dressed specially that morning - I don't know why I
brought black satin panties with me on this trip, but
I'm glad I did - and every time I crossed my legs, I
loved the feeling of nylon stretching across my skin.
Thank God I wasn't oozing.
At dinner I had an extra glass of wine. In the cab
home, I pushed my skirt up to the base of my ass and
teased my inner thighs through my stockings, biting my
lip in the dark. In the elevator I leaned back against
one wall and looked at my reflection in the mirror,
admiring the line of my skirt, unbuttoning my blouse
down to my bra.
When I walked into the room I turned on all the lights
- overhead, next to the bed, bathroom, by the chairs.
Then I pushed the drapes to the sides until my window
was a wide pane overlooking Overland Park. Hello,
Kansas. My show was about to start.
I had been planning this all day. I didn't know a soul
in Kansas City, and no one would ever be able to
identify just which window this was on the twelfth
floor of a glass-faced Hyatt. Would anyone even see
me? Who knows? There was another hotel across the
boulevard, hundreds of feet away, but if I was able to
scan their windows from mine, then some man or woman -
a woman, I hoped - would surely be able to take note
of me.
I started with my jacket, peeling it off, draping it
over a chair. Then I walked back and forth a few
times, strolling to one side of the room to take off
my earrings, then to the other to set them down. I
unbuttoned my blouse all the way but let it hang
loose, hoping someone was looking for a glimpse inside
billowing white cotton. When that finally came off, I
stood near the window and looked around the room, my
back to the world. I was wearing a demi-cup bra,
almost a shelf, really, solid and firm and pushing my
boobs up. My skin was electric.
Turning, I faced the window, trying to act oblivious
about the world. I couldn't tell if anyone was
watching me, but I knew who I was really performing
for. She wanted to see my tits? Oh, yes, she did. I
unsnapped the clasp between the cups and shimmied out
of it, then took turns rubbing out the lines that the
seams had pressed into my sides. Rubbing the sides,
not the nipples, takes discipline. I stroked the
sides, underneath, left, right. I kept stroking. I
wanted someone to see me overcome with tension despite
myself, wanted them to see my hands start exploring on
their own. Soon I was pressing my left breast up in my
palm, while my right hand traced a slow circle around
my nipple until I grasped it between my fingers. Then
I wet my fingers with my lips and did it again.
Was she watching me? Was some woman sitting at the
edge of her window, lights off, leaning against the
glass, running a hand between her thighs, breath
fogging the glass in her air-conditioned room, praying
that I didn't close my drapes? If Laura saw this,
would she be trickling down her thighs?
I pulled a chair into the center of the room and
imagined myself on a stage somewhere, lots of dim eyes
in the darkness watching me, hands stroking themselves
at me. I reached under my skirt and pulled my
pantyhose down just below my ass, then sat on the
chair facing the window and waved my legs high in the
air. I rolled them off my legs one at a time, drawing
each leg up to my body, until finally I was sprawled
against the seat with my legs bent at my ears. I
teased them, stroked them like I'd been dreaming of
all day, like I'd done in the cab. My skin was on
fire. My nipples were straining. I reached from my
knees to the narrowest point of my panties, feeling my
cunt burning.
I stood up and paraded back and forth, walking around
the room in my bunched-up skirt, gathering things up
and putting them down, seeing how long I could tease
my audience, how long I could tease myself. It was
about four minutes. In the mirror I saw my tits bounce
as I walked, saw my sexy form, dreamed of how women
would drool at the thought of biting my nipples with
their teeth, at the thought of holding my arms down on
the bed while they forced their boobs into my mouth.
I unbuttoned my skirt and stepped out of it, hung it
neatly in the closet, then stood in front of the
window again. No pretense now. I started rubbing
myself through the satin, crazy for the feel of the
fabric against my clit. I put a hand against the
window to steady myself, and when I finally moaned
into my first orgasm I collapsed my whole body against
the cold glass, tits and shoulders stinging. Then I
dropped my panties, leaned back in the chair, spread
my legs wide and started again. And again. And again.
I was insatiable. I know I had an audience by now. I
plunged my fingers into me, rubbed circles and lines
and slashes against my clit, worked my fingernails
like pincers all over my skin, closed my eyes and
gulped for air. My orgasm was a series of waves
crashing against the shore - small, small, a broad
plateau, then a crashing blow that wracked me and made
my breath loud and raspy. It never stopped. I never
stopped.
Next to me on the floor I had placed the shampoo
bottle. Picking it up, warming it in my hands, I held
it against me and pushed. This time - slick with sweat
and come and juice, my cunt gaping - it went in. First
just the very top, then an inch, and then, as I gently
pushed and pulled, a few inches. I kept sliding it
back and forth - it didn't have the friction of the
hairbrush, or even of Charlie's cock, but it was the
biggest thing I'd ever had in me in my life - until I
fell into an orgasm like I'd never had before: A
wrenching peak that never stopped, the top of a wave
hitting the shore over and over again, my eyes open
but my sight blinded, my skin bursting out of itself,
my body alive and shouting. My lips were dry. My hands
were crimped into little balls. My knees were pressed
against my chest. My cunt had never felt so full, so
voracious, so insatiable.
When it finally ended, I pulled the shampoo bottle out
of my pussy with a loud splish and set it down,
utterly spent as never before. I almost fell asleep
like that, but I stood up, blew a kiss to the world,
doused the lights with a flourish, and marched
straight into the bathroom for a quick shower. This
time I didn't even touch myself. I could see a wide,
naughty smile on my face when I brushed my teeth. It
was still there when I fell asleep.
-----
I was mortified when I woke up. Sun was streaming in
the windows instead of being blocked by the drapes; I
was sprawled on my bed naked instead of in a t-shirt
and panties; and I slowly remembered how I had been so
insatiable that I showed a whole city.
Normally I'm not an exhibitionist. I've almost never
gone out without a bra, I've always closed my bedroom
window, I've never even responded to Laura's flashing
by showing some of my own skin. I flashed Charlie in
the airport, sure, but that was just for him.
This was going too far, and it was all because of
Laura, I told myself. There was no way I could do
anything with her - she was my roommate, after all,
and maybe I was just imagining her interest in me -
but clearly she was tapping into some sort of urge,
something that I couldn't even talk about with my
friends, something that I'd been hiding for a long
time.
I tried to lower myself back into the mundane world. I
talked product features, chatted with engineers over
lunch, spent time with the hard-edged sales types my
company sends on trips with me. I ended the night
swilling a couple of martinis with them in the hotel
bar, two guys and a woman in their forties, full of
stories about the big deals they've made and their
suffering families and their boats back in Boston.
They're not bad people, really, even though I try not
to spend much time with them; as I sat there,
ever-conscious of trying to keep perverted thoughts
out of my mind, I envied their solidity. They weren't
confused and horny, I told myself. They weren't
perplexed by questions about their sexual orientation.
They were just average folks, and I was a freak, a
would-be lesbian freak.
My mind swam in gin and vermouth. I talked more than I
normally do, which still wasn't much against three
salespeople, but I could feel tension seeping away.
All around the room were other people like us, still
in the expensive suits and dresses that we wear to
client offices all day, sipping seven-dollar drinks
and putting them on our corporate AmEx cards,
occupying the same space for a few hours before moving
on. Just like an airport. Oh, shit.
One guy at the bar kept eyeing me. Rugged-looking,
maybe early 40s, stiff sandy hair and a dark blue
shirt, sitting alone and watching baseball but every
now and then looking at me. Turning his head to make
sure I noticed. I made eye contact, smiled over the
top of my martini glass, looked away. Every couple of
minutes after that, we'd lock eyes again and look
away. This was harmless flirting, and I loved it. I
was sitting at a table full of drab married people,
and a good-lucking guy was making eyes only at me. I
looked around and realized that I was probably the
youngest, hottest thing in the bar.
Our table broke up early, and it was only when I stood
up that I realized what two martinis had done to me. I
wasn't wobbling, but the world seemed to move fluidly
past me; I felt warm and sexy and happy, my lesbian
issues safely put aside, surrounded by friendly
people, living well on someone else's money. Up the
elevator, good night to my colleagues, and inside my
room.
Except I wanted more. No more explosive masturbation;
no more late-night dreams of my roommate's legs
crossing and uncrossing on the couch. I wanted hands
on me. I wanted to be undressed. I wanted to feel
weight on top of me. I wanted a cock. I don't go in
for bar pickups; I'd hooked up for one-night stands
exactly twice in all my years, and never really wanted
more than that. But now, for whatever reason - the
liquor, the desire to get Laura out of my mind, sheer
lust - I wanted to get fucked.
I stripped off my panties, looked at my smiling face
in the mirror, and headed back downstairs. He was
still sitting there at the bar, and he couldn't hide
the surprise on his face when he saw me strolling
through the door alone. I sat down next to him and
said nothing.
"Couldn't leave after all?" he asked. "Welcome back.
You want another of those martinis?"
Hell, yes. He was charming up close, gray eyes and a
little stubble on his cheeks, witty. He claimed to be
a consultant in town from San Francisco to study a
proposed building downtown; he said his name was
Philip, and I didn't see a wedding ring. I claimed to
be part of that Internet IPO, said my name was Laura,
and tried to make up in bravado what I lacked in
experience with random encounters. The bartender kept
looking our way when he thought I wasn't watching.
I don't remember what we talked about. I don't
remember what the pretext was to go to his room. I
don't remember much past the third martini. I just
remember that I wanted it, and I was going to make him
give it to me. I remember leaning into his shoulders
in the elevator, trying to make it clear that I was
the one in control, even as he was reaching up to grab
my ass and jerking his eyebrows up when he realized I
was naked underneath my skirt.
He was sexy, I'll give him that, and he knew what he
was doing. He left the lights off when we entered the
room, and gently pressed me face-first against a wall
as he stood behind me and breathed hot against the
back of my neck. I twisted my face to the side and he
started nibbling on my ear. I kept my hands on the
wall as his roamed over me, mauling my tits through my
blouse, reaching up and down my thighs, grasping my
hips firmly as he pressed his hard-on into me,
unbuttoning buttons and unzipping zippers, as my
clothes fell around me. I trembled and he held me up.
This was exactly what I wanted - to be delirious with
joy while someone else did all the work.
When I was naked, he led me to the bed and immediately
kneeled between my legs, before I'd even taken his
clothes off. His tongue was soft. He started slowly,
tracing up and down my slit, even as I could feel
myself engorged and dripping. I tossed from side to
side, watching his sandy hair mesh with my bush,
seeing the occasional flash of his tongue on my cunt.
This was what I wanted - I wanted it good, I wanted it
anonymous, I wanted it wicked, I wanted it straight.
Just as I could feel myself at the brink of coming, he
pulled away and watched me writhe, listened to my
little moans. I reached out for him.
He stripped in a flash and kneeled over my face,
giving me a view up of his long, skinny cock, curved
and urgent. He lowered it toward me, teasing, and I
reached my tongue up, trying to get a little lick of
his balls and his meat. I could smell that warm,
earthy scent. It had been so, so long since I'd even
touched a man; when I felt him inside me, I knew, it
would take me to another level of euphoria. He was
gentle in my mouth, and when we rolled over so I could
take him deeper from above, I didn't even gag as my
lips slipped along him to the base, feeling his pubic
hair scratch against my lips. This was enchanted. This
was perfect.
"Do you want me inside you?" he whispered.
"Yes. Get a condom," I whispered back.
He halted. Uh-oh. "Are you protected?" he asked.
"No," I lied. I'm on the pill, have been for years,
but I can't do it without a condom with someone I
don't know. This was bedrock.
"I don't have anything with me," he said. "I don't
have any."
"Oh, shit," I sighed. I collapsed on top of him, my
clit urgent against his leg, his dick pushing into my
belly, and kissed him on the lips. "I can't do it
without a condom. I can't."
"Where are you in your cycle?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter. I just can't."
"Oh, come on," he said, exasperated. "Nothing's going
to happen. You've gone this far with me and you didn't
say anything?"
That pissed me off. I rolled over and looked away. He
tried to put a hand on my shoulder and I shrugged it
away.
"What's the matter?" he said, suddenly acting
concerned. "Look, if it's really that much of an issue
for you, we don't have to go that far."
You're right, I thought, we don't have to do anything.
A dark storm brewed up instantly in my mind - angry at
him, burning to come, questioning my own standards,
suddenly angry at myself for finding myself naked in a
strange bed with a strange man. Put in that
perspective, I realized that I was pretty proud of
myself for refusing to do anything else.
"Forget it," I said. He tried to put his hand on me
again, but I stood up and started putting my clothes
back on.
"Oh, come on, Laura," he said, his erection bobbing in
front of him as he tried to talk to me. He talked a
long string of patter - we could make each other happy
in other ways, I didn't have to leave, he wanted to
spend more time with me - and all the while I was
becoming a little bit more afraid that he'd try to
stop me, try to do something.
Fully dressed, I looked at him. He had looked so sexy
in the bar, so full of spark, a twinkle in his eyes.
Now he was desperate, pleading, wanting what he'd
dreamed of in the bar, wanting what I'd implicitly
promised him in the elevator. He wasn't a bad guy. I
wasn't such a bad girl, either, I thought.
"Sit down," I said.
He did. I kneeled in front of him on the carpeted
floor and gave the blowjob of my life, sucking and
squeezing and licking him, my eyes closed, my mouth on
fire. It turned me on more than I ever imagined. My
nipples were turning all gumdrop again. My cunt was
still aflame. When he came I kept sucking, my mouth a
perfect seal, swallowing him salty, gulping, still
swirling my tongue. He fell back on the bed, spent,
looking cute but almost pitiful.
"Wow, Laura, that was amazing," he said softly. "That
was incredible. Come here. I want to make you feel the
same way."
I stood up, said nothing and walked out the door.
-----
Friday dawned cold and rainy. Every night this week
I'd gone to sleep captivated by sex, and every morning
I'd woken up ashamed and embarrassed at what I'd
thought or done the night before. This was the worst.
I smiled through my day, focusing on marketing. The
engineers handled the real technical details, refusing
to pay attention to me because I'm the good-looking
woman who can't possibly handle them; I smiled,
focused on contracts and features and deals, smoothed
things over with the clients when the techies
announced that things couldn't be done. It was the end
of our four-day collaboration, and we were all in
pretty good spirits.
I was wearing pants - no need risking any urges. By
the time the whole group headed out for dinner, a good
20 or so of us, I was happy to be thinking strictly
about work, about a job well done, about a pleasant
night out and then back to Boston in the morning. It
helped, of course, that I didn't have any interest in
any of the people on the project team; no furtive
glances, no meaningful smiles, just normal human
interaction. I need more of those in my life.
We all piled into booths at a Pizzeria Uno, somewhere
in the parking lot wasteland of Overland Park, and I
found myself next to the woman in her early 30s, who
turned out to be the engineer who designed her
client's entire nationwide network. Diane was no fan
of Overland Park either, and said made a point of
living in downtown Kansas City. It had some life
there.
"When I was in school, half the reason I stayed in
computer science was that the coolest people in the
department were the ones who had the coolest hobbies,"
she said. "Weird old horror films, good live music,
foreign beer. Most of those guys were like frat
brothers, but I could hold my own with the top guys
technically, and they were just starved to be around a
real woman who could talk IP with them."
"I always thought some of the computer people in my
dorm were pretty neat," I said. "I was an English
major, so I never really spent much time with them.
But then when I started here, I realized I was pretty
lonely."
"I see it as being like a mascot," she said. "They
like having me around, but they're kind of scared of
me, too. I like letting them know that I spend my free
time doing stuff that they can only imagine."
She wanted to go outside to smoke. I hadn't lit up
since college, but sure, this was a good excuse to get
away from 18 computer people drinking beer from
pitchers. A soft, warm rain was falling as we huddled
under an awning, watching cars swish past.
"I don't even do anything that exciting," Diane
continued. "But I like them to think that I do. We
come in on a Monday, I leave my weekends ambiguous.
They know I'm not married. They know I wear lots of
black. They know I've got a pierced belly button. I
let them imagine the rest."
"So what do you do?"
"Mostly, what anyone else does. I go out for a drink.
I hang out with my friends. I ride my bike. I watch
cable." She took a drag on her cigarette. I watched
her, arms crossed over black jeans and a black Gap
ribbed t-shirt - damn those techies, they don't have
to wear clothes that show stains - and I wondered if
she was putting me on, too, trying to get me to read
more into her. She had straight, short red hair and
little silver rings in her ears.
"Not much doing in Kansas City, then?" I asked.
"Actually, there's some good music now and then," she
said. "I'm going to a show later that should be good -
some blues woman from Chicago. All my friends wimped
out, but fuck `em - I'm going alone."
The night sounded better. I wanted to have a good
time, forget about everything. "Mind if I join you?"
She tossed her cigarette butt into the grass and
smiled as she exhaled the last puff. "Sure," she said.
"But you have to get out of those fancy clothes."
-----
I was tingling, just a little, when we stopped back in
my hotel room. It wasn't even sexual; she hadn't shown
even a flicker of interest in me, and though I was
starting to admire her ribbed shirt, I still wasn't
that attracted to her. It was more that I was glad to
be able to hang out with a cool chick for a night,
someone who could show me hidden places, someone whose
attitude might rub off on me. It felt like high
school.
In my hotel room, I didn't go into the bathroom to
change. I turned my back to her, stripped off my
blouse and pulled on a dark green polo shirt, dropped
my fancy slacks and slid into jeans. I felt a little
embarrassed to let her see my big flowered panties -
she probably had on a black thong or something - but
soon I was dressed again, turned around and facing
her, continuing our conversation as if nothing had
happened. If she had been leering at my ass, she
didn't betray it.
"Can I see your navel ring?" I asked suddenly. She
shrugged, untucked the front of her shirt and lifted
it. It was a small silver ring with a ball in the
middle. It was beautiful. I told her so.
"Thanks," she said, putting it away. "The people at
work just think it's gross. They ask about whether it
hurt. Of course it hurt. You want to get one?"
"Yeah," I confessed. "The one I really want - it makes
me feel like a pervert, and I'd never get it, but the
one that looks really cool is the bar through the
tongue."
She shivered a little and smiled. "Really? Now that
one would hurt. But I know what you mean, I guess. And
I don't think it's perverted."
-----
By the end of my third bourbon, the band still hadn't
started and I was crying in my glass. It was only part
of a story, to be sure - nothing about my unrequited
lesbian lust, nothing about what I shoved up my cunt
in front of which window - but it felt just as
painful. I told her how I hadn't gotten anything in
months, how I foolishly thought I was seducing a guy
who ended up using me, how I filled myself with false
confidence in order to fall into his hands.
She watched, sipped, smoked, didn't go out of her way
to sympathize. I wanted a shoulder to cry on, and she
wasn't giving it. "Look," she said finally, "first, I
can't really sympathize with you about not getting any
cock, because I don't do cock. I'm a dyke. And second,
I think you're beating yourself up. You wanted
something, you couldn't get it, you shouldn't feel
bad. You had every right to pick him up, and you had
every right to get up and walk out when you wanted to.
The only reason you're blaming yourself is that you
think you ought to feel guilty. But you shouldn't."
Her words hung there in the smoke and the humid air,
suddenly very clear in my mind. I was overloaded. The
cool chick thinks I'm doing things right, and then she
turns out to be someone who dreams about sucking
women's breasts, just like me. I didn't know what to
say. I didn't say anything, but I stopped crying.
"I'm sorry, did I shock you?"
"No, no, it doesn't bother me, I just didn't - I mean,
I know that's a stupid thing to say, but really, I
don't care. I admire that." And that's a stupid thing
to say, too, I told myself.
"Hmm. Always good to be admired."
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
"I know, I know."
"And everything else you said, that means a lot. I'm
glad you think I'm not a slut."
She laughed, looked at me. "No, you're not a slut,"
she said. "I was a slut. I spent college on my back. I
threw myself into fraternity basements with a bottle
of Southern Comfort and no bra. I kept wanting to
prove something to myself - how straight I was. Hah!"
"So when did you know?"
"I had to meet the right woman."
-----
The band was amazing. We were tucked at the far end of
the bar, and we could barely make out the singer, but
she was short and black and loud and powerful. She
roared about her no-good home man, about her
sweet-lovin' side man, about lipstick on collars and
cheap motel rooms, about all the things she was making
sure to get from her next man after her last one
turned into a skunk.
Diane may have been a dyke, but she was mesmerized,
too. We clapped and hooted and sang along, shouting
loud in a seedy bar on a Kansas City back street, and
I was deliriously happy. Midnight, 1 a.m. passed, and
when the band played their final set I walked outside
feeling electric. There was a night mist in the air, I
felt awake and swimming through the world, and for the
first time all week, my good feeling wasn't sexual. I
was thrilled just to be myself.
"Thank you, thank you so much for taking me here," I
burbled drunkenly to Diane as we walked back to her
car. Thank God she was more sober than me.
"You don't have to thank me," she said. "I was coming
here anyway. You just invited yourself along."
I looked at her, hurt for a second, until I saw that
she was smiling. "This was like a revelation," I said.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"I'm thirty-two. You've got a lot of growing up to do.
Come on, let's get in the car." She stepped up to
unlock the passenger side of her Civic, and as she
did, I put a hand on her shoulder and pulled close to
her, putting my face next to her neck.
"I want to get closer to you," I said, feeling
foolish.
She turned and looked at me. Our eyes, our lips, our
tongues were inches apart. Her eyes studied my face.
When she opened her mouth, I could feel her beery
breath on my cheek. "You don't know what you want
yet," she said, and turned away.
-----
In the car we were quiet. I'd blown it. I found a
woman who boosted my spirits, developed a goofy
instant crush, and promptly made a pass at her and
pissed her off. In a few hours I'd fly away and never
see her again. I looked out the window and tried not
to cry.
I figured she'd spin me up to the Hyatt entrance and
say goodbye. Then I'd have to walk past the doorman
and the desk clerks, wondering why I was red-eyed and
staggering, wondering what variety of fucked up I was,
exactly, until I collapsed on my bed, hating myself as
much as ever.
Instead Diane pulled into the parking lot and circled
until she found an empty space, way in the back. "Come
on," she said, her blank face breaking into a smile.
"I'd better walk you in there."
In the parking lot, I walked beside her quietly. In
the elevator, I couldn't help it, I put an arm around
her and half-hugged her, not daring to look at her
face. She reached an arm around me, too.
In the room, I left the lights off but hurried into
the bathroom to pee, and to wash my face, and to brush
my teeth. When I came out, the lights were still off,
but she had opened the drapes and was silhouetted
against the night sky. She was fully clothed, sitting
cross-legged on the bed. She patted a spot next to
her, and I sat down, trembling.
"You've never done this before."
"No."
"You're curious."
"I want to."
"You're just playing."
"I've been dreaming."
"Oh? Yeah? What have you been dreaming?"
Oh my God, this was embarrassing. "I've been dreaming
about women."
"Which women?"
Shit. "A couple of different people."
"Like who?"
"No one in particular."
"Bullshit. Who is she?"
The whole time, she kept the same flat look on her
face, never betraying any desire. I was sweating.
"She's my ... she's my roommate."
"Oh, oh, oh, now I understand." Diane leaned back on
the bed, letting me watch the patterns of light on the
curves of her chest, watching her short hair swing
back in the dim light. "You want her bad. You think
about her every night. You think she's straight. So
you get away from her for a week, and what do you do?
You jump into bed with a guy, thinking that's the
answer. It's not, Susan. I've been there."
I started crying, and this time, she took my head in
her hands, just looking. My eyes were bubbling with
tears, I was sniffling, I wasn't even making sense
when I tried to respond. She shushed me, put a finger
to my lips, then pulled my head to her shoulder and
patted the back of my head like anyone would do for a
friend.
"What time's your flight?"
"What?"
"What time do you have to leave tomorrow?"
"I think it's at 11:30." What did she want? I'd tear
up my ticket, spend the weekend with her in an
instant, if she'd only promise to keep holding me like
that. Instead she reached over to the phone and called
for a 9:30 wakeup call. Then she stood up, slipped out
of her jeans and shirt, and sat back down on the bed.
"Get undressed," she said. "Let's sleep."
-----
In my dream I was sitting on a park bench in Boston
Common. I could see buses passing by in the distance,
with Laura's face splashed on the ads on the sides.
People walked past with copies of People magazine in
their hands, and Laura was posing on the cover. Laura
was selling makeup, or maybe she was in a movie, it
wasn't clear, but she was everywhere. I was sitting
next to Travis, her ex-boyfriend, and we were trying
to smile whenever we saw her face, like she could see
us too, except we both were so jealous of her but
couldn't say it out loud.
When I woke up the sun was splashed across me. I was
lying on my side, one arm tucked under me, one wrapped
around ... Diane. She was sleeping, curled in the fetal
position, facing into the sun also, wearing only a
black bra and black panties - bikini, not thong. My
bra was white and drab, my underwear looked juvenile,
and my boobs were smaller than hers.
I looked at her face in the light. Her skin was rough,
and her features looked much less flattering in the
daylight. I could see her resorting to black clothes
and red hair dye after college, after realizing how
invulnerable that made her feel, when she wanted to
obliterate all her old connections and begin the rest
of her life. She looked so vulnerable, sleeping there.
Her body wasn't poised to tease; she was resting on
her side, arms and legs curved for nothing more than
comfort. When I moved my arm, she stirred, opened her
eyes, looked at me quizzically, then smiled, like she
finally remembered who I was.
"Do you still want to get closer to me?"
"God, yes," I said.
She rolled over and put a hand on the side of my face,
grazing my cheek with the tops of her fingers, running
it around through my hair, behind my ear, along my
neck. I closed my eyes and tried not to tremble,
feeling sun glowing on my face. Then the fingers
meandered down, stroking the sides of my breasts
through my bra, drifting from one to the other, gentle
friction driving me mad. Diane was watching my nipples
harden, watching the smooth skin turn rough and
crinkled. She was smiling.
"Roll onto your back," she said. I did. "Unhook your
bra," she said. I tossed it on the floor. "Take off
your panties," she said. I tried to look as sexy as I
could wriggling around, until I freed them from my
ankles. Then she straddled me, a knee on either side
of my hips, looking down with a big grin.
How did I look? I was naked, of course, my fur turning
damp, my boobs sliding to the side just a little under
their own weight. Diane was glorious in the sunshine -
tits spilling out of her black bra, panties pulled
high on her hips, fabric taut against her mound, her
mouth luscious behind red hair. I looked up at her and
let my mouth fall open. Oh, shit, this is happening.
She started kissing between my breasts, letting her
tongue roll sideways, first to the left one, then the
right. She circled her tongue around my nipples,
getting closer, teasing, leading, but always pulling
away. I ached, wanted tension, wanted pressure. I
arched my back up, trying to push into her mouth, only
to watch her recoil with a grin. When she finally made
contact, it was with her teeth - biting hard, sucking
my tit into her mouth, playing with the nipple with
her tongue.
This felt so different with a woman. Her hair, her
skin, her smooth hands - she leaned farther onto me,
rubbing her whole body against mine, and I was on
fire. I could feel the pressure of her tits scraping
against me, her long legs entwining with mine. Even
her fingernails against my side turned me on. I was
moaning, shifting from side to side, trying to pull
her into me.
She moved her head down, slowly, dragging her lips
across my belly, licking my belly button, letting her
fingers drift against my thighs, teasing me. Then her
lips turned insistent, moving purposefully up one
thigh, circling my swollen pussy, breathing hard
against it but never touching, then up the other
thigh. This was wild. I put my hands on her shoulders,
desperate to touch her, trying to focus her between my
legs. When she blew hard against me, I could feel
every hair tingling, every nerve jangling, every inch
of my skin begging. I shuddered and tried to guide
her, but she was taking her time.
Diane teased, but she teased for a reason, I thought
to myself. She's done this before. She knows what
speed to take me at. Or does she?
"I want you," I breathed, low and heavy. "Please. I'm
burning for you." She just laughed, kept breathing,
moved up and down my thighs again.
I tried to look at this whole scene. A woman I met
with the night before was kneeling between me, her
tits jostling against my knees, licking me. This was
new and electric - getting licked is always good, but
never this good. I wanted to do her, too - I wanted to
taste her, wanted to feel her wet, wanted to nuzzle
her boobs. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on just
the sensation, a million nerve endings shooting the
same nervous fire into my mind. My vision narrowed. I
closed my eyes.
Then, in a flash, she was on me. Her tongue focused on
my clit, turning a tight circle against it. Oh, my
God. Her fingers crept into me, pressing up, filling
me, pushing my pubic bone against her chin. Oh, shit.
I tried to hold back, tried to build up one huge
crashing orgasm, and instead fell into a rolling wave
that wracked my body and didn't stop. I clutched at
her back, at the sheets, at her hair. She kept a firm
grasp on me, her fingers still plunging in, her tongue
still firm and hot and wet against me, as I crashed
through uncounted moments of white-hot bliss.
I don't remember her pulling out of me, just looking
up and seeing her kneeling nonchalantly above me once
more, a flush on her chest, her hair askew, smiling.
"So was it everything you hoped?" she asked with a
smirk.
I reached up my arms. "I want more."
When I got her under me, ripping away at her
underwear, I started kissing her sloppy and all over.
I wanted to taste her tongue. I wanted to feel the
curve of her boobs rising into my mouth. I wanted to
feel a nipple between my lips. My hands roamed across
her, teasing and pulling, pretending that her body was
my body, doing to her what I would have otherwise done
to myself. She kept that cat-like grin on her face,
smiling and slinking back and forth, nostrils flaring.
Her pussy tasted fresh and clean. I expected it to be
soft, and was pleasantly surprised to find it fleshy
and firm, forcing my tongue to pry harder against her.
She was squirming under me. I reached a tentative
finger into her, slipped it slowly inside her, felt
her muscles clasping it, slid another inside. I pulled
out and pushed back again. My God, I was fingering
her. I was fucking her. I was fucking a woman.
All my dreams, all my visions of Laura, all my
frustrated nights in bed and guilty mornings in the
shower, and now here I was, dipping my head between
Diane's legs, my face drenched with her juices, my
skin still jumping with the force of her touch,
feeling her hips grind beneath my tongue, feeling her
body churn. I pressed inside her, rubbing her g-spot,
working intently at her clit, feeling the hard nub,
gauging the pace of her breaths, moving faster,
pressing harder ... until she crashed against the shore,
too, thrashing and moaning, a loud low sound from deep
in her throat. She grabbed the back of my head and
pressed my face hard into her, smashing my nose into
her pubic hair. It was a little difficult to breathe.
I didn't mind.
-----
We lay there in the morning sun for a while, talking.
She told me she'd never really come until she came
with a woman, a good friend of hers who she traveled
to France with after college. My heart swelled at the
thought of it. I had a silly smile on my face, one
that would stay there all day. As we talked, I
couldn't stop touching her - stroking her hips,
circling her breasts, teasing her hair. She reached
out to me, too. We made each other come once more like
that, lying down and facing each other, our hands
entangled between our legs, our hips jabbing against
each other.
Then the wakeup call came. I couldn't miss the plane -
everyone else from my company would be on the flight.
No reading by myself in peace. No frigging myself in
the seat. Shit.
"I wish I could stay here with you," I pouted. I
started to talk about letters, e-mails, phone calls
back to Kansas City.
"No, that's not the right thing," Diane said. "We have
separate lives. This is a one-night stand, Susan. You
needed a push, and now you've done it. Now you have to
go back to Boston and figure out what to do about it."
I lay back. "So that's what this is?" I asked. "Just a
fling? You wanted to get laid, so you decided to break
in the straight girl and then go on to another
conquest?"
"That's not true and you know it, Susan. It's a fling,
yes. But I wasn't taking advantage of you anymore than
you were of me. You wanted to be with a woman. And you
were amazing. You made me feel alive. If this is what
you want, you're good at it. But you need to figure it
out."
I was confused, still silly with happiness but feeling
hurt, too. I got up and peed, then stepped into the
shower. A moment later, just as I got the water
running hot, she joined me.
"Susan, this wasn't supposed to be the beginning of
anything, and you know it," she purred, wrapping her
arms around my slick breasts, nibbling at my ear. "But
this has been fucking amazing."
I surrendered - leaning into the tile as she scraped
her teeth against my neck, spreading my legs wider as
she reached around to tease my clit, keeping my eyes
closed as she grabbed the showerhead and started
blasting water between my legs. She held me up as I
writhed in one more wrenching orgasm, my tits on fire,
my hands trying in vain to grasp the smooth tile.
I sat down on the floor to catch my breath. She
slipped back out of the tub. I washed my hair,
scrubbed my skin, thought about what to say when I
stepped out.
It didn't matter. Just as I turned the water off, I
heard the door slam. She was gone.
-----
I was a mess on the long plane rides home - a
shit-eating grin that I couldn't explain to my
co-workers, a heart torn to pieces by Diane's sudden
exit. Between my legs, I could feel I was sore. But I
was horny.
When I got home that evening, Laura was sitting
cross-legged on the couch, wearing the same white
cotton camisole she had on when I left. She was
watching some softcore sex flick on cable, an empty
tub of ice cream beside her. When she stood up, I
could see she wasn't wearing anything else.
"You always dress like that when I'm not here?" I
asked.
"Depends what's on TV," she shrugged with a smile.
She followed me into my room and sat cross-legged on
my bed as I unpacked. My eyes were drawn magically to
the light-colored hair between her legs. She didn't
seem to care. I told her about the trip, about hearing
the blues in Kansas City with "one of the techies,"
about eating well on the company's dime.
We were still chit-chatting about nothing special when
I finished emptying my bag and threw it into the
closet. I stood there in jeans, a shirt, a light
sweater, looking at her. I kept looking at her as I
pulled off my sweater, then my shirt, then my bra.
Then I took a long time digging through my drawers,
pretending to look for just the right old t-shirt. She
was staring, I knew. When I turned to look at her, she
turned away, and I could see her nipples rock hard.
This felt good. My t-shirt was long, so when I dropped
my pants and my panties, she couldn't see my bush.
Believe it or not, we were still talking about what I
had for dinner.
We went back to the living room like that, sat down
next to each other and kept an eye on the TV as we
talked. Thank God for Cinemax. A bare-chested woman
stood in a dark room, watching as a man ran a hand
between her breasts in the moonlight. Then they were
tugging at shirts and underwear, thrusting their hips,
going at it.
"So," Laura said. "Did you get any?"
"Did you?"
"Nothing but this," she said, pointing at the TV and
then dropping her hands into her lap again. "What
about you?"
I stretched my arms above me, feeling the cotton of my
shirt slide against my nipples, letting myself
remember, feeling the smile spread across my face. Go
for it, Susan. She wants you. She wants to. She didn't
try to cover up. She didn't get modest when I came
home. She had lust in her eyes when I was changing.
"Oh, yeah," I said slowly, turning and looking her in
the eye. "I got a lot."
"Tell me! Tell me!"
"You tell me first."
"You're the one that got laid! Tell me!"
I just smiled. This is the first time I'd ever gotten
one over on Laura. "You tell me first what you did
this week."
She sighed. "You want to know? I sat here at night and
rubbed myself. That's it. It works. Is that all you
did?"
"Nooo," I said, and we both laughed. Part of me didn't
want to tell her, so I let her drag it out of me,
piece by piece, demurring on some points until she
begged for an answer. Yes, it was last night. No, it
wasn't one of my co-workers, it was a techie from the
other company. Yes, it was amazing to get fucked so
hard I couldn't stand.
Laura was burbling with excitement like a schoolgirl,
sitting up with her arms wrapped around her knees.
"Did he go down on you?" she asked.
I took a deep breath. "Actually," I said, "that's not
quite right. It wasn't a he."
Laura's jaw dropped. Her eyes got wide. Her smile got
bigger. "You mean it was a woman?"
"Yeah."
"You did it with a woman?"
"Yeah."
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Was it amazing?"
"Yeah." Finally, I had one over on Laura. "Are you
shocked?"
"No, I mean, yes, I mean, that's great." Pause. "I'm
not shocked. I'm jealous."
-----
She insisted on dragging details out of me for an
hour. What was it like? How did it happen? What did it
feel like? Was it different? Did she have short hair?
I didn't tell her about my dreams, about my long
build-up to last night; I just made it seem
spontaneous, the kind of thing a wild and crazy chick
like me would do. The mood in the room kept getting
warmer. Her nipples were hard, and so were mine. Now I
knew my instincts about her were right.
"My God, Susan, I'm turned on just thinking about it."
"I'm still turned on."
We looked at each other for a long time, not saying
anything, our grins wide. "Show me," I said, finally.
"Show me what you did when I wasn't here."
Laura took a deep breath and stretched her legs in
front of her. Then she pulled them up and apart, knees
sticking up on either side of her, and went to work. I
like to tease and stroke; she just jabbed right in,
one hand sticking fingers into her, one hand pulling -
literally pulling - at her clit. I slipped down off
the couch and knelt between her legs to watch more
closely. She was biting her lip, hard, and then opened
her mouth fast in a flurry of deep, raspy breaths. She
was fast and rough and to the point. My orgasms crash
like a wave on a shore; hers exploded like a string of
firecrackers.
She withdrew her hands, flopped her legs down to
either side, opened her eyes slowly and looked down at
me. I was inches away. Here it is. This is what I
wanted. This is what I had been dreaming about, what
had driven me crazy with lust on the plane, what
pushed me to do scandalous things in the last week,
what pushed me to flash myself to strangers and open
my thighs to the world, what seeped into my dreams at
night and my daydreams at the office. I slowly stuck
out my tongue and flicked it right on her clit, and
when she started to shudder and shake all over, I
pinned her hips to the couch with my hands and
pummeled her with my tongue.
-----
Like I said, I was sore, but I wanted it more. We
kissed and humped and touched each other, confessed in
the dark that we'd been craving each other for months.
I told her how wet I'd gotten whenever she was in the
bathtub; she told me how wet she'd gotten after
walking around in her underwear in front of me. Around
midnight, we flopped onto her bed and she pulled her
big secret out of her nightstand - a Hitachi Magic
Wand from an old college boyfriend. I'd never used one
before. She showed me how.
There was so much more I wanted to do. I wanted to tie
her to the bed and ravish her. I wanted to slip an ice
cube inside her and suck it halfway out, sliding it in
and out against her clit. I wanted her to sit on my
face, smother me with her juice, feel her cunt all
over me. I didn't want to think about how this would
change our relationship - could I still bring Rick
home now and then? Would it be weird to be living with
a semi-lover? All the things I'd worried about flashed
into my mind for a moment - and then disappeared.
That that night, it was enough to finally sleep in the
same bed with her, both of us warm and moist, skin on
skin, giggling and talking. It felt natural. It felt
sexy. It felt right.
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Send instant messages & get email alerts with Yahoo! Messenger.
http://im.yahoo.com/
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+