by Radclyffe
She was humming something low and throaty as she pulled out a blue scrub shirt. Flowers, I smelled flowers—her scent—something she’d dabbed on and something else uniquely her. My senses swirled with the heady mix while all the rest of the air was sucked out of the room. It was nine a.m. on Monday morning, and I was standing in the middle of the OR locker room in one of the busiest hospitals in the city. I had enough items on my punch list to keep me going until seven. But as the whisper of cotton brushed down her arms and over her breasts, I felt warm, sweet skin beneath my lips, felt the slow, hot burning start deep down inside, and forgot all about work. I shivered. I don’t remember making a sound, but I must have, because she stopped, her scrub pants in her hands, and met my eyes.
“Need something?”
“I have to...” Touch you, smell you, taste you. “Climb up there behind you.”
She angled her head, her dark hair trailing across one cheek, and studied the bench that came just to knee level. Her lips were deep rose, wide and full, and they parted just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the tip of her tongue. My stomach got tight, my clit twitched, and I got wet.
“Need help getting up there?” One arched eyebrow lifted.
Her sultry voice slid smoothly through my veins, hot as blood.
“No.” I’m already flying. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She lifted one impossibly perfect leg and nudged a bare foot into the scrub pants. “Take your time.”
I averted my gaze, because to look any longer would have risked spontaneous combustion, and besides, I wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing to me. She could have just been a straight girl who didn’t have a clue. I like looking, but only when invited. It only took me a minute to slide the damaged square of tile to one side, and I was just about to tap in the new piece of metal edging when she spoke.
“By the way...”
When I glanced down, arms still over my head balancing tools and tiles, I almost fell off the bench. I’m long in the leg and a bit taller than her, which in that position put her face right about even with my crotch. If I tilted my hips just a bit...
She raised her chin, gazing at me through long lashes. “Do you get a lunch break?”
I swallowed and forced myself not to move a muscle. I would not press my aching cli— “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee later?”
Not necessary. You already own me. I reached down deep for every inch of butch suaveness I could muster, which was just enough to hold back the whimper. “Right. Great.”
Then she lifted a folded piece of paper in two fingers and ever so gently tucked it into the front pocket of my khakis. I almost came right there.
“My beeper number.”
She drew away without touching me again, but I felt her hands on my hips, guiding me between her thighs.
“Call me,” she murmured, and walked out.
“Yeah,” I croaked through a throat thick with wanting. My watch said nine thirty. I’d never last.
But I lasted—until noon that day when we had coffee on the corner in front of the hospital, shoulders hunched against the late March wind. I lasted until the next time she wasn’t on call, and we had dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place around the corner from her apartment. I lasted through every date with her, when we’d talk about her work and mine and the news and the local sports teams and the state of the world. I lasted without touching her, except to kiss her good night, although sometimes the kisses lasted for hours. I lasted at least until I could get home.
Then I’d tumble into bed and think about her mouth while I slid my fingers up and down on either side of my clit. Her lips were so warm, so soft, when she brushed them over mine. It was so easy to imagine them licking me, sucking me, as I worked my swollen flesh between trembling fingers. I usually came fast, even though I tried to wait, a swift hard come that ripped my breath away and left me moaning. It helped ease the ache, but it never assuaged the hunger. I’d wake up wanting her all over again.
But the worst was when she was on call. I’d see her around the hospital, but she wouldn’t have any time for me. Mostly she’d be too hassled to do more than toss me a short, distracted smile. I knew she was busy, knew she couldn’t get away, but it didn’t stop me wishing we could sneak off for just a few minutes. Just long enough for me to rub my face against her neck, breathe in her smell, feel her thread her arms around my neck and give me one of those incredible all-over, pressed-tight-to-my-body, soul-deep kisses. Of course, the one time she did grab my arm, pull me into a stairwell, and shove me up against the wall to kiss me for a hot, heady minute, I had to go directly to the bathroom down the hall and make myself come the instant she disappeared. Leaning with my forehead against the cold metal stall, eyes squeezed tightly closed, jaws clamped shut against a groan, I shoved my hand through my fly, rubbed furiously for thirty seconds, and came in hot gushes all over my trembling fingers.
Oh, I lasted, all right.
But tonight was the night. I just knew it. Every time we’d been together, we’d gotten closer. Hell, the last time we’d been on the sofa in her living room, me with my hand under her blouse, teasing her nipple through another one of those lacy concoctions, her with her thigh pressed so hard between my legs, I knew she had to be able to feel my stiff clit, clothes or no clothes. We’d almost gotten there, and then she’d rolled away.
Stroking my face, she’d whispered, “You make me so hot. I could come just from kissing you.”
“I think I might if you give me another minute,” I’d gasped. Jesus, let me make you come.
But she’d just smiled. “Time for bed. I have to work tomorrow.”
When I’d gotten to the door, she’d said, as she always did, “Call me.”
I didn’t even make it home that night. I drove three blocks, pulled the car to the curb in the shadow of a huge tree, and jerked off in the front seat—one hand braced against the wheel, my hips thrashing as I came with a hoarse shout. Then I sat there gasping for another five minutes until I finally managed to steady my hands and clear my head enough to drive.
So no one was more surprised than me when, after we had a great dinner at a small intimate restaurant, went back to her place, and ended up wrapped up in each other on the sofa again, it was me who put on the brakes. But while we were kissing and touching and starting to shed clothes, I felt something I’d never felt before.
I was on top of her, and she arched her back when I dragged my teeth down her neck. I looked at her—so exposed, felt her tremble—so vulnerable, and thought I love you.
She seemed a little confused when I eased back and just cradled her in my arms, stroking her hair and her neck and her back while we both panted unevenly and our hearts beat like crazy.
“I had a fantastic time,” I finally murmured. “I’d better go.”
Funny thing, she didn’t say anything when I walked out the door this time.
Of course, the second I hit the street a little after midnight, lightning cleaved the sky, thunder roared, and a freezing rain beat down on my head like the world was coming to an end. The weather mirrored my mood. I didn’t know why the hell I was leaving her, but I ran for the car and drove the twenty minutes home, all the while thinking, So, I’ve never been in love before. Not this aching, can’t breathe, gonna die if I can’t have you kinda being in love. No reason to run. Big wimp.
By the time I got home, I’d decided I was the biggest idiot in the world. A soaking-wet, shivering, and still very horny idiot. I walked though the apartment, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and sat down on the side of the bed to rub the storm from my hair. The light on the answering machine was blinking, and I automatically reached out and pushed the play button.
The instant I heard her voice, I froze.
“Hi. It’s me.”
She sounded languid and warm, almost dreamy. My body tingled, and my heart leapt into my throat.
“I missed you as soon as you left. I keep feeling y
ou—your hands, your mouth. I love the way you touch me.”
The towel fell from my hand as I stared at the dusty brown plastic box on my bedside table. The blinking light said only one message. PLEASE don’t run out of tape. I held my breath and prayed.
“I wanted to be yours tonight—I wanted you to have me—I wanted to give you some of the pleasure loving you gives me. Do you want me...”
Her breath caught and there was a second of silence. My hand shook as I pushed the volume all the way up.
“I imagine you here beside me now, watching me—watching me as I feel what you’ve done to me. Do you want to know how wet I am? How firm and hot and swollen? I’ll stroke myself for you, let you watch me come...for you...only for you...”
Her soft moan cut straight through me. I wanted to crawl right through the phone line to get to her.
“I need you. Give me your hand—I’ll show you. Yes—there...I’m so wet for you. Yes, touch me there...right there. Oh, God, I knew you’d know just how...yes, yes, please...”
I couldn’t get any air. My head spun. I pressed my nails into my palms, hoping the pain would keep me from flying apart. She was whimpering out the words now between soft, uneven cries.
“Please...oh, just a little harder. Oh, I want you inside...deep inside...need to come...”
I groaned, wanted to weep. My heart was about to burst from my chest. She took a shaky breath, expelled it on a long, tremulous wail.
“You’re making me come—oh, it’s so good so good so goood...”
The tape scratched along silently for another few seconds while I shivered and shook, clutching the mattress to keep myself upright.
“Are you there? If you are, call me.”
I heard a quiet laugh before the line went silent.
Nope, no way. I got up, walked back into the living room, and grabbed my car keys.
This was one message I was delivering in person.
FULL-SERVICE STATION
Have you ever had one of those days where the only thing on your mind was sex? Actually not even sex, precisely—just the physiologic response to the act. Scientifically speaking, the orgasm. Or more accurately, the need to have one. I was having one of those days. I awoke from a totally unsatisfying dream that had to do with some unidentifiable someone doing something indescribable to me that felt damn good but didn’t quite go on long enough to get me the brass ring. What it got me was a restless, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach and an ache between my legs that was exceptionally unpleasant. To make matters worse, my travel clock with its barely discernable numerals mocked me by announcing it was time for me to move my ass or be late for the site survey.
So I was both horny and cranky when I joined my opposite number for breakfast at what passed for a diner in some truck stop of a town in Missouri. I had just spent my second night in far less than four-star accommodations, and I had to negotiate with an upper-echelon henchman from a huge farming conglomerate for a piece of prairie on which to build a retirement community. I hated this part of the job. We wanted the land, this guy’s company wanted to sell it, but we had to dance the dance. He’d point out the great view, I’d frown about prevailing winds and the difficulty with landscaping; he’d rhapsodize over the absence of air pollution, I’d point out the problem of no nearby major arterials and inaccessibility; he’d mention the river and the recreational possibilities, I’d fret about flooding and insurance rates. And we’d both smile a lot and say, “No, please, after you.”
Things did not improve as the day progressed. It was blazing hot, and we must have traipsed through every cornfield within a fifty-mile radius of wherever the hell we were, and I was still horny. By dinnertime I was downright uncomfortable. My clitoris, I was convinced, had doubled in size since the morning. The waitress in the diner, a friendly gem of a woman about one year older than God, made my pulse trip. Hell, even inanimate objects such as trees and fireplugs were beginning to appeal. What I needed was a little time alone to do what I could to relieve the insistent pressure in my pelvis and the steady beat of blood in my clit. A self-induced climax wouldn’t help for long—it usually didn’t when I got like this—but it might at least keep the wildlife safe for another day.
Finally, out of acceptable alternatives, I returned to the Roach Motel. My sweatbox of a room hadn’t improved since I left it. The bed was narrow, the mattress lumpy, and the shower cold. The motor court—an extremely generous term—offered no nightlife to speak of beyond the Axel Inn across the street. From the looks of the motorcycles out front and the size of the beer bellies on the guys hanging by the door, I didn’t think I was going to find what I needed in there.
Forlorn, I stood by the grime-streaked window in the neon shadow of the flickering Budweiser sign and considered my options. As much as I wanted to satisfy my bodily cravings, I could not picture myself lying naked on that pathetic excuse for a bed and making myself come. I would truly feel depraved. The shower was out of the question—this dump did not come equipped with a removable, hand-held, adjustable-stream, pulsating-head, multispeed orgasm inducer (which some woefully uninformed people apparently use to bathe with as well). Besides that, there was something green growing in the corner of the narrow metal stall, and it was bigger tonight than it had been twelve hours ago.
I decided to go for a walk.
Once I was in the parking lot, it became apparent there was nowhere to go other than down Highway 66 and very probably into a rerun of The Twilight Zone. Although I was beginning to think that possibility looked pretty good when compared to the reality here, I headed toward the motel office instead—the only other room with a light on. Norman Bates was behind the desk.
“Do you have the local paper?” I asked.
“Sorry—used it for the dog to pee on.”
Of course. I thought for a moment. “How about a listing for your local cinemas?” At least I could take my mind off my pelvis for a few hours, and maybe I’d be tired enough to sleep later. With any luck whoever had been working me into a frenzy the night before would be back to finish the job. The way my clitoris felt, I ought to make it into orbit well before I hit REM sleep.
“Movies? Ain’t got but the one place—the Sexiplex over in Hooterville. Want directions?”
“Ah, no. Thanks.” That would be perfect—me and the boys jerking off in the dark. I needed to go home, soon. “I’ll just,” I grabbed a xeroxed leaflet from a stack on the counter, “look this over!”
It advertised, of all things, professional massage. There must be a gimmick—how could a town without United Artists Theaters support a massage therapist? But the flyer looked authentic. It had all the right buzzwords—including holistic and mind/body attunement. Salvation!
I dialed the number from the flyer on my cell phone and was informed that they could take me in half an hour. Just enough time to shower (thank God I brought my sea feet or else I would have been showering in my heels) and drive there. Thirty minutes later I was standing in a ten-by-ten-foot, beige-on-beige waiting room talking to a Barbie look-alike. Uh-oh. But the corners were clean, there was no sign of entomological infestation, and I was having a very bad day.
So when she asked me, “Would you like the whole body treatment or just a partial?” I answered, “Give me everything.”
She made a little note. “Man or woman?”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as they have good hands.”
She looked at me from under very thick, very dark lashes and smiled knowingly. She was kind of cute, now that I thought about it. Even her breasts, impossibly high and suspiciously round, looked suddenly inviting. Oh my god, my brain had finally surrendered to estrogen storm!
“An hour for the standard treatment, or...” she added in a husky tone, “ninety minutes for the special.”
“I think I want it all,” I muttered. She wasn’t doing a thing to reduce the throbbing in my crotch.
She grinned and made another note. “Okay. Follow me.”
She led me t
o a surprisingly nice cubicle—completely enclosed with muted recessed lighting and the requisite mood music playing in the background.
“Get completely undressed and lie facedown on the table. Sheets are there by the chair. I’ll send in your therapist.”
With that she was gone, so I did as she instructed. After I stripped, I climbed onto the massage table, drew the sheet up over my buttocks, and settled my face into the curve of the molded headrest. It was warm and quiet, and I began to drift. Distantly, I heard the door open, but I didn’t register another presence until a hand glided lightly over my arm to the back of my head. I heard a body settle onto a stool in front of me, and then fingers insinuated themselves into my hair. I nearly groaned out loud, it felt so good.
“Before we start...” The fingers kneaded my scalp and a soft, throaty voice inquired, “is there anything you don’t like, or something you’d especially desire tonight?”
It sounded like a man, but it could have been a woman impersonating Lauren Bacall. It didn’t matter, because whoever it was was performing miracles on my scalp. The tension drained from my body as I rapidly went limp. “Um, no—whatever you usually do,” I managed to mumble. God, it was nice to be touched. I thought I heard a faint laugh.
The masseuse moved to the side of the table and started working on my back, and that’s when all my troubles began. Strong hands massaged the muscles along my spine, moving from my shoulders to the depression just above my buttocks, where they pressed and circled. It felt good, very good, too good. The rhythmic motion of probing fingers working out the chronic knots rocked my entire body against the surface of the table. The problem was, the only place it seemed to be affecting me was between my legs. The slow, steady manipulation was stimulating blood flow, all right, but most of it seemed to be pooling in my pelvis. I felt myself get wet. Oh, Jesus. Bad timing. My clitoris gave a little jump. Oh! Very bad! Circle, circle, press, press. Ooh—yes, right there! Pulse, pulse, twitch, twitch. Time to start doing multiplication tables.
