There's something about eating breakfast outside that's especially refreshing. When the air is cool but not chill, the sausage is spicy, the fruit plate includes pineapple so fresh and tart it leaves grooves on your tongue, the coffee is hot and plentiful, with rich cream and brown sugar, and you're sitting outdoors with friends, it's perfect. There's an energy that infuses you, makes your arms want to swing, your legs to run - just as soon as you have another coffee, or sausage patty, or pineapple slice. After all, you are here to relax.
Unfortunately, it's going to be a day relaxing on my own. That's a problem with a lesbian wedding. There's a single party for everyone. No bachelorette / stag. So most of the participants - at least those who are coupled up - remain coupled up. I'm sitting with my friends Nyssa and Hannah, but they're a couple, like virtually everyone else, and I don't want to spend the day invading their privacy. I've booked a spa package through Tiff, the maid of honor - well, one of them - and I'm sure they have similar plans.
Hannah currently has a very strange look in her eyes.
She's not looking at me, she's looking over to a pair of women at one of the farther tables.
"What's going on?" I ask, glancing back at her.
This attracts Nyss's attention, and she also follows Hannah's gaze. "What the hell?" she asks.
"I know, right?" Hannah says. "My ex-girlfriend seems to have an older twin."
"You can't have an older twin," I say.
They both look at me, and I realize Hannah was using irony. I'm not usually so bad at recognizing it, but Hannah's sneaky, and sometimes I have a little trouble with nuance. "Sorry," I say. "That's Heather, right?"
I see what she means about an older twin. The other woman looks to be in her mid-thirties, but from here she looks like Heather drawn to a larger scale. Her hair may be a squidge closer to ginger than Heather's auburn, but very close. The shape of her face is the same. Her features look like Heather's, at least from this distance. She has to be six foot tall, with broader shoulders and wider hips, but if she isn't Heather's older sister, I'll eat my... well, no, I'll need my hat when the sun gets a little higher in the sky, and I'm not giving up any other item of clothing, as cool as the air currently is. Anyway, that's her older sister, I'll swear to it.
"Heather doesn't have family," Hannah says. Do vet studies include mind-reading? "At least, she's no-contact with them. They excommunicated her from their church."
"She sure looks like family," says Nyss, voicing my thought.
What she is, sister or not, is oh my fucking God hot. Jesus Crust on a bagel I'd like to get my hands on... uh, I mean, I'd like to get to know her. I dig into my purse to find my prescription sunglasses. I should already be wearing them; I'm already squinting against the light just to see the Heather twins, but trading my regular glasses for them now will help prevent Nyss or Hannah from seeing my eyes bugging out of my head like Wile E. Coyote finding a new Acme delivery. I have to assume she's with the bachelorette, since she's clearly connected to Heather somehow, and Heather's a bridesmaid.
The three of us aren't bridesmaids. We're here because the happy couple opened the party up to friends, and because the deal Tiff negotiated for this weekend was surprisingly good. The mystery goddess with Heather isn't a bridesmaid either. I don't know any of the bridesmaids well, but I do know who they are, and why are they looking at us?
Why are they looking at me? Thank Loki I already put my sunglasses on, so they can't see my reaction to their gazes. And now Heather's leading the super-Heather toward our table.
"Hey, Hannah," says Heather. She always has a soft smile for Hannah. They didn't work out as a couple, but they each seem to have a lot of love for the other. "Hi Nyss. Hi Diana. I'd like to introduce my aunt, Monica. Monica, Hannah's going to be my bridesmaid next year. Nyss is her girlfriend, and Diana works with both brides. For this wedding, I mean, not ours."
Monica shakes my friends' hands. When she takes mine, her hand lingers a little longer, and her eyes take more time skimming over me than they did with the other two. Or maybe time just slows when she looks at me. I couldn't say either way. I'm lost in her eyes. Closer in, I see that they're more green than her niece's.
"So," Heather says, looking at me, allowing me to break away from the hypnotic green eyes. "You booked the luxury spa package, Diana?"
"I did," I agree.
"So did Monica. And Tiff decided that since most of the packages were couples, she'd put you and Monica down as a couple, then failed to tell anyone."
"Oh, God, that's Tiff," I say. "She didn't add the extra for the romantic package with rose petals, did she?"
"Even Tiff has limits," Heather says. Her aunt is giving her a hard stare. "You'll understand when you meet her, Monica," Heather adds. "I'm sure she didn't want either of you getting bored. The couples package does include champagne, though."
"I'm okay with that," I say. I'm okay with being partnered with the divine Monica, too.
"Yeah," agrees Monica. "I'm okay with a couples package, too. I read the menu before I chose. They recommend the couples packages for mother and daughter or friends, it isn't solely a partner package."
Her voice is bronze, deep and musical. She does sound like her niece, but in a range half an octave lower and more resonant.
Not that I'd complain if it was a partner package. Damn.
Of course, she's probably straight.
"Yours starts at ten," Heather says. "Margot and I have a massage booked at ten thirty. We're going to swim first, if you'd like to join us."
It's still a little cool for swimming, but it won't be soon, and using the pool sounds good.
"We're going to take a ride into the mountains," says Nyss, "and then we're going to play a round of golf. Our appointment is tomorrow, so we won't see you until the evening."
Hannah leans toward me and whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Mini golf."
"Hey, it's a full eighteen holes," says Nyss.
"I'll see you in the pool," Heather says, then heads back to where she had been, leaving her aunt with us. A waiter approaches to ask Monica if she wants coffee. She accepts. He gives her a cup, fills it, then tops up mine.
"Have you eaten?" I ask.
"Not yet," Monica says. "You know, I don't want to hold you all back.'
"I'll come with you to the buffet," I say. "I want more of this pineapple. If Nyss and Hannah want to get started they don't need to wait for us."
"Soon," Hannah says. "We're not quite done yet."
"She doesn't call you aunt," I observe, as we walk through the open glass doors to the buffet.
"Heather? She was a stranger to me until last year. We decided it was easier to try being friends than relatives. We never met when she was a child, and I'm only thirteen years older than her, so we're both adults together. She doesn't need an aunt."
"I think you just gave your age away," I say.
"I don't care. I'm thirty-eight."
"I'm thirty-two," I say. "I thought I was going to be the oldest here."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Monica says, loading up her plate with sausage and bacon. I just pick up two pineapple slices, but I've already made one trip. "At least this Tiff didn't pair me with one of the teenagers." Her lips quirk. She knows they're well out of their teens, but thirteen to fifteen years is a gap.
We're halfway back to the table now. I see the friendly waiter has topped up my coffee. "I hate to disappoint you, but I think I'm as childish as they are. At least that's what everyone at work thinks if they overhear me talking about computer games with Anita or Kayla."
A light mountain breeze is tugging at the napkins. The air seems to have warmed some. "Is that how you got invited?" she asks.
"It's how I come to know them, so yes," I say. "Nyss here is one of our group, too," I said as we return to our places. Then I switch to the same kind of stage whisper that Hannah used earlier. "But we're not allowed to talk about that while Hannah is around."
"And don't forget it," Hannah says. She doesn't really care, but we do have a tendency to get carried away. "We should be going now. We need to get changed."
She and Nyss push back their chairs. "Nyss said you were riding into the mountains?" Monica says. "Can you rent horses here?"
Hannah snorts a laugh. "I don't know, but my bike is here. We're heading up to the falls. I don't think you'd want to take a horse that far in a day." She tucks her hand into Nyss's.
"Ride carefully," wishes Monica.
"See you at dinner," says Nyss.
"So, are you with the bride or groom?" I ask.
Monica seems genuinely confused. "Which is which?"
"Sorry," I say. "Just me failing at humor. I mean, which of the brides are you friends with?"
"Oh. Neither. I'm not going to the wedding. I came for Heather. She cleared it with the brides, of course, and I'm paying my own way, but she figured it was a chance to connect."
"And then she dumped you with me?"
"I guess my choices did that," she says, "and the MOH. Tiff. And I'll get to see her plenty." Her eyebrows twitch slightly, but I'm not sure what it implies, when she says, "And I'm not at all disappointed."
"I know Anita and Kayla from work and games, but I only know their friends in passing," I say. "I see Heather at my favorite coffee shop, but other than that I really don't know her."
Monica turns to glance at Heather's table for a moment. Her fiancée is with her now. Blonde hair. Sharp cheekbones. Always seems to be sizing you up, though to be fair I've only met her twice. Maybe she's just suspicious until she gets to know you. "Heather is not what I expected."
"What did you expect?" I ask.
She turns back. Her eyes meet mine again. "My brother," she says, "is a grade-A asshole. I cut contact with him when he refused to stop preaching at me. He brought his kids up in his hard-line religion, and I expected them to be the same. I knew he and Heather had had a falling out, but I had no reason to get involved. My big sis, Jo, died of breast cancer a couple of years back, and after that Heather contacted me and my other brother. Heather seemed very friendly in email, and we met last year. The apple fell a long way from the tree. I think."
"I'm sorry about your sister," I say.
"Yeah, I miss her." Monica's face is wistful. "We were close and she was too young. I think Roy, my asshole brother, put both of us off having kids, and now she's gone it feels sad that she left no one behind."
"So, are you rethinking kids?" I ask.
Monica smirks. "I'm thirty-eight. I think I'll just adopt my niece. I can dote on her kids when she has them." She glances back at Heather's table. "I really can't believe my asshole brother could father someone as gorgeous as her."
"You look a lot like her," I say. "Guess the genes survived in him."
She raises an eyebrow, possibly at the implied compliment, then nods once. "I guess she does look a lot like my mom in her younger days. I should find the photos I have and share them with her."
"Have you done these spa treatments before?" I ask.
"Yeah, you?"
I shrug. "I've had massages," I say. "And facials, occasionally, but they don't take anything near the times quoted on the menu. And what really is a 'body polish'?"
Monica seems amused by my status as a spa newbie. "Exfoliating scrub, basically, but it feels a lot better than it sounds. Think of it like a full body facial."
"Hmm, okay," I say, distracted by the idea of Monica having her entire body cleansed. Jesus. I hope the swimming pool is cold. I desperately need my libido quenched.
"I'm ready to go change for the pool," Monica said. "I'll see you there... Diana, wasn't it? Not Diane? Like Diana Prince?"
I grin. "Mmm, yeah, though I'm not the one who could be mistaken for an amazon." And I'm not the goddess, either, though usually I like that connection.
Monica just raises an eyebrow.
"Ah, sorry, sometimes my inside thoughts become outside words. Bad habit."
She grins at my embarrassment. "That's okay. I'm flattered. See you in fifteen?"
My swimsuit is fairly modest. If my bikini is too revealing my boobs tend to look like they're slapping around in their pens. I can totally rock a tank top or a V-neck dress, but for active wear I need a heavy duty sports bra. Since that's not an option, the twisted bandeau top of this purple bikini gives a good amount of hold and lift, with just a little bit of skin shown at the top and bottom, not enough to quake badly in the tight hold. The bottoms are full coverage, consistent with the top not being overly revealing.
I wonder how the others see me. Especially, I wonder how Monica must see me. My belly's flat, though my waist is maybe a little thicker than I'd like. My hair is a darker brown than my eyes, in loose curls to my shoulders, but at its best it's untidy, not a neat perm. At work I pull it back with a clip, but here it's falling where it wants. I think I look okay for not leading an active lifestyle, but I'm no model.
If I were to work out more, not only would my waist be more trim, but I'd probably be able to wear a sports bra that doesn't look like it was designed for the military. Which would make working out easier. I'll get to doing that, one day.
I'm wearing my sunglasses. My regular rimless glasses are in my purse for later.
I drop my keycard into my purse, and step into my flip-flops. A sign in the room says towels are provided at all facilities, so I don't take one, but I do slip on a thin knitted wrap for warmth. I have no idea what to expect once I leave the pool area. I jog to the elevator, but once downstairs I walk sedately out to the pool.
Anita and Kayla are at a table, sharing a carafe of ice water with Margot and Heather. Tiff, Kayla's MOH, and her girlfriend Emma are already being scraped or pummeled or steamed or washed or whatever their spa appointment is for. Allison, who's Anita's MOH, is doing her own thing somewhere. I find a towel, drape it over another chair, and drop my purse onto it as I greet everyone. Then I step out of my flip flops, jog over to the pool, and dive in without checking the temperature.
The water is perfect, which means it initially feels cold, but after I swim as far as I can underwater, that perception changes to refreshing. I pop out of the water, breathing rapidly, wishing as I always do that I spent more time in water.
I swim several laps before climbing out, pleasantly winded. There's another towel on a chair beside mine now. "Auntie Monica?" I ask Heather.
"Auntie Monica," she agrees, with a grin. "I hope you don't mind that Tiff tossed the two of you together."
"It's fine," I say, privately deciding that Tiff is my Person of the Year. "It should definitely be more interesting than solo. She's told me a little of what to expect, since I'm a spa virgin." Damn. That concept should have stayed on the inside, too. The words make Heather's cheeks color, though she smiles in understanding.
I pour myself a glass of water and down it quickly, then lean back and close my eyes to rest.
A few minutes later, a new voice breaks the comfortable silence. "Hey."
I recognize Margot's voice responding to the newcomer. "Hey. Diana was just telling us you're helping her with her virginity issues."
My eyes fly open. So does my mouth, to object, but I catch sight of Monica, and something within me glitches, so she gets to answer uninterrupted. "Someone should have taken care of that years ago."
"I mean I've never been to a real spa!" I splutter.
And... hot damn. She doesn't need to wear a conservative swimsuit, and she doesn't. The red triangle top leaves little to the imagination. Rivulets of water still run down her belly and thighs. She doesn't dry off, just sinks down into the chair beside me. "So," she says, "twenty minutes until you lose your virginity."
"I can't wait," I say. I pour her a glass of water. She thanks me as I hand it to her. Then I refill my own glass and swallow it in one gulp.
The room is opulent. As we enter, one of the hotel staff - not a spa worker, I'm guessing, in her white jacket and tie - presents us each with a glass of champagne, then wheels a chilled bottle into the room, before leaving us.
I've switched out my sunglasses for my normal ones.
"If I'm about to lose my virginity," I murmur to Monica, "this is exactly where I want it to happen." And who I want it to happen with. Thank Sagan that one stays on the inside.
"Mmm, I almost wish I still had mine to lose," she replies.
We're directed to changing rooms, where disposable underwear and towels await us. Wrapped in a towel, I return to the room, take a large sip of my champagne, then lie face down on the spa bed, adjusting the towel to cover my back. Monica does the same. I get a close up glimpse of her toned body as she arranges her towel.
The body polish is like nothing I've ever experienced. One therapist works on each of us. First, she uses a machine to heat every exposed surface with steam, carefully adjusting the towel to uncover only what she needs. Then she works in aromatic oils. The scents of lavender and sage are heavy. Again, uncovering only what's needed, and turning me over when she finishes with my back. She's so careful that I don't think I really need the disposable bra and panties.
After the oil there's another cream rub. This feels thick, maybe a little abrasive. She works it in with a heavy touch. Everywhere her fingers have been feels deeply relaxed.
When we've both had this paste ground into us, we're separated into rooms with a shower over a table. I'm not allowed my champagne during the transition. They probably don't want me drinking the substance on my body. There's no towel here, as the therapist uses warm high pressure water to cleanse the paste, the water not only leaving my skin clean, but massaging it until it feels fresh and tingling. The disposable underwear makes sense now.
The therapist soaps me all over one last time, rinsing me again with the warm water, then leaving me with my refilled champagne glass to dry myself and change into my bikini. The next stop is a hot tub room with a small whirlpool for two. There's a carafe of ice water. Monica is there ahead of me, in her red bikini, her firm breasts tightly gripped by the narrow triangles. She's already poured me a glass of ice water.
"How did your deflowering feel?" Monica asks, with a wicked smirk.
I breathe in the steamy air for a moment before replying. "I didn't realize how accurate the virgin label was," I say. "I've had sex that didn't feel as good as that. Also, I think you're glowing. Your skin has a rosy hue."
"So does yours," she says, "though they might have hidden some red and infrared lights in here to give that effect."
"And we get to do it all again at two?" I ask.
"Not the same, though," Monica says. "Swedish massage. We should take another half hour in a hot tub beforehand. I think if it relaxes me more than I am now I'm going to have trouble walking away from the table."
I agree with her.
I'm surprised at how comfortable I am with Monica, given what her proximity does to my libido. She seems equally comfortable with me, and I swear I've caught her eyes checking me out.
"You said you came here to connect with Heather, and you met her last year after email. It doesn't sound like you see her often," I say.
"Yeah, I don't live near the rest of you," she replies. "I'm coastal. It's quite a trek for her or for me."
"Well, that sucks," I say. When her eyebrow rises, I add, "Because you can't see each other easily, I mean."
"Of course," she says, then picks up her champagne glass. As she turns, her toes brush my ankle. She doesn't move them away. She must not have noticed, but suddenly I'm overheating in the warm bubbles. I take a couple of deep breaths.
"We should probably dry off and head to lunch," Monica says after a time.
"Yeah, okay," I agree. I drink more water, then finish my glass of champagne. We collect our belongings and one of the supplied towel robes each, then head to the dining area.
I think everyone's there but Hannah and Nyss. Allison is telling the group about being hit on by a girl from another wedding party. In the fashion of irony, the only lesbian bridesmaid in a straight wedding managed to find the only straight girl in a lesbian wedding party. She's promised to introduce her to the group later.
Tiff shows up a few minutes later. She and Emma have a similar glow to Monica. They and the brides have appointments later in the afternoon.
"We're going to go for a preparatory hot tub soak at one-thirty," said Monica. "Anyone up for joining us?"
Everyone agreed except Allison, who needs to hunt down the girl she met for their scheduled massage. So a little later we're all crammed into a single hot tub drinking wine. When our appointment time approaches I'm feeling slightly light-headed. I drink plenty of ice water before we head inside.
It's a similarly opulent room and a similar setup. More champagne. This time we're advised to strip naked. The experience will be better nude, but we can keep on any items of clothing we need if we're uncomfortable; swimsuit, underwear, or the spa will provide disposable underwear.
"Nude, right?" I whisper.
"Better to be," Monica replies. I feel her eyes flick over me before she steps into the changing room.
I take off my bikini, wrap my towel around me, return to the table and lie face down, wriggling as I tug the towel out from beneath me.
Monica does the same, adjusting her towel casually and efficiently. I don't see a damn thing, but wholly shih tzu, Helen of Troy is only a couple of yards away, nude under a single piece of cloth. She turns her head toward me, her eyebrow raised as though she knows exactly what I'm thinking. Did my inside thoughts sneak out without needing words?
The therapists take over, sliding folded towels into place, removing the ones draped over us without accidental revelations. The women are good at their job. Then they begin the torture session.
I thought I was relaxed, but my therapist finds knots and pockets of tension. I gasp in pain more than once. Even Monica, whose body is far too grand to suffer the stresses of mortality, groans at some of the stretches. There's a core of pleasure in the sounds she makes that make my insides melt. I'm going to leave a damp patch on the table if I can't start ignoring her. The massage has become torture in multiple dimensions.
Forcing myself to focus on the pain helps. It relaxes me, too, because I feel the pain becoming diffuse as the knots soften. I almost doze.
A lowered voice and muffled sounds catch my attention, and I glance across to see Monica's therapist positioning her on her back. Two towels preserve her modesty, but leave acres of gleaming skin on display. Her head is turned toward me, watching with amusement as my therapist works out the last hotspots of my upper back.
Then I'm also turning face up, as the therapist expertly moves the towels to keep parts of me from view. She stretches my cheeks and my forehead, then works her way down to my toes. My muscles feel hot. But with the heat of a relaxing open fire, not the burning of exertion.
She turns me back over, then her powerful fingers dig into my ass, making me grunt in real pain. The tension there is high.
Monica's therapist follows suit. Monica rests her head on her arms. When the therapist moves the towel I get a perfect view of taut side boob. It quivers as the therapist's fingers press into her lower back. Not the soft wave that mine would, but with a resilient ripple.
Her therapist is working oil into her skin, moving the towel to get access to her ass. The side boob still quakes, rounded against the table.
My eyes wander to the woman who has her fingers curled around Monica's upper thighs. She's about my height and build, with short blonde curls and blue eyes in a face that would be the prettiest in the room if I couldn't see the ginger head turned toward me, all green eyes and sex.
"Gods below. I wish I had her job right now."
The hand on my thighs freezes for a moment. Monica and her therapist stare at me. Monica starts smirking.
"Shit. That thought was definitely supposed to stay inside," I say.
Monica continues to watch me. She winces as her therapist gets back to work. "How often does this habit of yours get you into trouble?"
"It only happens when I'm, uh, distracted," I say. It isn't easy to speak in this position, with a woman oiling up and stretching out my thighs.
"We should talk about it when we're done here," Monica says, then her lips continue to move silently. I think she added, "In my room," but I'm not sure.
I survive the next few minutes. I'm not sure how. When we're done my body feels incredible. Relaxed but on the edge of readiness, as though I could run for five miles without slowing. The glow I felt on my skin after the body polish has spread through my muscles. If they could add a treatment for bones I would be nothing but glow. Maybe I need a brain glow, too. That could be up my alley.
The therapists have left us. It's time to get changed. We each have a large warm towel draped over us. No more side boob. I sigh, and sit up, gathering the towel around me. Monica stands before me, which is fortunate, because when I stand my leg feels strange and I lose my footing. She catches me, almost losing her towel in the process.
"I'm okay," I say. "It's going to take a second to adjust to the glow."
"I think I know what you mean," she says. "Now that you've lost your virginity, the next time will be easier."
"So I've always been told," I say, earning a smirk. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You can tell me why you were feeling jealous of my therapist," she says. "Maybe you can show me."
Oh, Jeremy. Is the oh fucking my God hottest woman I've ever known telling me she wants my hands on her? That's really what she just said, right?
"Oh, um, yeah, sure." I try to sound like fondling a supermodel is an everyday occurrence for me. Holding my towel with one hand, I down the rest of my champagne, though it's now at room temperature. I pour us each a final glass.
"What's your room number?" I ask.
She tells me before I enter the changing room. When I leave, in bikini and towel robe, I feel warmth in my face and chest that may not be completely explained by the spa treatments or the slight champagne buzz.
I promise to be at Monica's room in fifteen minutes. Then I head toward the hotel gift shop. I'm fairly sure that they will sell massage oils. They'll be overpriced as souvenirs, but I don't care.
They do, and there are samplers. One has a lavender sage scent much like the body wash the therapist first used this morning. I get that and another that has a light floral scent.
Before I leave, I consider that massage oil may not be suitable for every part of the body that I could conceivably touch. What else I want wouldn't be displayed with the oils, though. It takes me a minute to find the right section, and I add to my collection.
I make it to Monica's room barely before the fifteen minute mark. I'm feeling nervous and excited, both feelings spiking when she opens the door in her red bikini. I'm still wearing the towel robe over my own swimsuit, carrying my purse and my gift shop bag.
There's a smile on her face, but also a hint of a question. "Just to be clear," she says, "tell me what your inner thought meant?"
"I think you understand it well enough," I say. "Your therapist had her hands on your body, which is something I'd dearly love to do."
She seems amused. "And why?"
"Because you're oh my God-fucking hot," I say. "How could I not fantasize about it? Especially when you seem like a genuine person, and not a super-bitch-model?"
"So you want to give me another massage in spite of the two I've had today?" she asks.
"Hells, yes," I agree. I pull out the lavender sage oil. "I come prepared."
"Great. I wondered what you were doing," she says. "I guess you want me on the bed?"
"That one's too easy," I comment. "Yeah, let's get a stack of your towels and spread them out. Lie diagonally, if you can, that will give me more space."
In a few moments she's lying face down on the bed. I kick off my flip flops and climb onto the bed, sitting on the back of her thighs. I begin by oiling up her neck and shoulders.
"You do realize that I want this because I think you're hot, too?"
"You do?" I mean, I can't imagine her letting me do this to her if she dislikes me or thinks I'm ugly, but hot?
"I don't let random women get their hands on me," she says.
"Uh, you did exactly that today," I said. "Twice."
Monica laughs, making the bed shake beneath us. "Got me there. But I was paying for that."
"So if I'd said, 'Give me a hundred bucks, I want to touch you up,' you'd have taken me to your room?" I ask.
"Maybe," she says.
I've kneaded her neck and shoulders. It's time to cross the first barrier. I unhook her bikini top, parting the straps and laying them on the bed. Her back is entirely bare.
She makes no comment on the state of her top. I move my touch lower, digging the heels of my hands into the muscles of her back and worked them higher. There are no knots or tender spots. The massage she already had has taken care of that. But she seems to like the feel of my hands anyway.
I run my hands over her shoulder blades, then over her sides, my fingers sliding over the side of her breasts. They feel as firm as they look, a thin veneer of softness with a tension underneath, quite different from mine.
Drawing my hands down further I take her hips and grind her against the bed. She makes a muted sound, and moves as I guide her. Lowering myself onto her back, I begin to draw my teeth along her shoulder, making Monica shiver. I slide my hands up and down her side, applying just a little pressure, enough to push against her in a slow rhythm. Her hips move against me as I do.
"Your bikini top is going to get oily," Monica says, her voice rasping a little.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I can feel it against my back," she says. "You just applied massage oil."
"Oh, you're right," I say. "What do you think I should do?"
"You could add another towel," she says. "Or I guess you could take it off?"
"Hmm. Towel or no towel?" I muse. Then I lean against her as I reach behind to unfasten the top. I tug it out from between our bodies, then lie against her, my breasts squashed against her back. She shivers again as I press myself to her.
I move my hands to her waist, moving a little more firmly against her. When her hips pick up the motion, I slide my hands up her sides, and down to her breasts, caressing the sides at first, then pushing my hands under them to cup them. Monica's hips move more strongly as I do, and her breathing becomes heavier.
"You need these massaging because your therapist didn't pay attention to them earlier," I say. Her nipples are firm inside my palm. I trap them between fingers and thumbs and pinch. She gasps, and thrusts her ass up into me. I pinch her again, then knead her breasts harder. Her breath catches as I move my mouth to her ear and catch the lobe in my teeth.
"Biting isn't part of a massage," Monica forces out.
"It's part of mine," I say, without releasing her ear. Her breath catches again. I release her earlobe and find the pulse point in her neck, worrying at it with my teeth.
She makes a groan of frustration when I slide my hands from beneath her and sit on her thighs.
"There are other places she missed, I think," I say. I squeeze her ass cheeks.
"She was quite thorough there," says Monica.
"Maybe," I say. Then I dig my thumbs into her upper thighs, pushing them forward and back, so that she'll feel the pressure in her sex. Her hips push down into the bed.
"Nnh... oh, okay, she didn't do that," Monica says.
When I've teased her like this for several minutes, I slide off her and pull her bikini bottoms down, tossing them over the side of the bed. Squatting on the top of her thighs, I begin to thrust my sex against her ass, rocking her against the bed. I keep doing this as I explore with my fingers around her hips and waist, and draw them against the sides of her breasts.
She's reaching the stage of her arousal where any touch excites her. Of course, seeing her naked and writhing under me excites me, too. I don't want to let this go on too long for either of us. So I ride her until she starts to pant, small cries accompanying each breath, then I slip off her.
I squirt more oil against her back, then spread it around, rubbing it in with my fingers. I make the motions smooth and light, letting my fingers glide sensually. As I suspected, any touch arouses her now. Her eyes close and her hips occasionally push forward.
It's time to move ahead. I wipe my fingers clean on a towel. Then I reach into my bag and take out my other purchase, a tube of lube. I'm certain I don't need it, but I want to avoid picking up massage oil and getting it inside her.
Moistening my fingers with the lube, I draw them around her body, feeling for her sex. I part her lips, spreading lube over them, then coat my index finger thickly and push it into her.
"Fuuuck..." Monica breathes, somewhere between a whine and a prayer.
I don't move my finger in and out. Instead, I curl it forward, caressing slowly, feeling her passage twitch as her arousal climbs. She's not ready to come, but she's so turned on she can't help but respond.
I added a second finger, and this time I do slide them in and out, but slowly. I push both fingers forward, stroking the rough wall before pulling them out to start over. Monica is moaning constantly now.
Slowly, I withdraw my fingers. Moving back to between her legs, I part them around me, then lie on my back between her thighs. Lifting each thigh, I kiss along its inside, feeling the muscles flutter under my lips.
Raising her hips, I slide backward, until my mouth is positioned below her clit. "She didn't massage here, either," I said. Her thighs clench together as my voice tickles her.
Pushing my fingers back into her, I press down on the wall of her sex as I begin to suckle the hardened bump between my lips.
Monica cries out. She gasps as her hips begin to thrust her clit into my face. She tastes of excitement and honey. I pump my fingers as I lick, feeling her thighs tremble. She's close. Very close.
Her sex clenches around my finger as she cries out again. My face is suddenly flooded. Not the result I expected. I continue to lick as she squirts over my tongue, fluid running down my cheek to the towel beneath. Her whole body squirms as she groans in pleasure. The flood abates, but I still feel the quivering of aftershocks.
She's still panting, and she hasn't pushed me away, so I wonder if it's worth trying to push her into a second orgasm. I piston my fingers rapidly into her as I stiffen my tongue and bounce my head to scrub her clit. She moans, and I think she's going to pull away, but suddenly she's crying out again, her thighs tensing, and I feel the contractions around my fingers as she climaxes again.
This time she does move away. "Enough," she groans, rolling onto her back. Her belly twitches, the second orgasm not having completely run its course.
Her bikini top may not leave much unrevealed, but this is still the first time I've seen the little it hides. Her nipples are hard, but not very long or wide, and her areolae are small but swollen, a slightly darker shade than the pale skin of her breasts. In spite of her athletic build, her chest isn't very tanned. Her face is noticeably darker.
"Like what you see?" she asks. I guess she's been watching me watch her.
"You already know I do," I say.
"Fair point," she says. "So do I."
"You do?" I almost squeak the words.
"Damn right," she says. "I want a mouthful of those luscious breasts, and I want to taste the woman who can make me come harder than I've come in years." She tugs my legs forward, disrupting my balance so I fall onto my back.
"Oh, so that was..." I know it was good. She squirted and came twice. It couldn't not be good. But was it... "That was better than usual?" I ask.
"No one's fucked me like that since med school," Monica says. She's sliding my bikini bottoms down my legs without question or preamble. Of course she knows I would say yes, but she doesn't need permission. She has a divine right to my body.
She's tracing patterns on my belly now as she studies me. She really does seem to find me attractive. I won't put myself down. I'm okay. I could lose twenty - okay, thirty - pounds, but I have a nice figure, good face and clear skin, but she's looking at me like she's not out of my league. Like her life isn't full of supermodel-class partners.
Is that it? Does she have a partner, and she needs a change? She's lying down now, her lips inches from my left breast. Holy fucking Hades, nude Monica is real, and between my legs. Maybe the partner is a husband. Maybe she doesn't have girls to compare me to because she's in a straight marriage. And if she is no woman is going to experience what I am now, my hard nipple rolling between her lips and tongue. I moan at the jolt of arousal, my clit feeling like it's trying to press itself out of my body to seek more touch.
"You're so sensitive," Monica says around my nipple. I feel her voice vibrating my breast and the muscles in my belly tighten. "Your breasts are so soft." Well, yeah, those thirty pounds... Her mouth moves around, lips and tongue seeking other locations to play with as a hand sneaks over my right breast and closes around it.
In this moment I don't care if she has a husband or a wife or a whole string of lovers on the coast. For now, she has all of me.
Her mouth closes over my nipple again. I writhe as the scraping of her teeth against it sends another shock into my overloaded clit. Then her other hand slides over my butt. Fingers trail forward, beginning to explore my sex. My hips shoot upward as she caresses the exquisitely sensitive nub.
"More..." I groan. "Please, Monica."
She shakes her head, her teeth dragging my nipple from side to side, her finger gently circling my clit. She draws her head back, her teeth tugging on my nipple, stretching my breast, and I gasp in pained pleasure.
The fingers leave my clit. I want more of their touch, not less! But they trace over my lips, then press inside and begin to slide in and out. She pinches my right nipple hard, and I can't help crying out. "Jesus cranberry, Monica..."
She laughsplutters at that, squashing my breast beneath her face. Then she kisses the nipple before moving away from me. "Well, since you ask so nicely," she says. Her fingers remain inside as she slides herself down my body. Her head lowers, and her tongue begins to explore.
I'm nothing but sensitive nerves now. My hips roll with the movement of her fingers inside me, and I couldn't stop them if I wanted to. The electric spike that enters me when her tongue touches my clit is painful in its intensity, and I moan as my need builds to a crescendo within me.
Monica's hand creeps back up my body, leaving a sparking trail of arousal over my belly. I gasp as her lips cover my clit, my back arching as the sensation overwhelms me. There's a lance of pain from my nipple as she pinches it, and it shoves me over the edge. I cry out wordlessly as my body explodes. I clench around the fingers within me, the contractions of my climax hard and fast. Her fingers release my nipple, caressing my breast as her tongue softly circles my clit.
As my spasms lose their power, she withdraws her fingers. She looks up to me for guidance, and I reach for her hair and gently tug her face away. I'm not one of those women who can tolerate her clit being touched after she comes. Especially after coming as hard as that. She nods and moves back up the bed to lie beside me.
I want to know if she's married, or has a partner. Is she cheating on them with me? After the thought hit me a few minutes ago, I think it has to be true. But I'm not going to ask, because I'd screw up the chances of spending more time in bed with her over the next two days.
"Are you married?" I ask. Oh, fuck that outer voice.
She laughs. "Babe," she says, "we've known each other for half a day, and we'll be going our separate ways tomorrow. Don't you think it's unwise to propose?"
"I'm not proposing," I say, sounding offended. "You know that. I don't even want to know the answer, except it's too late to unask."
"I'm quite single," she said. "I don't have time for a girlfriend. Certainly not for a wife and family."
"Or a husband?" I ask.
"Babe, that ship sailed when you were still in diapers."
"Hey, now, you're only six years older than me."
"Okay, that ship sailed when you were in elementary school. It's what turned my asshole brother against the family, when Mom wouldn't let him bully me for being gay. I sometimes wonder," she muses speculatively, "if Heather would have had an easier life if I hadn't come out. Driving him away probably drove him deeper into his Jesus cult." She chuckled and turned her head to see my face. "Speaking of which - Jesus cranberry?"
I shrug. "I don't know where the words come from, they just come out sometimes. I was... not really in control."
Monica smiles at me. "I noticed that," she says.
"If you don't even have time for a girlfriend," I ask, "how do you keep that incredible body in shape?"
"I do CrossFit," Monica says. "I can keep my workout schedule tight. I've been doing it for a couple of years now."
Aren't those the gyms where everyone's having affairs? I keep my inner thoughts inside this time.
Monica sees through me and responds anyway. "Yes, I know the reputation, but I avoid drama."
"It works well for you," I say. My eyes skim the naked woman beside me. "Your workout works for me, anyway."
"Inner thoughts again?" Monica asks.
I shake my head. "I don't care if you know I think your body is goddess-tier."
"You say that, but you're the one who made me come so hard. Will you spend the night with me?"
My stomach lurches. "I'm in danger of my inner voice embarrassing me again, so I'll just say yes. How about I collect you for dinner and leave my bag?"
Monica stretches. Oh my funky God, don't do that. "It's time to start getting ready, isn't it? So you'll be back here in two hours?"
I slide off the bed and retrieve my bikini. "Yeah, I will," I say. I slip on the bottoms, then wrap the bandeau top around myself. Before I can fasten it, Monica takes the strap and hooks it in place.
"Thanks," I say, then groan as her hands come around and squeeze the cups. My nipples are still very sensitive, and her touch sends a thrill of arousal through me.
"It doesn't seem too oily," she says, smirking as I turn around. "Had to check."
I slip into the towel robe and flip flops and leave her room.
I take a quick shower to lose the last of the massage oil and any scent of sex, then spend most of the next hour trying to get my hair into shape. After swimming this morning and ignoring it in hot tubs and steam treatments I don't have much hope of styling it, and the best I can do is create a facsimile of its normal waviness.
My dress is a gold two-piece, a narrow gap between the top and skirt. It's high-necked with a deep back. I squeeze myself into it, then into my nude hose and heels. I pack a bag of casual wear for tomorrow, extra underwear, toothbrush and necessities. It's like having a sleepover at high school. Except that sleepovers didn't include sex.
Well, okay, some did, but that was later. Our parents never figured out why their daughters looked so smug in the morning.
I show up at Monica's room with five minutes to spare. She greets me wearing hose and a strapless bra.
"Nice outfit," I say. "I might even set my reservations aside and ask you to dance."
Monica glowers at me. "Help me into the dress, please?" She asks.
I do. It's a deep green strapless thigh-length dress, and it looks incredible on her. I zip it up, feeling the muscles under her curves, and marveling at how firm they are. Then I caress her ass for good measure. She gives me a raised-eyebrow mock glare before giving her face a final touch-up and slipping into her heels.
The whole group, the wedding party and the four of us hangers-on, are at a single large table. Hannah, beside me, is the only one not in a dress. She's wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and red Western tie. Though she is wearing heels.
Given some of the stories I've heard of bridal parties at the weddings of some of our friends, this has been remarkably drama-free. But, apparently, not entirely so. Kayla regales us with Allison's missteps in rescuing a damsel in distress. The girl she'd mentioned at lunchtime had accidentally enmeshed her in a plan to avoid a scheming parent, and now Allison was obliged to sit with another party and play the part of the girl's besotted girlfriend.
Allison being, of course, the one straight member of the wedding party.
Moments after Kayla finishes sharing this, Allison shows up with her captor, a pretty dark-haired girl in a red velvet dress, who apologizes profusely for taking Allison away from us, which was a terrible way to reward Allison for saving her from a predatory mom. Allison seems amused with the whole fiasco.
After Allison and the pretty girl leave, Tiff suggests kidnapping her. We could walk up to the table and carry her back. No one takes her seriously. Hannah leans close to tell me, sotto voce, that it's par for the course, both for Tiff's suggestions and everyone's reaction. When Heather suggests that Allison looked too amused to want rescue, Tiff suggests that we kidnap both of them.
When the excitement dies down, I turn to Monica. "You said you were at medical school. Are you a doctor?"
She nods. "I'm an ophthalmologist. I'm with a small independent practice."
"That's the one that does laser surgery, right, not glasses prescription?" I ask.
"Right, and other medical diagnosis and treatment. I can prescribe your glasses, too, but you won't usually want to pay my prices, unless there's an insurance reason for your visit." She frowns. "Eye surgery really isn't great dinner conversation, though. What do you do? You said you worked with the brides?"
"Not directly," I say. "I'm in marketing."
"Ohh," says Monica. "Is that a creative use of your... talent for muddling words and letting your inner voice escape?"
"Could be," I say.
Hannah wants examples. I'm not going to tell her about the therapist jealousy, because that would lead to awkward questions about what we did with the information, but I think I can remember the others. "Umm. One was calling Monica an amazon. I was definitely thinking that one. The other was calling myself a spa virgin. And Monica liked my modified blasphemy, Jesus cranberry. Sorry about that one," I say, since Hannah is a churchgoer.
She shrugs. "I see the point. I don't think they'll market a product."
"Right," I agree, "but sometimes one can strike a chord."
"There was God-fucking too," Monica interjects. "I don't think they'll use that as a slogan, either."
I give Hannah an apologetic smile. "That was just OMFG though," I say.
I don't tell them about Jesus crust, with or without bagels, but then that one at least stayed inside. I think. I do tell Monica that Hannah is training to become a vet, and she commiserates with her over the intensity of medical studies and the added stresses of working with animals. "My job can be high stress," she says, "but it's rarely traumatic, unless I'm dealing with cancer."
"Isn't that your friend?" Monica asks, a little later. We're drinking coffee, having sunk a few bottles of wine between the ten of us. The dance floor is becoming more crowded. The band is playing a swing number.
She's right. A dark-haired girl is spinning and flipping a shorter redhead, who is definitely Allison. I point her out to Anita, and soon the whole table is watching. They look like they're performing an exhibition, they're so good.
"She used to dance competition," says Kayla. "She's been teaching me."
"I guess you're going to have to dance with me tonight, love," says Anita. "I don't think even you could compete with her fake girlfriend."
When the number is over, Tiff leads a round of applause. We all stand as Allison catches sight of us. She leads the other girl - Natalia, I think she said her name was - over to our table by the hand. It transpires that the cost of Allison's good deed continues to escalate. This dinner was supposed to end her status as the dark-haired girl's fake girlfriend. Now the commitment has been extended by a few weeks, until the girl's friend's wedding. Allison's clearly irritated, but isn't blaming the girl for the way the drama is spiraling.
After they leave, we gossip for a few minutes about Allison's predicament, but we don't see a way to rescue her. She should be back with the correct wedding party tomorrow. If she needs to call a war council we'll be there for her. I know how close Anita is to her, and she won't want to see her getting into more trouble.
Dancing follows. None of us are dancers in the way Allison and her new friend are, but some of us - well, me - don't dance at all. I feel self-conscious on the dance floor. I always have.
Since everyone at the table is a couple with the exception of Monica and me, we're naturally each other's only option as a partner. She persuades me that I'll enjoy myself even if I just stand in one place, so I let her lead me onto the floor. She's right. Plus, I've consumed enough of the ten-way wine split that I don't much care about making an idiot of myself, so I do, and find that I don't feel at all like an idiot. Especially when Monica guides me with her hands on my arms.
Eventually, Monica announces that she's heading for bed. Since I'll be deprived of my dance partner, it makes sense that I leave at the same time. Even so, Tiff gives each of us a speculative look.
Monica steps toward me when I enter her room. Her fingers meet the gap between my top and skirt, skimming over my skin to meet at the center. She hooks one of them into my skirt and pulls me close.
"Are we allowed to kiss?" I ask.
"Uh, yeah?" Monica seems puzzled.
"We didn't earlier," I say, "and I don't want you to think I'm trying to push for more. It's just sex, right? Tomorrow we head in different directions."
"It's just sex," Monica agrees. "Are your inner thoughts leaking through again?"
"Maybe," I admit, "but you asked me to stay the night, and there doesn't seem any point in me going home at two a.m., so there's that."
"The rules are different when we're away from home," Monica says. "And isn't it expected for the bachelorette guests to indulge in some hanky-panky?"
The front of my top is held by narrow straps that pass over my shoulder and under my arm, leaving my back bare. Monica draws the straps forward, and the upper panel slides down, the built-in bra cups beginning to fall away.
"We should buck the trend," I say. "Let's indulge in a lot of hanky-panky."
Monica grins and tugs the panel down. Her hands fit around my newly-exposed breasts as she lowers her face to mine. And oh my fine goddess why did we not kiss earlier? My panties are already wet from her passion. Well, okay, the way she's playing kitty biscuits with my boobs is probably a confounding factor.
Since I helped Monica get into the dress, I know where it fastens. I have it open and sliding off her body within thirty seconds, and her bra fifteen seconds after that. Monica hasn't been idle, so when we fall to the bed we're both wearing only hose and panties, which take a little longer to remove without damaging.
Then she's on top of me, her larger, more powerful frame pushing me into the bed as she kisses me into complete submission. Her thighs are between mine, her body curled enough to push her pussy to mine as her hips buck, thrusting her into me, and my butt into the mattress.
"God, I wish I'd brought a strap-on," she mutters.
"I... don't think they carry them at the gift shop," I offer, weakly. "But you feel... fucking amazing anyway."
She chuckles. "Good enough, I guess."
And it's more than good enough, as her sex rocks against mine, and her firm breasts dig into mine, which shape themselves around them. I begin to moan in short order. She doesn't let up. She doesn't tease me. She is in command, and she takes me hard. I break my lips from hers when the uprush of passion makes it hard to catch my breath, then cry out as my body hits overload and my climax rips through me.
"Fuuuck...." I groan. Her movements have softened to a rocking motion, her sex caressing mine. I move with her, even after my orgasm wanes.
When I've had a moment to rest, I attempt to roll Monica onto her back. If she resists, I know, I could be pinned under her for the rest of the night. Not a bad place to be, I guess, but not what I want. Fortunately, she accommodates me, though she drags me onto her and kisses me soundly before letting me seek my own goals.
I move down to suckle her left breast. Her nipple hardens quickly beneath my tongue. Her sex is slick with arousal when I lower my fingers to it. I draw a gasp from her when I stroke her clit, then I push two fingers into her and begin to thrust.
It isn't long before Monica is writhing beneath me. She must have already driven herself into deep arousal against me. I suckle her other nipple into hardness before moving lower. She's panting, and the highly toned belly ripples as muscles keep tightening. With my fingers still inside her I suckle her clit.
Now that I know she can come more than once, I want to try for more. When I can sense from her sounds that she's approaching orgasm, I ease off, caressing her clit gently with my tongue. She pants and writhes, then her belly contracts as she approaches her peak.
Her muscles spasm as her sex clenches around my fingers. I leave them in place, slowing their movement, but not stopping. When I feel the contractions begin to wane, I suckle hard again, thrusting my fingers into her.
Monica groans for a moment at my stronger touch, then suddenly her passion seems to catch fire, and she begins to pant. I feel her body twisting beneath me, then my fingers are clamped inside her again as she cries out my name. "Fuck, Diana!" she wails.
I expect her to stop me, but she doesn't, at least not immediately, so I keep going. Her cry this time seems almost a shriek when she comes hard for a third time. Her whimpering after this climax sounds to have the edge of complete enervation.
Sure enough, she rolls away from me, bringing both legs together and curling into a fetal position as her hips continue to twitch, reflecting her inner spasms before her climax subsides. Then she relaxes onto her back as her breathing slows.
"Jee..." she begins to say, then stops herself. With a small grin, she says, "Cranberries! You must be popular with the ladies. Are you single?"
"I am," I say. "Did you decide to propose?"
Her burst of laughter seems improbably strong, given her current exhaustion. "No," she says, "but if anyone could tempt me, you'd be high on the list."
I skip off to the bathroom, absurdly proud of myself at her words. Also proud when she moves much more slowly to take her turn. Though she is six years my senior... I raise the sheet for her to slip into bed beside me.
The shower is big enough for two, which we have to prove to ourselves. It takes us long enough to be convinced that we're fifteen minutes later to breakfast than we'd told everyone. From the looks we get I'm pretty sure everyone knows what we've been up to. Only Tiff gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up. Of course I still suspect Tiff of plotting our union when she tossed us together for the couples package.
Even if the group was inclined to see drama in Monica and me hooking up, which is unlikely, it wouldn't compare to Allison's. She's finally back with the group and she's recounting the entire story. At least she had an interesting time. Given her position as something of an outlier in this group it could have been a less appealing trip for her. As it would have been for me, if Tiff hadn't paired me up with Monica.
When I return to the breakfast buffet, Heather corners me. "You know she isn't local, don't you?"
I'm puzzled for a moment. Why would that be a concern? Then I realize what she's saying. "Oh, we're not together."
Heather raises an eyebrow.
"Well, yeah, we've been together, but only for the weekend. She doesn't want a girlfriend."
"What about you?" she asks.
"I'm not going to spoil an amazing weekend wishing anything could be different," I say. "I knew what we were doing."
"Okay," Heather says. "She's my aunt. I'd feel responsible if inviting her caused problems. If you're okay, that's great. We were planning to take her up to the falls this morning. Do you want to come?"
I shrug. "You haven't spent much time with her. I'll stay with the others."
Picking up my dress, bag and toiletries from Monica's room, I repack them in my room, then check out, dumping my case in my car. With no more responsibilities, I spend the morning with the group in the pool. Mostly with Allison, since we're the two singletons. Much of Allison's work as the other MOH is ahead of her. She's nervous, and giving up time to her accidental commitment is making her more apprehensive. I don't know her well, but I think she may be worrying needlessly. She seems efficient, and I do know Anita, and she wouldn't have asked her if she didn't think she'd be fine. I tell her she's welcome to call if she needs support, and I reassure her as much as I'm able.
We swim until lunchtime.
All of us gather for lunch. Monica returns with Heather and Margot. We toast the wedding, six weeks away, with soft drinks, then the planning Allison has ahead of her, and Tiff's planning for this weekend. After we eat, I manage to get Monica alone.
"I wish we had time for a quickie before we go, but I already gave up my room," I say. "I still think you're goddess-level hot, and I'm still having trouble believing I got to spend so fucking much quality time with you. Or is that so much quality fucking time?"
Monica laughs. "Inner thoughts?"
I grin. "Yeah, well. I regret nothing."
"Neither do I," Monica said. "You know, if you find yourself in my area, I wouldn't object to spending a weekend in bed. Give me your number."
I do. She enters it into her phone. "That wouldn't count as not having time or a relationship?" I ask. My phone pings with a text from her, so that I have her number, too.
"You'd have to let me know in advance so I could rearrange my schedule," she says, "but I think it'd be worth it. Don't you?"
I expel a laugh. "I think I said that already. Goddess-level hot, remember? Same applies for me, though," I say. "I'd love the chance to get you back into bed. I don't see any likelihood that my single status is going to change, so if you want to clear your schedule for a weekend, you're welcome to visit. I'll even pick you up from the airport. Bring your strap-on." I frown. "You know, I don't have a plus one for the wedding in six weeks. What would you think to...?"
Monica gives me a considering look. "I would seriously give that some thought. Text me the details."
Though we can't have that quickie, we can share a farewell kiss, and we do.
If she doesn't want a relationship, I'm fine with that. I still feel privileged to have had her these last two days. Hell, we barely know each other.
But if our future includes occasional weekends of mind-blowing orgasms, well, I'm totally there for it.