“It’s…” Wendy bit her lip. Shit, her nipples hurt, they were too damn hard to be wearing a bra, but she couldn’t care about them when she was feverishly rubbing between her legs, her middle digit twitching like a gunslinger’s trigger finger. And she didn’t know if she decided to, on some level, or if it just happened from wanting it so much, but her middle finger slipped inside, slick and slender, went inside to the knuckle, and it didn’t hurt at all. “It’s in,” Wendy gasped, hearing an answering intake of breath from Janet. Was she?
“Show me.” If she was, her voice showed no sign of it. Didn’t tremble, didn’t crack.
Wendy took her left hand, picked up her phone, aimed it down her body. You have me, she thought as she took the picture. Here I am.
“Goooood girl,” Janet drawled, and the phone lit up with her answer.
Wendy clenched on her finger, the gloved impalement she couldn’t quite think of as herself, couldn’t feel as anything but Janet.
It was Janet, dressed exactly as she’d been at the office, her dark blouse and her woolen skirt, but she’d unbuttoned her blouse. It hung open down her torso, revealing marble skin, the inner roundness of her cleavage. She’d taken off her bra, and though maybe Wendy had seen more of her breasts in the last picture she had sent, it was just something about seeing Janet that way. No bra between her and Wendy. Just the blouse to separate their touch. And if she slipped her hand under it…
Wendy stirred her middle finger inside herself, to sensations so sharp it seemed she could cut herself on them, and with her other hand she wrenched her own blouse open, she found the clasp between her breasts, she exposed herself shamelessly and flushed as if Janet could see her. The leather of her glove wasn’t cold anymore, it was warm; it was bottomless, it was a pool for the liquid heat filling her body. She was burning all over, but her finger was where it was centered. That was where she would explode.
“Would you like to see more?” Janet asked, her voice every bit as poised as it would be if she were at the head of the table in a conference room, as if her breasts weren’t rising and falling beneath an unbuttoned blouse, as if her bra wasn’t on the fucking floor.
“I would,” Wendy replied meekly.
“Because you could get off with one finger. Don’t you think I could get you off with one finger?”
“I want more.” Now Wendy’s voice was just a breath.
It was hard for her not to whimper as she acutely felt her ring finger on her pussy—not pressing any harder than before, but she knew it was going in next, she could feel her body’s hunger for it, a tightness inside her that was too much for just her middle finger. Her body arched unconsciously, the plush, expensive material of the mattress beneath her cradling her, and she was so attuned that she could hear the bedsprings as they tensed under her. Her ring finger dragged over her sex, already spread wide by her middle finger, the glove leather making it feel like it was someone else, like her hand was someone else’s, like the pleasure at the end of her fingers had to be connected to the voice on the phone that she was listening for so intently.
Both fingers centered inside her and she clenched on them so tightly that their presence felt huge, impossible, like she was spread wide open and filled full and laden with almost too much sensation to bear. Her other hand clawed at the phone, fumbling about the bedspread, finally picking it up and she could barely hold it with how her body trembled, tremors going through her body, the San Andreas Fault of her body finally opening after so long.
She took the picture and heard a distinct moan from Janet. She couldn’t even think that Janet was touching herself, just that she’d pleased her. That she’d given Janet something she wanted, because Janet wanted her.
Janet’s next message had her turned partly away from the camera, her skirt crimped up the backs of her thighs as she removed her panties, the side of one breast hanging below her bent torso. Jesus, had Janet hired a professional photographer to take her goddamn nudes?
Wendy brought her other hand down to her clit and rubbed it hard and slow, trying to force some calm into her body as she answered its need. Tension coiled in her belly, pulling tighter with each wet stroke, until the need forced her hips to cant, jerking against her own hand hungrily, third finger inside her and she felt so full, so complete, she didn’t know how she could take anymore. She was too damn sensitive; it was almost too intense for her. Every touch on her engorged clit sent jagged bolts through her.
“I can hear your fingers,” Janet said, “pumping in and out.”
“Jesus!” Wendy replied cleverly.
“You can’t take anymore, can you?”
“Uh-uh, uh-uh…”
“You’re going to come?”
Wendy whimpered as she nodded, tears brimming in her eyes, looking over at that fucking pin-up pose like it was talking to her. This just wasn’t supposed to feel so good! It was supposed to be a distant second to sex—it shouldn’t feel like the real thing!
Janet must’ve just known that was her answer, because she proceeded as if she’d actually been able to see Wendy. “Come for me. Right now. Do as I tell you.”
Wendy parted her lips to say yes, but a moan escaped instead, howling out of her body to tell Janet what was happening to her, all because of Ms. Lace.
Her fingers moved with a speed she hadn’t known they possessed, the glove giving them a mind of their own, and Wendy stopped trying to fight it, let it do whatever it wanted to her. Her eyes closed, the sight of Janet’s beautiful face sharpening in her head. It was right after they’d kissed, leaving those full lips slightly swollen, almost bruised, and a hunger and a fury and a challenge in Janet’s eyes that Wendy hadn’t been able to see at the time, but now all she could think of was how it felt to be burning under that look.
She remembered the press of Janet’s lips to hers, the softness of them; the feel of Janet’s tongue darting between her lips and into hers, as she responded, as she’d just begun to respond.
Wendy’s hand was a blur between her legs, her hips throwing her up against them, holding her in the air with burning thighs as her arm pumped and she strummed her clit and everything inside her went to her core, tight and hot and exploding slowly.
I’m going to come for you, she thought, her muscles straining, sweat pockmarking her body. You told me to come and I’m going to do it. Her lips parted, forming words even she couldn’t decipher. Ms. Lace. Her head thrashed to the side, pressing her cheek to the cool of her pillow. Ms. Lace. Her back arched, muscles tensed, all of her centered on her sex as she lifted it up to the sky, her hand. Janet. She came, a ragged version of the name escaping her as pleasure flooded her, filled her, then leaked out of her in slow degrees, her fingers continuing to play between her legs.
She collapsed to the mattress, it letting out a groan that mirrored hers. All the strength drained from her body, and she just barely managed to maneuver a clumsy hand to the phone and take a picture of three fingers inside herself before the feeling became too overwhelming. When the glove slipped out to rest against her thigh, the relief was both blissful and frustrating. More. She could’ve taken more. Janet would’ve made her take more, if only she were there, if only she could see how much Wendy needed it, her, them.
A rich laugh from Janet poured over her like honey. “Well, now we know how many fingers you can take. I’ll adjust my expectations accordingly.”
“Yes, Ms. Lace.” Wendy sent the photo she’d taken.
“Another picture. You follow orders well. Would you like your reward now or are you done playing for the night?”
“One more,” Wendy said, surprised she could speak when it felt like the air was flying out of her body the moment she breathed it in. “But I don’t want to see your body. I want to see you.”
The sound of Janet’s breathing stilled, quieted, and Wendy wondered for a dire moment if she had hung up. But no, the little timer on the phone call continued to flicker along. A moment later, it lit up with a new photo.
J
anet’s glasses were off, her hair was down. And her face was different. It took Wendy a moment to realize what. She wasn’t smiling, not exactly—there was a tightly buttoned grin at the ends of her lips, but it was more of satisfaction than anything else.
But there was an openness there too. Not a vulnerability, but the cultivated blankness that Janet armored herself with was gone. And if there wasn’t a maelstrom of emotion on her face, there wasn’t a void of it either. Wendy had the uplifting feeling that if she told Janet a joke, she would laugh; that if she told her a tragedy, she would frown. No minute adjustments of a carefully composed visage, but what she was feeling, written boldly on her face.
She didn’t think it was ‘the real Janet’ or some sophomoric nonsense like that. The Janet who chose to be a businesswoman was just as real as the Janet who smelled roses or whatever. But this most definitely seemed like her Janet. Something no one else was privy too.
“Thanks,” Wendy said.
“Get some sleep,” Janet told her fondly.
Fondly. Wendy could absolutely put that tone with that face.
“I expect you to do your usual excellent work tomorrow.” She hung up without anything more.
Wendy struggled out of her top, pulled the covers over herself, and went to sleep staring at her phone and the new glimpse she’d been given of Janet Lace.
The gay bar was not Janet’s bag, even after what she’d done, but she was too keyed up to sleep and there was a certain ambience she wished to absorb. Wendy had said she’d fucked her in her office, reading that e-mail, and now Janet understood what she’d meant. However far apart they were, she felt fucked. Perhaps it was just knowing Wendy felt the same way.
In a strange way, her own muted reaction to the ‘lesbian scene’ was comforting. There’d always been that trepidation over her attraction to females—such a relief to meet Roberta, to fall in love with her, to not have to be gay so much as dating another woman. On her own, there was this worry, incomprehensible to her younger peers, that she’d go from her to one of them, a dyke, a lesbian—someone who now had to meet criteria and follow a code of conduct. But she was still her, no different. She felt more herself in a way, but she thought that was just Wendy. Someone else wouldn’t have done, male or female. There was something especially pleasing about her that Janet couldn’t define, but that she was very much looking forward to finding.
She was a woman who fucked other women, in the presence of women who fucked women. If it didn’t feel quite right, it also didn’t feel odd, strange. It was relaxing, in its own way. To sit and sip her whiskey and be in the room where other women were kissing, dancing—falling in love.
“How about we put that on my tab, darlin’?” a woman said, and Janet looked up to see her—tall and well-built, with an intriguingly symmetrical face—standing over her. So that’s the level I’m operating at. Not bad.
“No thanks,” Janet replied, and the words tasted sweet. “I’m seeing someone.”
CHAPTER 8
Wendy was at work and not working. Not at the moment, at any rate. Her phone was on her desk and she kept looking at it like it was the prop in a magic trick. She had pictures of Janet naked on it. It was crazy. It was insane. Playboy didn’t even do nudity anymore. She had more nudity than Playboy, on her phone, and it was of her boss. She could look at it anytime. Right this second. Or this second. Or this second.
“Got a second, Ms. Cedar?” Janet asked her, head in the door.
Wendy resisted the urge to snap up her phone and hide it. It wasn’t even powered on. “Sure. Come on in.”
Janet closed the door to the partition behind her and Wendy felt her pulse race. Just being in the room with Janet—and with Janet’s nipple, which she’d seen—was suddenly something intoxicating.
“There’s a war games event coming up at the proving grounds in Yuma. DARPA will be showing off all their latest toys, basically a sales demo where they’ll decide what to order and how much.” She came around Wendy’s desk and laid out a brochure over her keyboard. Several, in fact. There was one for a modest hotel, another for the event itself. “Frederickson’s going, he’s asked me to put my best people on a sales pitch he can deliver. I’d like you to familiarize yourself with the exhibition and prepare the necessary stats. How our bird compares to this and that. It’s not a very glamorous piece of work, but it could help our contract.”
Janet was leaning on Wendy’s desk, over her, and her blouse was not as tight as it usually was. Wendy could see not just her cleavage, but how it curved inward. God, how had she ever not stared at that? Well, she had, but surreptitiously. The way she was trying to now. “I’ll get right on it,” Wendy promised.
“Just so you know, Ms. Cedar, this assignment has nothing to do with last night. Your performance has been exemplary, regardless of any interpersonal interactions.”
“And I do love performing for you,” Wendy replied, while her brain inwardly went WHAT?
Janet smiled fitfully. “Not to discuss events outside the office which hold no bearing on our work—”
“Perish the thought.”
“—but do you have any…notes?”
“Notes?”
Janet flicked her fingers against one of the brochures. “Whoever designed this pamphlet received notes,” she reasoned.
“Last night wasn’t a pamphlet.”
“Then no…issues? Not even ones you in particular might have, but more what a reasonable adult might have?”
“No issues,” Wendy said, smiling reassuringly. “Very much no issues.”
“Good.” Janet made a face that expressed an attempt to laugh it off without coming anywhere near laughing. “I’m sure sometimes the brochure designer gets it right on the first try too.”
“One thing?”
“Yes?” Janet asked, a flicker of doubt crossing her face.
“Being called Ms. Cedar is nice and all, but my name is Wendy. And yours is Janet, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You’re quite right. It is Janet. Janet Pauline.”
Wendy grunted a little. “Huh. Really.”
“Please don’t take a page from Ms. Smile’s book and start calling me Jan.”
A heavy footfall outside the door jerked Janet’s face up, and they both watched as a blurry business suit passed alongside the pebbled Lexan.
Janet straightened, her voice chilling from the husky register it’d fallen into. “On another note, please delete the files I sent you last night, for security reasons. Any further reference to them that you need, I can provide personally.”
“I will do that,” said Wendy, who would not do that. “Anything else?”
“One small question.” Janet straightened, ready to head for the door. “Did you wash your hands after you fingered yourself? Because I didn’t.”
Wendy blinked. As a self-defense mechanism, her brain struggled for something other than the mental picture she had just gotten. “So you masturbated this morning, right? It’s not like you haven’t bathed or washed your hands since last night? Because…because you had to have eaten breakfast…”
Janet put a finger to her lips. “Sh.”
“What’s the best moment in your life?”
Wendy puffed air into her cheeks and blew it out slowly. She was at Wednesday dinner with her sister, and with her brother-in-law and nephew at the table, she was in no mood to complicate the digestion of a perfectly good pork roast with figuring out the answer to that.
“What’re yours?” she replied.
“Birth of my child,” Regan ventured.
“Marrying the love of my life,” Keith said.
“Can you have the same one?” Wendy asked, handing Mac what was left of her roast. He proved to have a great future career as a human garbage disposal.
“Well, if we can’t have the same one,” Regan said, “I should get the marriage, because I wore a pretty dress, and Keith, you should get childbirth, because,” she lowered her voice drastically past the range of Mac�
�s hearing, “your vagina wasn’t in two pieces.”
“Oof,” Keith said.
“What’s your problem?” Wendy asked. “You don’t even have a vagina. You’re never going to be in that position.”
“You’re a lesbian,” he pointed out.
“I can still adopt…oh. Right. I see what you’re getting at.” Wendy leaned back in her chair. “There is such a thing as in vitro fertilization. I find George Clooney, borrow some spooge—”
“You’re giving it back?” Regan asked.
“Point is, I could do it.”
“But are you?” Keith insisted.
Wendy looked over at Mac. His face was covered with food. “Point taken.” Then, because that didn’t count as the last word, “But if my son was going to be John Connor, leader of the human resistance, I could. And you’re missing my point, which is that I don’t think it’s fair to count marriages and small human beings. Because then whatever I say, I look like an…” She glanced at Mac. “Like an anus.”
“What’s an anus?” Mac asked, inevitably.
“Go do your homework,” Keith said. “I’ll be up in a bit to help you.”
“Okay,” Mac said dutifully, taking his glass of water with him.
Wendy frowned seeing it. She’d drunk wine out of that same commemorative glass.
Keith cracked his neck. “So, best moment of my life, besides getting married or becoming a father? You remember my cousin Bob and that party at the beachfront?”
Regan nodded. “You weren’t here for this,” she told Wendy.
“Well, he did this sorta eloping thing where he and his fiancé invited all their friends and family, and instead of spending a ton booking a chapel and everything, they just got married in the middle of the party. I was best man, Lauren Kelly was the maid of honor, they had a priest there. I don’t know what everyone thought, having this priest there at the party before they announced it—”
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