by Joey W. Hill
"No. Yes...but it's not for me."
"But it's a nice fantasy." Lyda kissed the valley between her breasts. Gen had kept her hands at her sides, thinking Lyda would prefer that, but she couldn't resist sliding her fingers through her hair now. Lyda didn't stop her, and Gen thought nothing had ever felt so lovely as those silken locks sliding over her fingers, over her breasts. "Would you like to know how I imagine it, Gen?"
"Yes." She was whispering too. Lyda discovered more of her with mouth and fingertips, at the leisurely pace of someone getting used to a new treasured toy.
"You, captured. Here. Belonging to me, like a pet in truth. Enclosed, safe. Owned. You can sleep in peace, nothing to do, to think, no actions to take that I don't command. Not because you're helpless." Lyda lifted her head, pinned her with that intent gaze. "But because the one thing a strong submissive deserves and needs is a safe way to surrender all control."
"There is no such thing."
"Yes, there is." Lyda slid her leg over Gen's, pressing her knee against her pussy so Gen arched at the pressure. She swallowed a cry as Lyda rose on both knees and then slipped her hands under Gen's buttocks to lift her up to ride the column of her thigh.
"Hands open and above your head."
Gen complied, though it was hard to stop touching Lyda's hair. Her legs were shifting even more impatiently at the flexing pressure of Lyda's leg against her pussy.
"All nice and wet again. I want your lovely gush of come to mark my sheets, Gen. Noah will wash them tomorrow, though I'll bet our bad boy will smell them first, rub them against his body."
A needy noise broke free from Gen's throat as Lyda put her body fully between Gen's thighs, stretching out upon her to bring naked flesh to naked flesh, her breasts brushing Gen's, hips pressing her thighs wider.
"Have you wondered how two women have sex, Gen? It's not about dildos or strap-ons, though those can be plenty of fun. And no mouth between your thighs, though that's a pleasure I'll take from you again, when I wish. Tell me what you feel."
"Your legs...against my thighs. Your body, pressing mine down. Your breasts, your smell...your hair, falling against my face and shoulders. I love your hair. Everywhere you are against me...it's like I'm turning into flame."
"And there she is, a quiet, earnest poet when the world is still enough for her to whisper her sweet, tender thoughts."
The words had come without thought. Gen's moment of embarrassed regret for not suppressing them evaporated into wonder as Lyda smiled down at her, silver eyes luminescent. "Women tend to experience one another as a whole body, because it's not just about our pussies. I love feeling you squirm beneath me. Looking at your fingers, curling and uncurling, wanting to touch me. Next time I'm at Tea Leaves, watching you prepare tea or take a phone order, I'll stare at your hands and remember this moment. When you speak, I'll think of how your lips are parted now, wet like your cunt."
Her labia and clit slid against Gen's, an indescribable feeling of pleasure. Gen moaned again, her hips lifting. "It's like the metronome, only we set our own music this time. Move with me, Gen. I want you to sing for me. Lift your chin."
Gen did so, and another shuddering sigh broke from her lips as Lyda kissed her neck, nipped her breasts. Then she pressed her own against Gen's, an intriguing weight, the drag of the nipples inspiring Gen to return the favor. Lyda's hips worked against her, clit rubbing clit. Then bearing down, she slid her wet labia over Gen's with slick purpose. Gen wanted to raise her legs, lock them around Lyda.
"Keep them down. I like seeing you spread out all helpless like this. Mine to do whatever I want with. You're gorgeous."
Tangling her fingers in Gen's hair, she yanked, arching Gen's throat so she could take a harder bite out of it. Gen cried out, pure need. Lyda slid an arm beneath her shoulder blades, pulled her off the pillow enough she could keep her cunt rubbing against Gen's as she wrapped her mouth around a nipple. She gripped the curve, squeezing so she could suckle it more deeply. Gen's back bowed into an impossible crescent to help Lyda do as she wished. "Oh God..."
"You're so beautiful." Lyda lifted her upper body then, bracing her hands on either side of Gen's ribs, caging her as she began to work against her with greater purpose, her lips wet where she'd tasted Gen's flesh. Her breasts trembled with her rhythmic movement, upper body rolling in sinuous display. Gen had a flash of how she looked from behind, the heart-shaped ass pumping as if she was fucking Gen like a man. But she was, wasn't she? Lyda was drawing in every sensation through her eyes, through everywhere their bodies touched, as much as where their genitals made contact. Gen was pushing against her, no longer guided by anything but desire.
"Oh...God...I'm going to come..."
Lyda's eyes caught flame, her mouth tightening. "Come for me, Gen."
Gen clenched her hands into fists on the pillow, not able to leave them loose as the orgasm took her. Lyda's head dropped back just as Gen was coming down, and Gen felt the spasm through the Mistress's cunt as they found a climax together, hips bumping, breath sighing out in long moans, bed rocking with the force of their need.
At the height of their chorus of pleasured release, Lyda captured one of Gen's hands, guiding it down to her side, a nonverbal direction to have Gen grip her hips, press her fingers into Lyda's buttocks to add to the friction. And then, as the tide ebbed, Lyda let her stay that way a precious moment, so Gen could explore the beauty of those pale curves. God, Lyda had a wonderful ass. Gen slid her fingers over the taut flanks of a sensual female animal, tracing her upper thighs. Lyda had kept one hand tangled with hers, so Gen could also make tiny strokes of her knuckles.
Lyda kissed between Gen's breasts, to her navel and below. Gen sucked in a cry as her clit was suckled, her labia licked. Lyda pressed her palm against the sheets.
"A nice puddle there. That's my good girl."
She'd never though it erotic. Lyda made her feel like it was incredibly so. She shifted next to Gen, gathered her in her arms, spooning against Gen's back, her arm over her waist, the other tangled with her hand up near her head. "Noah," Lyda said in a conversational voice, "Is your cock hard?"
"Yes Mistress." His muffled voice was rough, sending a little ripple through Gen. In one night, these two had tripled her normal libido, with no signs of it decreasing.
"How hard?"
"Really fucking hard, Mistress."
"You wish I'd let you take care of that, don't you?"
The unspoken yes was like a primal shout, so Gen was impressed with his actual response. "Whatever my Mistress wants is what I wish."
"Remember that next time you steal a kiss without permission. Go to sleep, Noah. And if you have any wet dreams, you'll spend tomorrow watering stock with a dildo strapped up your ass."
"Yes Mistress." He sounded resigned, but still hugely aroused. Gen was beginning to realize the threats contributed to that. At least for Noah's form of submission.
She wondered how she was going to deal with thinking about this in the morning, but she was too exhausted to worry. Her mind drifted back to what Lyda had said about the cage. For just a moment, she almost understood why Lyda had described it the way she had. Enclosed, safe. Owned.
In such a state, she could just...sleep.
*
She hadn't expected to sleep so deeply in an unfamiliar place, but sexual repletion had that effect. The bed was as comfortable as a nest, and she'd fallen asleep still grasping Lyda's hand. Waking without that connection was the only thing that felt off. At least in that first moment.
Lifting her head, she saw a note tented on the side table. A water glass filled with buttonlike flowers in white and pink sat next to it. Grab yourself a shower in the guest bath if you'd like. Breakfast is in the oven. I'm in the nursery whenever you feel up to saying good morning. I have your car key.
"Bitch," Gen muttered without rancor. Lyda had obviously anticipated her wanting to slink away to think about all of this, discomfited about facing those with whom she'd committed the crime, so t
o speak.
Lyda's robe hung on the back of the bedroom door. Gen's dress was gone. While it seemed silly for her to worry about covering herself, things were always different in the light of day. After a brief hesitation, she slid the robe onto her shoulders, bemused by how Lyda's scent both eased and tightened things.
In the guest bathroom, a fluffy towel waited for her, tied with a sprig of rosemary. Her dress had been hung on a rack, and her underwear was folded on the counter on top of a nursery T-shirt. Her clothes, even her underwear, had been cleaned. She glanced at the clock. It was only eight a.m. Lyda had done all of this while she slept?
She wasn't the type comfortable with being waited upon. Still, she rubbed the rosemary, lifting her fingers to inhale the pungent, pleasant aroma. When she removed the robe, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She saw abrasions on the inside of her thighs from Noah's jaw rasping against her there. A slight turn showed her Lyda's punishment had left faint marks. She ran her fingers over them, wondering at the erotic tingle she felt.
Beyond that, she had a dozen little sensual pains to remind her that, at every turn last night, it had been one or both of them, touching her, holding her. Her hip joints were sore from Lyda being between her legs.
No surprise then, her cautious heart and soul feeling a little tentative about it all. But this was likely no more than an extraordinary one-night stand. Their world wasn't her world. She had no complaints, though. They'd given her a bucket-list kind of night. She'd never known such a thing was on her bucket list, but it was on there now. Box checked. No need to repeat.
Unless she really, really wanted it to be repeated. Which would be problematic. When Noah had waltzed her along the dance floor to help her relax, her heart had tilted at his romantic gesture, but she couldn't block how he'd gone so still behind her, watching the man be whipped. Noah slept in a cage for Lyda. Yes, he'd submitted to Gen's touch, to her request to masturbate for her...but that was nowhere near the same. He needed more extreme levels she already knew she didn't have. And then there was Lyda. What she needed, demanded, expected, wasn't even in the realm of Gen's reality.
So that was that. This was just a pleasant adventure with two fascinating people. Stop making so much of it.
She stepped into the shower, intending to do a fast soap and rinse, but the high-pressure spray was as good as a massage, easing rediscovered muscles. She washed herself thoroughly, smelling the reminder of her climaxes as she washed between her legs. Had Lyda done that as well? And what about Noah? She imagined him washing the jetted semen off his chest and stomach, cupping his balls, cleaning his shaft and the corona, thumbing soap into his slit.
When she left the shower, she realized why the nursery-logo T-shirt had been left. Knotting it over her dress gave her a more casual look. She noticed a pair of canvas sneakers on the floor, white ankle socks draped over them, a replacement for her heels, which were aligned next to them.
The sneakers were clean but not brand new. It was unsettling, to be with someone so observant she'd noticed Gen and she were the same shoe size. She was glad Lyda hadn't left her jeans, because she was sure she couldn't wear whatever size Lyda wore on her perfect ass. Gen slipped the clean thong beneath the skirt, mind skittering over Lyda washing her saturated underwear.
The nursery shirt was faded, comfortable and had Lyda's clean fragrance. Like all women, Gen had worn a male lover's shirt, wanting his smell surrounding her. She'd never thought of having the same urge with a female lover, but she'd wrapped Lyda's robe around herself for more than just modesty. Now that she was wearing her shirt, she hoped Lyda wouldn't want it back. It could be her souvenir, like I-went-to-the-Grand-Canyon.
I-had-a-mind-blowing-BDSM-threesome.
Shaking her head at herself, she exited the bathroom carrying her heels, the bra stuffed into one of them. Too bad she didn't know how to hotwire a car, but that would be the height of cowardice. Morning-afters could be so awkward, though. She was reluctant to destroy the pleasurable memories of it.
Despite her trepidation, she was all too aware she hadn't donned the bra, something she was full-breasted enough to normally do as a matter of practicality. She couldn't deny knowing that she'd see Lyda or Noah before she got into her car had probably contributed to the decision. She was going to avoid overthinking it. Or at least try.
The living room throw rug was gone. Lyda had probably tossed it into the wash as well, because there would certainly be fluids upon it, given Noah hadn't been wearing a condom and Gen...well, Gen tended to make a similar mess. She'd done enough internet research to know that women could learn to have such a response, but those that did it spontaneously, regularly, weren't as common. She'd considered it on par with chronic adult acne. Until last night.
That's my good girl. She remembered Lyda passing her hand over the wet spot, the smoldering look that said it made Lyda hot.
If she didn't think some mundane thoughts, this was going to be more awkward than she already anticipated it being. She pushed that aside to take in the details of the living room and kitchen she'd missed last night. Plant clippings in interesting vases were scattered through the house. Lyda's furniture choices straddled the line between good design and comfort. Everything spoke of a successful woman who knew her likes and dislikes and rarely doubted herself. Gen stopped at the mantle. She saw a few colorful prints like what was in the bathroom and a small abstract sculpture or two. Again, no personal photographs. She hadn't seen any in her brief glimpse of Lyda's home office.
She was private, a woman who didn't give away much about herself. The impressions given were those intended to be conveyed. Like a portfolio.
But... Gen fingered the shirt, lifted some of the loose fabric to smell it again. This was personal. It sent a more intimate message. Or it could simply be what Lyda had available to loan her and Gen was being an infatuated idiot.
Then there was the puzzle of Noah. Why had Lyda called him a lost soul? Gen had seen sadness in the Mistress's eyes when she said it, overlaid by a fierce protectiveness. If Gen hadn't been paying close attention to Lyda's face, she would have missed both, because the expression was gone in a flash.
Where was Noah this morning? She missed them in different ways, but with an equal measure of longing, such that she felt it in her vitals. In her wildest dreams, she'd never imagined she'd be caught up in a relationship so hard to classify or predict.
Careful, Gen. This isn't a relationship. Call it infatuation or a crush, it was still so outside her milieu it wasn't out of line to compare it to getting starry-eyed over celebrities. Noah and Lyda might as well be Orlando Bloom and... As she moved into the kitchen, she couldn't come up with a starlet comparable to Lyda.
The appetizing odors leading her to the kitchen reminded her breakfast was in the oven. A place setting--bright-red and brown pottery plate, shiny utensils arranged on a neat cloth napkin--waited at the table. The spotless juice glass picked up the sunlight from the picture window. Cracking the oven door, she found it on low heat, keeping the pancakes, eggs and sausage warm. Though she was normally a tea and toast person, it smelled heavenly. She transferred the food to the plate then opened the fridge to find a cup of juice and cut fresh fruit lined up at eye level with a note next to them. For Gen.
Last night, she'd been treated like a submissive, here to serve a Mistress. Yet she'd also been pleasured to the point of brain overload, and this morning, she was being cared for like an honored guest. It was a lot to think about.
As she ate at least half of the food, she gazed out the big window and wondered if Marguerite and Lyda consulted on gardening tips, because the view reminded her of Marguerite's private side garden at the tea shop. A perfect meshing of plants flowed together around conversation points, like a spiral walkway, a fountain, a meditation bench. A pair of concrete rabbits sat next to the bench, one on his hindquarters while the other burrowed among a lavender-colored sprinkle of flowers. Marguerite might have bought some of her plants from Lyda, though Gen didn't
know how long they'd known one another. She didn't know much about their relationship at all, which made her wonder how much Marguerite could be coaxed to tell her.
No one coaxed Marguerite to do anything. You asked and waited for her decision. She and Lyda had that in common as well, but Gen had noted an intriguing softer side to Lyda, like the expression in her eyes when Noah had gripped her wrist. She'd issued that gentle reproof, Behave, but it had been laced with fondness.
Was Lyda in love with Noah? How would being in love look on Lyda?
She wrapped up the rest of her breakfast and found a bag in a stash of recycled grocery bags to tuck it away, along with heels and bra. She'd eat the remainder at lunch. Gen washed her plate and utensils, put them in the dish drainer. As she straightened, she realized there was no evidence of Noah's presence here. At Gen's house, he'd been very respectful of her space, making his bed in the morning, leaving the room exactly as he'd found it. Was that part of his submission?
Marguerite had said Noah didn't really have belongings, but was there a place here he might leave a book or two, his few clothes draped on a chair? Pocket change on the dresser. Or, given that he gave Lyda his earnings, maybe not that.
She wouldn't know unless she talked to Lyda. Gen sighed. Maybe she could figure out how to hotwire a car.
On that dubious thought, she left the house. Two cats, a calico female and a fluffy black male, curled up in the sunlight warming the concrete stepping stones. They gave her a lazy look, not the least concerned by a stranger possibly stepping on them. It suggested they were used to comings and goings on the property. By customers, she hoped.
In the tidy box she'd put this incredible week, she'd imagine she'd been as special an event to Lyda and Noah as they had been to her. But she was mature enough to know that would be part of the fantasy.
Bending down, she petted both felines. Maybe she'd move the cat adoption up on her timetable. It would be fun to have a cat playing with the scraps of paper in her craft room, falling asleep on the table, keeping her company.
The cats were affectionate, well-fed, healthy. Very likely spayed and neutered, otherwise the female would show signs of repeated pregnancy. Good. Nothing could disrupt her fantasy as quickly as finding Lyda was an indifferent or irresponsible pet parent. She thought about the kind of control Lyda held over the people around her and imagined all that going down the drain when it came to her cats. Did they jump up on her desk, shred paper despite her chastising? Make her laugh as they raced around the house, ignoring stern reproofs about wild behavior? She'd like to see that.
