by Radclyffe
The real eye-catcher, though, stood behind the counter. Five feet ten or so of blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American Dyke. Those sparkling indigo eyes were set off perfectly by the tight navy blue T-shirt that stretched across small breasts and nicely muscled shoulders. She leaned on the counter, her bare forearms tanned and solid. She had big hands, strong hands, with long fingers that looked capable of almost anything. Her smile was slow and easy, and I felt my mood shift from aggravated to intrigued.
“Hi,” I said, sliding my wallet from my back pocket.
“You must be Parker,” she said without benefit of checking the guest list.
Impressed, I nodded and handed her my credit card. “That would be me.”
“Long flight?”
I grimaced. “Long, hot, and crowded.”
As we spoke, she efficiently ran my card, printed out my reservation, and passed the paper to me across the countertop. “Sign here.”
As I did, she handed me a cream-colored brochure announcing the inn’s newest offering—a full-service spa providing facials, Swedish massage, deep muscle therapy, and any number of other body-pampering treatments. I skimmed it quickly and groaned with sudden desire. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone available now, is there? After the day I’ve had, a massage sounds perfect.”
After the briefest hesitation, she shook her head. “Sorry. I can make you a reservation for the morning, if that will help.”
I shrugged. “That’s okay. Maybe a shower and a decent night’s sleep will take care of it.”
“Well, if you change your mind,” she said, stepping around the counter to join me, “be sure to ask for Wes.”
“Is he good?”
She reached for my larger bag, hefted it easily, and grinned. “She would be me, and yes, I am.”
“I take it that massage therapy is your day job?” I grinned back as I gathered the rest of my luggage.
“Afternoon and evening job.”
Wes led the way through a carefully landscaped rear garden to one of the smaller guest cottages. My room had a small private porch, complete with a circular wrought-iron table and matching chairs. I opened the door to a lushly appointed guest room with a king-sized bed, carved wooden headboard, matching side tables, and spindle-legged desk against one wall.
“God, I love this place,” I murmured.
“Glad to hear it.”
I turned, my knees almost touching the foot of the large bed, and studied her as she stood just inside the doorway, my luggage at her feet. She was easy to look at, and I had a sudden image of lying facedown on the massage table, a thin strip of sheet covering my butt and the rest of my body bare. It wasn’t hard to imagine those capable-looking hands on my skin, kneading muscles and manipulating tendons. I loved to be massaged, loved the attention. I always found it a little bit arousing, but I’d never found myself in one of those situations that are so easy to fantasize about. A massage had always been just a massage. Still, the look of her did set my mind to wandering down steamy paths. It wasn’t altogether surprising to find her studying me. We were, after all, both lesbians.
“So, Wes,” I said softly. “Will you be available tomorrow for a session?”
She nodded, her eyes flickering down my body. “Uh-huh. Three to eight.”
“I’ll call in the morning—do you do ninety-minute sessions?”
Her eyes, dark as midnight now, returned to mine. “I’ll do anything you want.”
That produced an all-over clench—thighs, belly, groin. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired any longer. She had sturdy legs agreeably displayed in her nearly threadbare khakis, and I had another flash of her straddling me as she worked the muscles along my spine. I imagined lifting my butt into her crotch ever so subtly, and the instant I visualized it, I was wet. I wanted to say, You have no idea what I want, but I wasn’t entirely certain she meant it the way I had taken it. My hormones were in overdrive, but that didn’t mean that hers were.
“I’ll remember that,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
We stared at each other for another minute, and then she backed out the door, her eyes still on mine. “Well then. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I watched the door swing closed, heard the lock click, and imagined I felt the vibrations of her footsteps on the wooden deck as she disappeared. I slowly turned in a circle and surveyed the room. The prospect of unpacking held little appeal. I opened a suitcase, pulled out a long, nearly disintegrating cotton T-shirt I’d had since college and of which I was absurdly fond, and carried it into the bathroom. Within seconds, I was standing under a warm spray, soaping my body and fantasizing that my hands were hers.
I succeeded in washing away the stressful sweat of a long day and awakening my slumbering libido. By the time I had toweled dry and pulled on the T-shirt, I was thoroughly aroused and contemplating sliding beneath the sheets and masturbating. I’d be temporarily satisfied, I’d be relaxed, and I’d be able to sleep.
As I made my way toward the bed, I was startled by a soft knock at the door. The clock on the bedside table said 11:05 p.m. At the door, I fingered the blinds aside and peered out to see Wes standing on the deck, a tray in her hands and a slightly uncertain smile on her face. Immediately, I pulled open the door.
“Hey.”
She lifted the tray in my direction, and I could see now that it held several towels and a bottle of what appeared to be massage oil.
“On the house.”
My already tense clitoris gave a jump. I raised my eyes to hers and tilted my head consideringly. “What about the desk?”
“I’m off at 11:00.”
I was about to get off myself. I had to force myself not to laugh at the timing, and held the door wide. “How can I possibly resist.”
“I can’t imagine,” she said with considerably more confidence as she stepped inside.
“On the bed?” I questioned, glancing quickly about the room. There really wasn’t any other choice unless I wanted to climb up on the narrow desk, which somehow I did not think was designed for massage.
“Yes.”
Her tone was completely professional as she turned away to set the tray beside the bed and rearrange her implements. “It’s best if you disrobe.” Blindly, she held a towel in my direction. “Just put this across your middle, from your breasts to your thighs.” There was a moment’s hesitation during which she still did not look at me. “If you want.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked softly.
She turned then and met my eyes, hers steady and warm. “That would be fine too.”
Slowly I reached down, grasped the hem of my T-shirt, and pulled it off over my head. Naked, I waited while she very slowly lowered her gaze, taking her time as she surveyed me. I felt a flush that might have been arousal or self-consciousness warm my skin, but the expression of pleasure on her face quickly banished any uncertainty. “Stomach or back?”
Her voice sounded scratchy and thick as she murmured, “I’d like it if you’d face me.”
“Then I will.” I settled on my back on the bed, my head on the pillow, my hands by my sides, and my legs slightly parted. “You’re going to have to get up here with me to do this.”
“I know.”
She stood at the foot of the bed, waiting. Then I realized why.
“You’ll be more comfortable if you take your clothes off too.”
Her breath caught audibly, but she immediately unbuttoned her khakis, pulled her shirt from beneath the waistband and over her head, and dropped it behind her. She wore no bra, and her breasts, as I expected, were small and firm and high. Beautifully curved against the flat planes of her chest and belly. Then her strong hands were pushing down her pants and underwear, exposing the soft blond triangle at the apex of her sturdy thighs. I ached to look at her.
A second later, she had grasped the bottle of massage oil, climbed onto the bed, and knelt astride me. The insides of her thighs just brushed the outside of my hips, and her center hovere
d a breath above mine. I was wet and enormously aroused, and I knew my erect clitoris would be clearly visible if she looked down. If she lowered herself only a fraction, I would be enclosed within her sex. I was in danger of coming just from the thought.
“The oil’s warm,” she murmured as she squeezed the golden liquid into her palm. She set the bottle aside, rubbed her hands together until they glistened in the lamplight, then leaned down and pressed her palms into the center of my chest.
My nipples were instantly hard and impossible to hide. I held myself as still as I could, but I felt every one of my muscles contract at once. Her touch was firm and sure as she stroked her fingertips the length of my collarbone, then circled over my pectoral muscles and down the center of my sternum to my belly. As she worked, repeating the cycle, pressing and probing and smoothing my flesh, she rocked back and forth in a slow arc above me. Through eyes glazed with pleasure, I watched the muscles in her arms ripple and her small breasts sway. I felt a trickle of moisture on my leg and realized it was her sweat dripping from her thigh to mine. I caught my lip to stifle a moan.
“Feel good?”
Her voice was husky, low, with the barest hint of a tremor. I looked down her body and saw her abdomen tense just as she brushed her moist center ever so lightly against my stomach. She was hot and wet and I felt her thighs tremble. My breath caught. So did hers.
“Wonderful.” I moved my hands to her legs, resting my thumbs in the cleft between her abdomen and thighs, my fingers splayed on the taut muscles. “You’re a little tight yourself.”
“Long day.” She smiled crookedly and fanned her fingers lightly over my nipples.
The shock of pleasure was so acute I gasped aloud and dug my fingers into her thighs. Her body jerked beneath my hands, and she closed her eyes with a grimace.
“Hurt?” I murmured.
Shaking her head, she opened her eyes, her breath shallow and fast. “No. Good.”
I realized then what my own pleasure at her touch had blinded me to before. She was trembling, her skin was hot beneath my hands, and rivulets of perspiration streaked her chest and abdomen. She was on fire, and suddenly, so was I. Without another thought, I put both hands on her waist, thrust my hips, and turned her over. She didn’t protest. Then my mouth was on hers, she was pulling my tongue inside, and her legs were wrapping around my hips.
My skin was slick with oil, hers with sweat. We were both wet with excitement, and we slid against each other, grasping and groaning and hungry. Small, choked sounds of desperate pleasure escaped her throat, and I was forced to put my teeth against her skin to taste her desire. She arched her neck, allowing me to feast. I bit her lightly; her nails pressed crescents of passion into my back. Then her strong, capable hands closed around my shoulders and her long, tight abdomen contracted as she half sat up and pushed me down. She braced herself on both arms and looked down as my face came to rest between her thighs.
“I want to watch you make me come,” she whispered.
Desire twisting through me, I took her with my mouth, not gently, knowing instinctively how she wanted it. Murmuring, “Oh yes, suck me, suck me,” she pushed into me, forcing her clitoris to slide in and out between my lips, relentless and demanding. Somehow, she held herself upright even as I felt her orgasm gathering. Her thighs shook as they enclosed my body, and a thin, keening cry escaped her. She was close, on the verge, and I could wait no longer. I caressed my fingers up the inside of her thigh and into her, never interrupting the motion of my tongue against her clitoris. She came instantly into my hand, her body wracked with spasms. Finally, her strength gave out and she collapsed backward, still quivering in my mouth.
Despite my own painful arousal, I could not let her go. Licking her softly, I closed my fingers around my clitoris, needing only a few well-placed strokes to bring myself to orgasm. I sighed and moaned against her and felt her grow hard again between my lips. Still coming, I sucked her and heard her cry out. Then her hands were pushing me away.
“Can’t. God. Enough.” She laughed. “So good.”
Laughing now too, I fell over onto my back, one arm curled over her thigh as I stared at the ceiling and fought for breath. The sound of her contented sighs lulled me to sleep, and I was not aware of her leaving.
I awoke naked, covered by the sheet, with that incredible looseness in body and mind that spoke of excellent loving. I turned my head, not surprised to see that the tray and towels and massage oil were gone. Sighing with more than a hint of disappointment, I contemplated rousing myself for the excellent breakfast that was probably now being served. Somehow, the prospect of dressing and walking seemed too much effort. I preferred to lie in bed, replay the pleasures of the evening, and perhaps recreate some of that excitement as I did so.
I had just smoothed my fingers down my abdomen when the knock sounded at the door. Frowning, I double-checked the clock. Eight thirty in the morning was far too early for housekeeping. I called out “Who is it?” with more than a little aggravation.
“Room service.”
That was one amenity I hadn’t been aware of, and I hastily pulled on a robe and made my way to the door. When I pulled it open, Wes stood there with a tray in her hands, a crooked grin on her face.
“And this would be what?” I asked. “Your morning job?”
“Seven to three.” Her grin widened. “You ordered breakfast?”
I reached out, hooked my fingers over the waistband of her black jeans, and tugged her inside. Just before my mouth covered hers, I answered, “Yes. The house special.”
SURPRISE PARTY
“Where are we going?”
“Be patient. It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, come on—tell me.”
She gave me that winning grin, the one where just the corner of her mouth tilts up while her eyes dance on the cusp of mischief and longing. I could have fallen for that smile, those baby doe eyes, that fresh-faced innocent charm. I probably would have, if we hadn’t been best buddies since we were ten years old. Growing up, we’d played softball together, discovered our mutual passion for girls together, and eventually experienced “the real deal” within weeks of each other. We’d been together in every way that mattered, except one. Since we both considered ourselves to be studs, well, it just wouldn’t be right. So, as much as that curve of full lips and tiny dimple just off to the side got to me, I was determined to resist the allure. After all, making her wait was the whole point. “Uh-uh. No hints.”
She bumped my shoulder, looked tough. “Tell me, or I won’t tell you about the next time I get laid.”
That threat didn’t work. She oughtta know I knew she’d suffer just as much as me if she couldn’t share her sexcapades. I think we both knew that there was more pleasure in watching the other get turned on by the blow-by-blow reruns than in doing it in the first place. Sometimes we did a little more than just talk about what went down with other women—sometimes we watched each other get off while we replayed it. I think we were both scared to think about what that meant, too, or why sometimes—just maybe—we thought about each other when we were doing strangers. I wasn’t going there, for sure.
So I just shrugged and looked tough back. “Listen—you said I could have anything I wanted for my birthday, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Okay—so this is it.”
“What is it? Aren’t I supposed to be giving you the present?”
“You will be.” Something of my need must have shown in my face, because her grin vanished and her eyes grew soft, almost liquid. She lifted a hand, nearly touched my cheek before pulling her hand abruptly back and stuffing it into the pocket of her cracked and worn brown bomber jacket.
“Right.” Her voice was husky, and she covered up that brief moment of vulnerability by pointing to my gym bag. “So what’s in there?”
Now it was my turn to grin as I just shook my head and kept silent. When she swore, I laughed. Man, she was easy.
A moment later, we reached
the place, a nondescript three-story wood house on a nondescript block in a totally forgettable part of the city. We climbed the stairs side by side, but before I rang the bell, I looked her in the eye. And this time, she knew I wasn’t playing.
“You trust me, right?”
She held my gaze, her expression totally serious—a very rare thing for her. “With everything I am.”
My heart tripped at the words, at the look of near devotion on her face, but I put those feelings away. We weren’t ready to go there either, probably never would be. But there were other places we could go together. “Okay then. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone does, it’s just us, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You do what I say.”
“Right.”
“Anything I say.”
She swallowed hard but nodded with absolute certainty. Absolute trust. “Yes.”
Satisfied, my stomach jumping with nerves and excitement, I rang.
The lady of the house answered the door in a red, slinky robe-kinda thing that covered the essentials, but just barely. Nice essentials, too; firm full breasts—only a suggestive slice of pale flesh beneath smooth silk now—narrow waist, and strong hips you could hold on to when the ride got rough.
She smiled at me, a smile that said, “I know just what you want.” And she did. I’d been there before, but my buddy didn’t know that. As close as we were, there were still some secrets I hadn’t shared. After tonight, there’d be one less.
“Right on time, just like always.” The lady’s voice was whiskey warm and never failed to give me a rush. Still standing in the doorway, one hip cocked, her full lips pursed, she gave my buddy a long, slow survey and made a little purring sound in the back of her throat. Like she was hungry and had just spied a feast. “Mmm. Nice.”
