by Mael d'Armor
The hands fly in easy strokes from her waist to her neck, then down to her fingertips, coating her back and arms in complex layers of a rich aroma. Soon, the top half of her is gleaming in the light that filters through the side window.
‘Now for some in-depth work.’
A pair of palms join up on Sandra’s spine like a prayer, then spread out in divergent paths to run firm, slow courses to her shoulder and hip. They start again, switching sides.
The transverse ballet feels fabulous and sends waves of wellbeing radiating to the top of her head. Without a doubt, this trumps any dessert on the face of the earth.
‘This is top-heavenly,’ moans Sandra into the towel. ‘Where did you learnate to do that?’
‘I have many talents,’ says Jenny without missing a beat. ‘Not that they always went unnoticed. Did you know I was once the most wanted girl in town?’
The fingers on Sandra’s back are tracing delightful loops at the base of her neck.
‘Ah . . . Please don’t pit-stop. You were saying?’
‘I think I should tell you about myself.’
Through the lovely numbness in her mind, Sandra wonders about the change of heart. Didn’t Yaouen say something about . . . Oh, who cares anyway? She would love to know more. She would also like to be more clear-headed. She tries to focus in spite of the sublime little digs on either side of her spine.
‘I told you in Sydney there was something special about us. Told you we were fae. You remember that, don’t you?’
Sandra can only manage another moan in response. She had no idea Jenny was so skilled with her hands.
‘But in fact, I was not always so. A long time ago, I was the daughter of a powerful king.’
Jenny pauses while her fingers are giving proof of their artistry further up Sandra’s neck. Massaging right into the skull.
‘I know it sounds like the start of one of those fluffy fairy tales, but please don’t laugh.’
There is no chance of that happening for Sandra is too busy sighing in delight. Still, she wonders vaguely if she heard right. Did Jenny say ‘a long time ago’?
‘I loved the ocean with all its creatures, and I was the prettiest girl in the land. All the curves in the right places, unblemished skin, cute nose and ruby lips. Just like you, come to think of it, except with jet-black hair and larger boobs.’
Prettiest? thinks Sandra through her superb sensations. No, she has no difficulty believing that after what she’s just seen.
‘My father was the doting kind — in fact he had a soft spot for me the size of all the European kingdoms put together. So I pressed him to build a city. Just for me. Cute, spoilt little me. And not just any city. Not just by any boring old river. No ma’am. Right in the sea. A mighty city that would rise in the heart of the bay. One bristling with elegant towers and defended by walls formidable enough to keep out the storms.’
Jenny’s fingers have moved to a delicious spot between her shoulder blades. They are busy extracting whatever potential for bliss is lodged there.
‘To tell the truth, he found the idea utterly daft but you know me. I don’t stop talking when I’m in the mood. So I pursued him day and night. I knew that, with a bit of perseverance, I could twist him round my little finger, even though he was quite a portly gentleman. And indeed I got there. In the end, I did get my city, with its towers. Its soldiers. Its countless traders bringing in countless wealth. It was dotted with luxuriant parks and trees taller than its walls. Believe me, it was the most wondrous city in the world. I called it Ys. Home in the sea.’
The hands are kneading further down Sandra’s back. Fussing over her waist, sheeting her hips in caresses. Jenny is silent for a while, seemingly deep in thought.
‘For a few moons, I was happy as the proverbial clam. I would watch the sun rise and set over the sea. I would gaze at the seagulls from my chamber in the highest tower.’
She pauses again, though her fingers do not.
‘Then I got bored. I began to thirst for some fun.’
Her palms are hindered by Sandra’s shorts.
‘You don’t mind if I take these off, do you?’
The question seems purely rhetorical, for before Sandra can say anything the last of her clothing is being whisked down her legs. The fabric brushes her feet, which makes her wiggle her toes — and giggle like a bottle blonde.
Oh my, raves Sandra. This whole thing feels so fuzzily delectable. There she is, with her butt in the air, being given the royal treatment by her very own dazzling masseuse in a state-of-the-art medieval chamber in France. Life could be worse after all.
She gives another giggle. She must be more tipsy than she thinks. Or maybe that scent is seriously getting to her head.
The hands are back with more oil which they expend upon her legs, squeezing and spinning as they go, unleashing new waves of tingles from toe to thigh.
As they knead back and forth, a thought floats across her mind. Wasn’t this supposed to be a back massage? Or maybe she heard wrong. Maybe Jenny just said home-made massage. Whatever. The argument seems very abstract. Pointless. For this is simply, simply divine. She would be a fool to pass on that.
She abandons herself to the clever weave of the palms.
‘Being a pretty, spoilt princess gives you a claim on fun,’ resumes Jenny. ‘And a clear edge over the competition. You can pick and choose. It also gives the whole notion of slumming particular appeal. So I set my sights on a handsome young buck, a baker by trade. Before you could say hot cross buns we were screwing like beasts all over the blessed city. He was the first of a long line of lovers.’
The hands have slowed their pace and begun to work Sandra’s left thigh, feeding her more of that opulent smell.
Screwing like beasts? The phrase dangles like bait before Sandra’s mind’s eye and she suddenly feels very hot. Deep within her, something soft and sleek and terribly thirsty is stirring, breaking free from its slumber. Relishing the chance to rise again.
Oh dear. Oh no. No, no, no, no . . . She cannot give in to the pull. Not while she is being massaged by her girlfriend. Not with Jenny doing all those sensational things to her thigh.
She tries to think of something else but her thoughts return — like lust dust to a lodestone — to the vision of Jenny and her lover fucking hard. She grinds her hips slowly into the pillow in an effort to squash her urges. To nip them in their torrid little bud.
This only excites her more.
Holy waffle! She cannot afford to be turned on. What if Jenny caught on? It’d be so mortifying. Oh why, why does she get herself into these impossible situations? It was bad enough at the café, but this . . . This would be . . . No, absolutely not. She must keep a lid on her demon wants. She must not move. This will be over soon enough. Surely she can hang on.
But the hands keep surfing, switching smoothly from one thigh to its twin, trapping her in a mesh of delight. Grooming her. Winding her up inexorably.
She thinks about asking Jenny to stop. Thinks about getting up and thanking her for a wonderful job. But the notion dissolves as soon as it has formed. This is too damn good. The fingers have woven such a luscious web. She cannot pull away. Her creature will not let her. It is begging too hard.
She does not have the strength to protest when Jenny’s charmed hands spin up her buttocks.
Soon, her cheeks are being moulded with the same lascivious care as her thighs just before. Moulded and preened and baited and roused.
The thirsty thing within has awakened fully and crawled right up to the source of pleasure. It uncurls one avid tentacle. Uncurls another. Latches onto her legs and forces them to shift. Forces her to think dirty thoughts in anticipation. Thoughts of the bread man shagging her from behind. Of Jenny eating her to distraction from the front.
Her heartbeat goes into strong staccato mode, sending the blood pulsing to her head.
God no, please. Not now, not here, she pleads to her creature.
‘Shall I tell you how I first s
educed my handsome baker?’ asks Jenny, returning to her tale. ‘You’ll love to hear this. And what are best friends for if you can’t share an intimate detail on the odd occasion? I cornered him alone one day at the back of his shop. Told him I loved the bread he was making. Told him I wanted to see for myself how well I could work his dough.’
Jenny seems equally determined to see how well she can work Sandra’s pulp. Her fingers twist and spin across the skin, making oily forays between the cheeks.
And Sandra submits with soft gasps to the glorious little tugs. To the perverse figure-of-eights. She has started to buckle under the caresses.
‘This is not hurting, is it?’ asks Jenny mischievously. She palm-spreads another dose of oil into the no-go zone.
The rasped answer is almost inaudible.
‘I’m . . . I’m fine as a fiddle.’
This is ridiculous. She has to stop moving. Jenny mustn’t know how horny she is. She begins to plead with her demon again. She feels like a dieting girl who, hypnotised by a scrummy-looking cake, knows she will take a nibble, and a bite, and will end up pigging out.
Jenny’s voice is purring above her.
‘My tale, I was saying. Forgive me, it is so easy to get distracted. Almost as easy as it was to get my way with Baker Boy. So there he was, in his back room, carrying some fresh loaves on a tray. A most appetizing sight. Rugged good looks, rippling muscles and smoking buns. I snuggled up behind him without bothering to apologise for breezing in uninvited and ordered him not to move an inch, on pain of death. Then I wrapped myself around his sexy bum. I slipped a hand under his work apron and unbuttoned his trousers. And I began to stoke his fire. The lightest of touches to begin with. His beast cheered up in no time. Oh, it gave me such a buzz to see him squirm as I soft-played his swollen tip. He began to seep profusely, so I took to teasing back the skin. To torment him. I wanted to see that tray wobble properly. I kept him dangling for God knows how long. The poor boy was gasping like a mountain trekker on his last legs. And leaking so much he was more slippery than a lubed-up dildo.’
She pauses. ‘Do you know what I’m talking about, Sandra?’
Sandra has never seen a lubed-up dildo up close but exhales in agreement anyway. Her imagination has been fired by the saucy details, her body wound up by those pernicious hands.
She bites her lip as more oil is dripped on her, glutting her, adding fragrance to her own juices. And barely notices when her legs are nudged wider apart, to expose her fully.
The fingers. All she can think of are the fingers on her skin, spreading her, exciting her into a breathless knot.
Like tireless artists, they continue their brazen dance, widening their scope, overstepping the mark. Impinging on her glebe. Blurring the lines of propriety.
Sandra undulates in frustration with every breath she takes. Swells up like a wave.
No, I mustn’t. I can’t let her know, she repeats like a hollow prayer. Oh my God, I beg you. There has never in the past been the slightest ambiguity between her and Jenny. Not once. And she is not like that, is she? She is not into girls. Not really. Not in that way. The nude was just a fantasy. A figment. A mirage. Nothing more. No, she can’t let that happen. She just can’t.
But her demon couldn’t care less about her feeble pleas and has trapped her in its grasp. Forced her to roll on her hips in consent. To show how badly she wants this.
The fingers abandon all pretence and narrow down their waltz to work her folds like paste, to flush them with yearning.
Sandra brings up one hand to her shoulder. She puckers up the towel in a tense grip, then buries her face into the bed, stifling a whimper.
Oh God, she knows.
She knows she has again lost the fight with herself.
‘When I had toyed with him long enough, I dropped to my knees, turned him round and took him in my mouth. But I did not want him to come. Not just yet. Not for a long time. I worked him not too deep to begin with, just the tip, keeping it nice and slow. Nice and slow. He was finding it very hard to keep a straight face, I could tell from the noises he was making. As for his tray, it had stopped being straight a long time ago and all the loaves had spilt to the ground.’
Jenny falls silent, though her hands keep moulding, teasing, dabbing, fondling.
A moan. Grainy, unequivocal.
Sandra has surrendered to the invaders. To those shameless fingers which, without asking for permission, have made themselves at home. Taken possession of her soil. Provoked her and inflamed her.
Without breaking pace, the slippery devils are pushing their advantage. One goes for a cheeky probe, followed by another. Then they become bolder. Sandra’s moans thicken as they to and fro, returning each time for a deeper raid. Their motion is so fluid, so perfectly rehearsed, and her flesh responding so strongly to their sport, that she cannot doubt their right to be there. To claim and subdue her.
She bites her knuckles but cannot suppress another drawn-out whimper.
‘You seem to be enjoying this massage rather a lot,’ coos Jenny, her fingers warping in and out of Sandra, widening their range with each push. Her left hand is being just as impudent — glazing Sandra’s clit with oil, running rings around and over it.
Sandra has lost all sway over her rolling hips. Her heaving chest. Her moans. Her rasps.
‘I’m impressed. Your dough is rising fast. Faster than Baker Boy’s.’
Still deep-fondling her, Jenny turns and sits on the bed, facing its foot. She leans over and bends Sandra’s restless leg, giving the hips a slight tilt. Then, having pinned down the massage girl with her chest, she reaches under the thigh to resume her clit-work.
The hands are working in perfect unison from both sides of the hips, their captive trapped in their double snare. Jenny increases her tempo, her face glowing with a rakish smile.
‘Being fae has clear advantages,’ she breathes. ‘It helps you see beyond the obvious. I can sense something in you. Something beautifully wicked, and desperate to bloom. It is sucking hard on my hand, do you know? With its soft, velvety lips. And growing fatter with every draw. Let’s up the ante, shall we? To keep it happy. To help it mature. Let’s give it a proper fisting. You’re loose enough. Loose and pliant, like your soul. Easy to knead and shape as required.’
She slows her pace and eases her thumb in. Then begins grinding, without haste, almost lazily. Sandra is groaning feverishly.
‘There, you see, that decadent little monster is loving it. I perceive its delight. Its greed. Its ardour to please. There are such libertine cravings in you, darling. Who would have thought, given your previous impeccable record? Oh dear, oh dear. Goes to show you cannot go by appearances alone.’
The words hardly reach Sandra. The fist is crushing her into a wheezy mess. The fingers on her clit are driving her mental. Her quivering fingers are locked on the towel, her legs shaken by spasms. She has a vision of Jenny bending her over a chair then spanking her for being so feckless. Of Jenny forcing her to take her spunky lover in her mouth. Ordering her to suck him off. To suck him dry. Then something tears in her head. She soars on a spurt of high-pitched yelps and explodes with a strangled cry.
20
She lies lifeless on the bed, her hair looped over her flustered cheeks. Shaken, shattered. Moaning weakly. Jenny has withdrawn from her and sits by her side with a victor’s smile.
‘Now be a good girl and turn over,’ she commands. ‘We are not finished.’
‘Please, please. I need a momentary no touchy.’
‘I think not. I’m quite sure you’re up to it.’
To prove the point she reaches for Sandra’s clit and begins to stroke it gently.
‘Please don’t, Jenny. This was a baddy boom-boom mistake. We shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let you. You caught me off lifeguard.’
But Sandra’s hips are taking no notice of what her mouth is clumsily saying. They are responding to the tease with surprising verve. Rolling to the baiting fingers.
Sandr
a closes her eyes.
‘A mistake?’ echoes Jenny with a smug smile. ‘I’m not sure your horny kitty agrees. Turn over.’
Sandra does not have the strength to go against Jenny. The fisting, she realises, has fattened her demon and hollowed her resolve.
With a defeated sigh, she rolls over onto her back.
‘Good girl,’ approves Jenny. She pushes Sandra’s legs wide apart. ‘Now let’s see how that cute arse of yours responds.’
She squirts more oil on her hands and proceeds to lubricate Sandra with methodical care.
‘Jenny, don’t. This is not right-ho. Il ne faut pas. Please.’
‘Which is exactly why we should be doing it.’ Jenny traces a teasing path between Sandra’s butt cheeks. ‘Girls like to have fun, don’t they?’
Sandra gasps in delight as half a finger is eased in, then withdrawn. Though the probe is shallow, lines of dark pleasure have already scattered deep inside her.
The finger returns with slow, vicious deliberation.
‘Have you been screwed in here?’ enquires Jenny, entering deeper.
A moaned assent from Sandra, who has dropped her head on the towel.
‘Good. Your beast will swell all the more easily.’
Jenny oils her hand again and inserts a second finger, turning each time she intrudes.
A sound of gratitude issues from Sandra.
‘Beg me to be fisted in the arse,’ says Jenny, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
Sandra’s hips twist off the mattress and she tucks her face into her shivering arm. Sucks her skin in excitement.
Her swollen creature is rising to the promise. It remembers the rank bliss of the butt-fuck in the hotel, the divine palpation in the shower. It purses its lips greedily, eager to swallow all of Jenny’s fingers.
This is hopeless. Her demon has to feed. She will probably die of shame with Jenny gloating. But she has no choice. Not a jot of jiggle space.
‘Je t’veux . . . Je t’veux en moi,’ she moans, reverting to French.