Written By: Ethermet
For too long I had lacked a warm body with whom to twist the sheets in naughty and naked rolling. My longing conspired this night to disrupt my carefully choreographed, yet-artificial sex life. I had followed my usual protocol: made the bed with crisp sheets, bathed in scented water, lit many candles, and smoothed lotion on my feet and legs, all to no avail. My vibrator dutifully hummed deep inside while my mind clicked through favored fantasies – each summoned from my rather full carousel of masturbatory vignettes that served me well in the past. But none would settle with me this night. Each familiar fantasy played for mere seconds before my erotic interest would flee like pigeons startled by a blundering puppy. Disgusted with my failure to find one that could do the job, I withdrew the plastic thing – my translucent lady bits clinging and stretching like a baby fighting separation from a nipple. When it finally popped out I tossed it to the other side of the bed where it landed with an outsized thud, its hum now amplified to annoying levels by the mattress. In a fit I rolled into doggy position, snatched it up, and flung it against the opposite wall. It fell to the floor amid a shower of plastic bits where, mortally wounded, it grunted a few more raspberries before a final death rattle and silence. Upon returning to a seated position a girl gush wandered out and followed my glistening folds until, reaching its lowest point, the liquid ecstasy oozed like threads of honey onto the sheets. No orgasm. No reward. Just a soggy twat and a goddamn wet spot on my clean sheets.
It was time to give in. I needed the weight of a man on top of me and the joy of feeling possessed, but there wasn’t a man in town I’d fuck with a rented vagina. It would require some travel, but I knew a place where I’d be anonymous. The electric ache throughout my body and emptiness in my passion cove firmed my mind. I literally leapt from the bed so carefully prepared for an evening of self-love, dolled up quickly, and slipped on my come-fuck-me heels. I felt good and looked good. My figure was still a little fluffy in places but my exercise plan was working and voluptuous was just a few weeks away. Some lucky fellow would pillow tonight with a woman of more plentiful proportions and historic lust; good luck to the wankers waiting for slenderella.
My clunker coughed and roared out of the driveway, and I was headed for a pub a few towns away. It was very dark and the rural roads were narrow and twisty. The weather was cool but not freezing and a fine rain misted the air.
The town was a bit foggy. Nothing was moving. I slammed the rattletrap door and the beast hissed and smoked. I would have kicked it but was afraid of nicking my shoe on one of the stabbity-stabbity things protruding from its moonscape side.
The street was deserted. The fog amplified the light from the pub’s neon sign and beckoned with a cheery holiday glow. I quickly crossed and entered the pub. The door was rigged to sound a chime when opened, and like Pavlov’s dogs each man at the bar turned his head to look a split second after the other. Maybe men have some kind of synchronized movement instinct like schooling fish.
I was secretly pleased when they didn’t quickly look away. The speed with which males return to their beer when a woman enters a bar is proportional to her beauty. The attention felt good, and I made the most of it, pausing at the door, putting my hands on hips, and thrusting out my chest in a fair Jane Russell imitation as if to say, “Something wicked your way comes.” I imagined wood tenting in the pants, but by the time the thought was done they were back at their beer. How could they, the bastards? Chest and ego deflated I looked for a good place to park my keister.
I took a seat at the bar to ensure a place in the middle of the action. The few other women there tonight were part of a couple. For the time being my pretty little self was the lone attraction.
The bartender delivered my drink order. With an elbow on the bar I turned in my seat, draped one hosed leg over the other and slipped my heel smoothly from my CFM pump’s leather interior to dangle the shoe on my toes, flipping it on and off, using my foot as a lure much the way angler fish uses its little fleshy thing. Men love to look at women’s feet, even if they don’t want to do anything with them. They’re just a pretty extra, like the bow on a wrapped present. It’s the reason, I’m sure, women’s shoes are so minimal. I have small, well-shaped feet, and I used them to their fullest effect.
The whole package worked quickly enough. The bartender dropped off a second drink sent by a man at the end of the bar old enough to be my father. He smiled and hoisted his glass when I mouthed a “Thank you.” I kept my smile under wraps. He got the message and turned back to his mate. A man two stools away said something cute as he passed on his way to the men’s room. On the way back he tried again, which prompted a cute remark of my own, an unspoken invitation for him to stop. We talked a bit. He lived in town. Divorced. Two kids. Working man. He sensed there was no spark and moved on after a while. As time went on the pub got crowded and noisier.
The place filled with men; women were scarce. As the night wore on and it became clear that I was the only unattached woman, a few jostled for my attention. I came for the attention of men, but now having it didn’t want it. The men were not picking up on the downturn in my spirits, and their scent marking was becoming tiresome.
My spirits were beginning to hit bottom when two fresh-faced but slightly inebriated women burst through the circle of men seeking the bartender’s attention.
“Hey, can we get a couple of drinks here?” the blond shouted slapping the wet bar and splashing water on me.
“Oh, I’m sorry dear.” she said with a slight British accent, and fished tissues from her pocket book. She dabbed at my skirt while I wiped my blouse and face.
“Really sorry.” she said. “Let me make it up to you. Come with us to our table and escape these hounds sniffing around you.” Her younger, dark hair companion giggled. Both were younger than me but seemed happy and fun loving. The men were no longer of interest, so I waved goodbye to the boys and they led me by the hand to their table.
We flopped into the chairs, piling coats and pocketbooks onto an empty. The blond, Noreen, was older, probably early-to-mid thirties. Darla was probably late twenties. Both had the alabaster-white skin like me. Noreen was casually dressed in a dark-colored pants suit. Darla wore a school girl outfit: short flared plaid skirt, white blouse with Peter Pan collar buttoned to the neck, white knee socks, and black Mary Jane shoes.
They were rollicking good fun to be with, joyful, irreverent, and, apparently, knew everything about every man at the bar. “See that man over there in the cap.” Noreen said. “His penis is this big.” holding her pinky up to indicate the size. “Really.” Darla added, nodding knowingly, as though we were talking about loaves of bread.
“And that man over there.” Noreen said pointing to a burly fellow. “All you have to do it scratch him behind the ears and he’ll cum in his pants.” We laughed like hell as Noreen told tales about each man’s sexual equipment, prowess, and staying power.
“My. My.” I said. “You girls have been busy working your way through this men-o-rama.”
“Nah.” Noreen replied. “We’re lesbians.” Lowering her head and shifting her eyes in a conspiratorial manner, she lowered her voice as though there was a concern for eavesdroppers. “I’ve never seen a cock except on my little brother. How about you, Darla?” Darla puffed her cheeks, puckered her lips and shook her head. “Nope. No cocks here. Nope. Nary a one. Cockless life. Yep.”
Darla’s imitation of god-knows-what was so funny that the serious nature of the discussion was lost amid the laughter. They were so funny it was hard to tell whether they were serious.
“Oh!” I said. “Are you a couple?” I flinched at the dumbness of my question. “Sorta.” Noreen replied mysteriously. Lowering her voice again she said, “I’m her owner.”
I thought perhaps I didn’t hear correctly. Darla was busy with her nails and didn’t show the least concern for what Noreen said. Never having heard anyone introduce themselves as another’s owner, I didn’t know what to say, but gave it my best shot in the hope of being funny.
“Did you get her at the pound or buy her directly from a breeder?”
Both women sat bolt upright, opened their mouths wide, and rolled stiffly from the waist, slapped the table and whacking me on the back while laughing uproariously.
“Oh my god.” Noreen said. “That’s sooo funny. You are my little pet, aren’t you Darla baby?” Darla immediately mimed a begging dog, paws up, tongue out, which started us laughing again. Their laughter was infectious, and I laughed along with them. Darla paw-scratched her ear as the laughter died off, and we started again.
“Want to see a stupid pet trick?” Noreen asked me gasping for breath.
“Sure. I love that bit on Letterman.” I howled.
“Show her your pussy, Darla.” Noreen said in a firm tone. I thought Darla would do a terrific cat imitation.
Darla spun in her seat, lifted the hem of her skirt, and raised and spread her legs. She was bare under the skirt, waxed smooth, and ethereally beautiful. My eyes were drawn to the thin ribbon of pearlescent pink nestled between the plump white lips of her vulva. I couldn’t help it. Desire’s electric finger stroked my giddy button; my vagina clenched and my right shoe involuntarily twitched inward. I had spent many hours between women’s legs before committing to the pogo stick. Now it was unsettling to learn that the mere sight of a pretty twat could resurrect my queerness.
I stopped laughing, but Noreen and Darla continued until they cried.
“I told you I was her owner.” Noreen said. “She does whatever I tell her to do, don’t you Darla baby?”
Darla, who had returned to whatever it was about her nails that needed attention, nodded like a little girl and said, “Yes, Mistress.”
Great. Just great.
Too gutless to get laid, my hunt for a pounding this and throbbing that ends in the company of the only lesbian mistress/slave pair for a hundred miles.
“Noreen.” I said clearing my throat and sitting upright, “I’m more open minded than you might think, but that’s not me, really.”
“No problem, dolly.” Noreen replied as casually as if Darla had, indeed, done a cute cat trick. “We can still be friends tonight and have a good time, can’t we?” Then she added, “Darla and I will just tuck our little thing away while we’re with you. Deal?”
She held out her hand. What did I have to lose? Sitting with two fun girls beat going home at 9PM, I shook Noreen’s hand. “But the deal is off if you two act up,” I said firmly.
“What? Us? Act up?” Both were wide eyed and opened mouth, again, rolling and twisting and looking at each other in mock horror. I couldn’t help myself and laughed, and they laughed along with me. Noreen ordered more drinks and the incident was forgotten.
They asked what I was doing in a pub so far from home. Sheepishly I told how my need for mister-right-now drove me here only to chicken out.
“Well,” said Noreen. “You have us. We’ll help. Won’t we, Darla?”
“Yes, help.” Darla nodded, echoing Noreen.
“Now girls,” I said, “remember our deal. Park your interests.”
“Oh come now.” Noreen said. “Cross you heart and hope to die, swear you’ve never thought about being with another woman.”
“Tell. Tell” Darla chortled.
“Whether I’ve been with another woman is not the issue.” I said hoping to put the subject to rest.
They did their bobble-toy routine again.
“She’s a daughter.” Noreen said. “A daughter. A daughter.”
“A daughter.” Darla echoed happily.
“Come now, girls.” I said, hoping to regain the high ground.
Pinkie swear you’ve never worshiped at the Mount of Venus, Kit. Pinkie swear in this holiest shrine to Sappho.” She said holding out her crooked little finger.
“Shrine?” I asked looking about the clean but working class pub. Noreen looked too and shrugged.
“Sappho lives in the heart of her daughters. Wherever one of her daughters be, there be a shrine.” Darla shook her head in agreement rapidly enough to give anyone else a headache.
“Pinkie swear.” Noreen repeated.
“Yes. Yes. Do.” Darla chimed.
It just happened. I could feel the heat in my face, and imagining the worst closed my eyes. They sensed my distress and came immediately to my side, hugging me, and rubbing my back while I struggled for control.
“It’s all right, Kit.” Noreen said. “It’s all right. We don’t want to upset you. You are safe with us. Once you are part of the sisterhood, you are always a part. And it is our sacred duty to give you our support regardless of the path you’ve chosen.” They were true to their word and kept their preferences tucked away. They were truly warm and funny. It was a long time since I laughed so much, even with my best girlfriends.
During a brief pause in the hilarity they put their heads together and whispered.
“Listen, Kit.” Noreen said. “There is a good man here – just one. He is part owner of the bar and lives alone upstairs. I’ll call him and see if he can join us.” I started to protest but Noreen was already dialing her cell phone. Darla patted my hand comfortingly. “You’ll like him, Kit. I’m not a man’s girl but he’s very nice.” Nice I didn’t need. I wanted to be possessed, consumed by a man’s lust. Noreen snapped her phone shut. “He’s on his way down.” Both Noreen and Darla turned their attention toward the back of the bar. There were steps to the upstairs I hadn’t noticed before. Within seconds a man appeared at the bottom step, a hand on the rail, momentarily distracted by a patron who engaged him in conversation. The pause gave me a chance to look him over. He was tall with fine features and an athletic build. His sandy blond hair was cut in a boyish style that set off his tight beard. Green, deep set eyes windowed an inner happiness and eloquence of speech. He wore a flannel shirt with the cuffs turned back, jeans, and comfortable looking boots. His shirt was open to the second button, just enough to see a downy nest of the same hue. Taking leave of the patron he approached our table with a stride that marked him as a man clearly comfortable in his environment.
“Hello Noreen. Hello Darla.” He leaned forward with his hands on the backs of their chairs. The girls looked up and oozed a hello worthy of a besotted heterosexual women. “Hello, Kit. Nice to meet you. I’m Mike.” He extended a hand across the table and I took it meekly. He swung easily into a chair and asked if he could buy a round. Noreen and Darla were still making goo-goo eyes so I answered for us. He signaled the bartender while keeping his eyes on me. I felt embarrassed. We both knew why he was there. There would be no chase, no amorous flirts, no thrust and parry, no battle of wits.
Through our conversations he revealed himself to be a man intelligent and relaxed. His knowledge of events, books, and movies and a certain way with words made the conversation drift by like a boat floating on a shady canal. The pub’s sounds disappeared; it was only the two of us. I didn’t even notice that Noreen and Darla had left the table to shoot pool.
We were taking stock of one another, but we both knew why he was there. All that was required was for neither to be off-putting to guarantee naked and naughty rolling. He would lay me tonight. The small talk was exhausted but mutual interest remained. It was time for action. “Would you like to go up to my place?” he asked. “Yes, let’s.” I answered. He called out to Noreen to let her know we were leaving. To my surprise she abandoned her pool game and both came to retrieve their belongings. “Let’s go.” Noreen said. Mark led the way to the steps. I was shocked that Noreen and Darla followed but assumed they were leaving by a different way. We climbed the steps together. At the top Mark opened the door and we stepped into an elegant and spacious apartment. Antiques, art, and crystal were everywhere. “Is this your place?” I asked. “Uh huh,” he answered. Noreen and Darla piled their coats and pocketbooks on a chair and then added mine. “Run along now and have a good fuck.” Noreen chortled wickedly. Mark grinned and led me by the hand into a hallway and then into his bedroom. The door closed with a weak click. “Can you lock that?” I whispered. He twirled a knob and a locking bolt slid into position with a solid sound. I was nervous about Noreen and Darla knowing what we’d be doing, not to speak of hearing us. Mark read my concern. “They’ll be getting busy too,” he said, signaling his meaning by making a V on each hand with the pointer and index fingers and fitting the vertex of one into the other: the scissors position, the universally understood symbol for two women having genital-to-genital sex. I relaxed, probably visibly so.
He took me in his arms and kissed me for the first time, a deep and passionate kiss of connection. His hands stayed around my waist but mine roamed freely over firm shoulders and arms. Coming up for air I laid my head on his chest and nuzzled into the opening of his shirt. His chest hair was soft and he smelled faintly of citrus cologne. He rocked me a bit, and in the warmth and comfort of his embrace my finger involuntarily came to my mouth like a little girl. It could have been a forever place, but the feeling of his stiff cock against the hollow of my hip awakened my own naughty bits. They clamored for attention, and I meant to see them satisfied. There was no turning back.
I pulled back to gain some speaking distance. He looked at me and waited patiently. “I need something.” I whispered. “Tell me and it is done.” he replied with a tone of complete interest in my happiness. “I need you to watch me undress.” He kissed my forehead and backed slowly into the shadows. I stood alone by the bed. The only light came from the window opposite; it lit me from the side, half my body was in shadow. It was now or never.
My clothes came off in the usual order: shoes, blouse, skirt, hose. I could feel his eyes as he watched silently but appreciatively. Standing in just bra and panties I began to shiver — more from nervousness than temperature. Taking a deep breath I reached back and unhooked my bra. I kept the suspense as long as possible, letting the straps fall gracefully from my shoulders. Holding an arm across my chest to keep the cups in place, I freed one arm then the other from the straps. With nothing further to remove I let the bra fall while keeping an arm across my breasts. Now I was stuck. There was nothing left to do but remove the arm. In an attempt at style, I slid my hand horizontally to uncover the first breast, using my longest finger along the way to snap my nipple and make it quiver, and then continued the wacross the other breast and snapped that nipple, too. Naked from the waist up I stood for long moments waiting for some sign of rejection. But the only sound was an authentic and appreciative “Oh my.” He took a step forward, but I held up my hand and he silently retreated. It was now or never. All that remained were my wispy panties, the last guardian of the sacred V. Suddenly I froze. I couldn’t recall from my fantasies how to get them off without the theatrics of a stripper or a hooker’s just-business drawer drop. To terrified to bend over by my self-image of hanging fun bags and slumping cookie dough flesh, I opted for the first graceful drop to cross my mind. I put one hand down my panties to cover my V, rose to tip toe on one foot, and then alternately pushed down the waist band on each side while shimmying my knees. It was rather graceful, I thought, surprised at my objectivity in the heat of the moment. A quick flick of my foot flung the panties only to have them ignominiously land on top of a lamp where, in my mind’s eye, they immediately burst into flame. Graciously Mike took a step forward, removed my panties from atop the lamp, and placed them neatly on the back of nearby chair. I stood still, not sure what to do — one foot in tip toe, one hand covering my V. “May I see it now?” he asked in the kindest manner. With the greatest trepidation my hand arched slowly away from my V coming to rest on the opposing hip. No mystery remained. There was nothing left to reveal. Like Darla I was waxed smooth. I had given him my private, naked self, just as I intended to give him the rest of me. A cold draft made me aware of my nipples, their fleshy tips like extra clits, firm and long when aroused, able to pleasure-shock my vagina with the smallest attentions.
“Your turn,” I murmured, in my best imitation of Marilyn Monroe, a voice I practiced for hours as a teen in case it was needed one day to capture the heart of a rakish sea captain on some far away tropical isle. “Was that Lady Gaga,” he asked?
He took a step or two forward to move into a better light. I wanted to see everything, so I didn’t stop him. My eyes were immediately drawn to his crotch where a fine stiff cock was in evidence. I meant to have it, all of it, everywhere; but first the suspense.
He was really charming in his striptease, neither rushed nor theatrical, just … manly, confident, assured of his movements. He surprised me by removing his belt first, drawing it through the loops of his pants with a prolonged and wicked hiss. Then, deftly he flicked open the top button of his trousers and pulled down his zipper with the slow steady rhythm of a flight director’s countdown. I sought to no avail a peek of something pink among the folds of cloth. He moved next to his shirt, pulling the tail from the confines of his pants, letting the material fall about his hips. The cuffs were already rolled back, so all that remained was to undo the four front buttons. This he did steadily but slowly until the edges fell away to reveal his chest. He tossed the shirt to a chair and I took the opportunity to wiggle my knees, aware that my pussy had started to dampen. Somehow he managed to look good even removing his pants. All the remained where his shorts: pinstripe gray boxers bulging with his erect manhood. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slid his drawers slowly downward. The head of his erection hooked on the material, which stretched and stretched. Having passed its limit the waistband let loose. Free from its restraints his cock bounded out and bobbed up and down like a dog charging from its house. I gasped audibly.
It was evenly pink from head to base, larger than average and thick but not enormous. The head was very smooth. His balls were drawn up tight and somehow pretty, not old looking or hanging. He stood there, cock straight out and bobbing slightly with each heartbeat. He was beautiful, and it had been so long. I sat on the edge of the bed to steady myself. He remained where he was until I crooked my finger in a come-hither manner.
He came forward languidly until his gorgeous cock was within easy reach. He was in the light now, and it revealed the best of him. His cock bobbed slightly a few times from the walk. The head was swollen with its desire for my body and a wet bonbon glistened at the tiny opening.
I couldn’t help it. My hunger was too great. I slid off the bed into a kneeling position before him, my face even with his pulsing manhood. My eager hands seized it, and I bent forward to rub every part of it on my face as though to absorb him through my very skin. Forehead, cheeks, lips, chin, neck, ears; I rubbed everywhere several times. The smell of his cock was on me like perfume. There was no escape. Desperate for union and lost in the moment, I unceremoniously opened my mouth and impaled myself on his cock. It was manna for a starving woman: hard and soft, sweet and tart, dry and moist. I could not get enough or quickly enough. Seizing the shaft with both hands I bobbed my head back and forth, sucking and licking and swirling my tongue. I licked the shaft top- and bottom-side, around the head, and under his balls. I tried to squirm my tongue into the little slit. A small puddle of drool and precum that had collected in my mouth slid past his cock and dripped from my chin onto my breasts. Without hindering my vigorous sucking I twirled the slippery wetness on a nipple and reached the edge of an orgasm instantly. Even with cock in my mouth I am a rational girl. The thought intruded that Mark might not last. I needed penetration. So, slowly and reluctantly I withdrew his rod from my greedy suckling mouth and watched it trail a gossamer string of precum stretching from lips to dick until it finally broke, one end whipping back along my cheek. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, gazed into his eyes, and licked the silvery strand slowly, deliberately, keeping my eyes locked on his all the while. I was a dirty cock whore, his cock whore, and I would have all of him without shame.
He bent and placed an arm around my waist and lifted me from the floor with ease, and then leaned and pulled back the bed cover. He laid me on my back and lowered himself on top in one smooth motion. In uncounted time Mark worshiped every inch of my body with his hands, lips, and tongue. No part of me was left untouched. From forehead to toes, front and back, he consumed my feminine charms. Locked beneath, I could only nibble bits or stroke whatever came within range.
He was as good a cunt sucker as I was a cock sucker. His tongue traced my outer lips and then the inner. After swirling around my clit he traced the route all over again. I could not last, “Fuck me. Fuck me with your strong cock. Now. Please.” I alternately whimpered and whined without effect. My back arched involuntarily. “Fuck me now you bastard. Fuck me deep and hard.” That did the trick. He artfully slid his body upward and entered me. I gasped as his rod plunged deeper and deeper, stretching and filling me. I thrust my hips into his, and he met me one for one. We pounded each other for only seconds before he loosed his stream inside me, thick and forceful enough that I felt it, which triggered my own orgasm. We writhed and ground ourselves together in our separate paroxysms of ecstasy. In those few seconds the loneliness and hunger I had endured those many months fled, a foe vanquished by two souls that had become one.
Mark was just as attentive in the après. We lay together in silence for a while; I nestled in his arms. He kissed me gently, stroked my flanks, and caressed my breasts lightly pinching and tugging my nipples. After our breathing returned to normal he sat up with legs stretched out and pulled me bottom up across his lap. I was momentarily embarrassed by the submissive position, but that was soon dispelled as he massaged my back, bottom, and legs. It was warm and wonderful, and I dozed off during his ministrations.
“We have to go, Kit.” My name sounded lovely and far away. “Kit. We need to go.” I lifted my sleepy noggin and pushed back the cascade of hair. “What time is it,” I whispered. “I don’t know,” he said, “but the sky is starting to lighten.” I rose to my knees still straddling his lap. His hand traced its way down my back, cupped my squishy bum, and felt for the warmth of my sex. “Don’t start or I’ll never leave.” I giggled quietly. I crawled backwards until I found the edge of the bed and in one motion lowered my head and quickly licked his cock before standing up. That caught him off guard and he moaned a little. It was my calling card. My Ace of Spades left on the limp body of the fallen.
We left the bedroom hand in hand; I in my bare feet, Mark fully dressed. I love to be barefoot around a gentleman of interest. It makes me feel girlish and as though I belong. Too, I think men like the feeling of possession a barefoot woman provides — she is not ready to flee — which speaks to her comfort in his presence.
We entered the living room to find Darla standing by the fire place, her short school-girl skirt piled at her feet. Her bare bum glowed pink and red. It looked lovely, I must say. It was obvious that Noreen had spanked or paddled her. Noreen was asleep on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. She was slightly disheveled and her pants were unzipped. Mark moved to Noreen and gently tapped her shoulder. “Darling, wake up.” He could say “darling” without a hint of intent or sexual condescension. Noreen stirred and looked around sleepily, smiling at me and Mark when she met our gaze. When her eyes drifted to Darla, though, she stared hard and the smile vanished. I’ll take care of it,” Mark said. “You get yourself together.” Marked walked to the fireplace and picked up a thin wooden paddle that lay on the mantel. Darla stiffened visibly. “Position,” he said firmly. Darla stepped back a half pace, grasped the mantel with both hands, bent over, and stuck her bottom out. Mark whacked her unceremoniously: one … two … three. I flinched a little with each strike. Darla was silent until the third swat when she whimpered a little. “Resume,” Mark commanded firmly. Darla resumed her previous position and said, “Thank you, Sir.” Mark noticed my wide eyes. “She was slouching” he explained with the detached manner of someone who had just straightened a crooked picture. Unconsciously I stood a little more erect and pulled my shoulders back. I’m not a pain puppy but must admit to briefly imagining me in Darla’s place: the vulnerability, the nakedness, his strong hand holding the paddle, the surrender, the obedience. I shivered.
Noreen had pulled herself together. She went to Darla, swept her hair back and kissed her cheek. “Let’s go, baby.” Watching Darla’s paddling had stirred my lady parts, so I turned away to avoid more stimulation while Darla bent from the waist as I knew she would to retrieve her skirt. She was beautiful in her way. And in a not too distant time I would have been applying soothing kisses to the angry slashes on her delicate bottom. I could see Darla’s face now. A lone tear squeezed out by the pain traced a wet slalom down her face.
At the door Mark embraced and kissed me deeply enough to occasion a foot pump. The man had what it took. He could satisfy himself with my body any time … any time. Hell. I would even make the drive to be of service.
We didn’t promise to call each other or meet again. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. Despite the delicious companionship and sex, I was happier ending the night that way. There would be, after all, no trouble finding him.
Noreen and Darla insisted on walking me to my car, three abreast, hand in hand. Darla skipped all the way to the car with the energy of a twelve year old despite the late hour and what had to be a burning bum.
At the car we made some small talk until there was no more to say. Darla planted a comfortable peck on the cheek. Noreen took my face in her hands and kissed me on the lips. There was real affection in her kiss. She parted her lips slightly to invite something more. It was hard to resist her affections given the after-sex cuddle hormones washing around in my body, but my will prevailed and we broke.
“See. No funny stuff.” Noreen said in a calm but resigned voice. Darla was tugging at Noreen’s sleeve pulling her away. “By the way, lovey. How was he?” Noreen asked.
“He was great,” I replied with a shy smile, wondering why my freshly fucked glow wasn’t enough to tell the tale.
“He should be,” she snorted. “I taught my husband everything he knows about pleasing a woman.”
“Your husband!” I echoed, instantly regretting the I-Love-Lucy predictability of my response.
“Yes, lovey. Oh, we parted when my lust for penises waned. Technically we’re still husband and wife, but we live separately.” She pressed something into my hand just as Darla’s tugging won out. They stumbled off and turned to wave every few steps until the gloom swallowed them. The still air carried their fading giggles, and I listened until the silence gobbled them up.
The weather had turned cold, so I let the engine warm. Whatever Noreen gave me was still in my hand, and I flicked on the overhead light. It was a folded slip of paper. I unfurled it and held it under the light. In pretty, cursive script she had written: “If you like what you see, Kit, give me a call. Noreen.” Under the message was a phone number. The car window wouldn’t open to toss it out, so I dropped it into the open top of my pocketbook, put the car in gear and drove home deeply relaxed, happy, and with my private treasured memories of tonight.