Show Me How

by Harley Slate

  Jessica knows I'm not twenty-one, but she's not saying anything about society's rules. Maybe this isn't considered a public place. Maybe Jessica's one of the owners. Maybe it's considered one of her apartments. Can you pour champagne for an eighteen-year-old in Nevada if it's your private condo? It was allowed back home, but the laws are different in every state, aren't they?

  I guess you can if you're Jessica Blaire. That chocolate martini last night... she knew I was only eighteen. That it was illegal.

  A forbidden pleasure.

  It shouldn't thrill me, the idea of forbidden pleasures, but of course it does. I sip carefully at the most delicious glass of champagne I've ever tried. The bubbles tickle my nose.

  “Drinking at lunch,” I say. “That's how it starts.”

  “How what starts?” She's laughing.

  “Hell, I don't know. It's something my mother says at brunch.”

  “I can picture that. You and your mom at a champagne Sunday brunch.”

  “Yeah, it's a thing in the south.” Sometimes she'd sneak me a glass too. Just one, just so I'd know how to handle it. Good times.

  “It's a thing in Vegas too.” She smiles at me smiling, and it feels like a moment, even though we haven't said anything particularly deep.

  We clink glasses, a surprisingly musical sound. The champagne flutes are more of that Waterford crystal.

  “I'm going to take you shopping,” she says. “I want to replace what you lost last night.”

  It's what I wanted‒ a sugar mama‒ but I still feel a little weird about it. “What I lost?”

  “Your shoes.” Her eyes twinkle. “Your thong.”

  “You're a bad girl, Jessica.”

  “I try.”

  Lunch is a lobster sandwich on crispy, crunchy French bread that tastes like they flew it in from New Orleans. I feel self-conscious about the crumbs, until Jessica reaches over with a thumb and brushes one of them away from the side of my mouth. Then I don't know what I feel.

  “Dessert?” she asks.

  “If it's little. If it's chocolate.”

  She smiles. “It is.”

  Espresso and some kind of hand-made chocolate kiss. The caffeine on top of the alcohol makes me giddy. The blonde vanishes, and somehow we're snuggled up closer than I mean to be, and Jessica's hand is slipsliding up my thigh while her mouth claims my mouth.

  There's a lot of tongue involved. Tongue and chocolate.

  She breaks the endless kiss. “Have you had time to think about what you're getting into?”

  Pop goes the dream bubble. And yet it's sweet that she's taking the time to ask. “I know exactly what I'm getting into.” The tip of my tongue still tingles from the taste of her lips. “Snoopy gossip columnists trying to dig up dirt. My mom wanting to borrow money.”

  We hold each other's eyes, the look between us a visible weight.

  “It's the same baggage you're getting with any high-achieving casino or club owner in Vegas.”

  By “high-achieving,” Jessica means “billionaire,” and we both know she isn't wrong. She's asking me a question without being so crude as to spell it out in words of one syllable.

  Are you sure you really want to be involved with a woman like me?

  Because there's a difference between getting mixed up with a nice middle-class millionaire and an actual by-God, dear-God billionaire.

  Am I sure? Do I even know?

  I think about the way she swept in and saved me from the creeper. She wanted to kill the guy, wanted to blow him away so bad, but she didn't do it because I asked.

  I think about the way she wrapped her arms around me in the night so I could relax into sleep.

  Yeah, I want to give this thing a try. We obviously have something. The world may have its own opinion of Jessica Blaire, but I'm going to make up my mind based on my own experiences, not on cheap rumors and crazy tabloid speculation.

  “I'm cool with it,” I say. “I can handle it. Just because I'm a virgin, you don't have to assume I'm a ninny.”

  “Emily, the very last fucking thing I would assume about you is that you're a ninny.” She's smiling, and then her face blurs because she's too close to be in focus.

  So nice to shut my eyes and simply feel how close we are. So very nice.

  We kiss some more, and her hand walks around to massage me through the cotton panties. My clit is all swollen up as hard as an agate marble. I tilt and roll my pelvis where I sit, the better to get my love nubbin pressing into her fingertips. She can't help but feel how bad I want it.

  As the founding member of the Sugar Mama Seekers, I shouldn't be this easy, but I tell myself there's nothing wrong with letting her get away with a little fingering.

  Maybe there's even time for some tongue.

  I spread my thighs, and my skirt rides up, and then Jessica is on her knees on the twilight-colored carpet in front of me. She knows how to use her teeth to nip at the tender inner flesh of my thighs. Knows how to drag down the cheap underpants.

  Then her nose is where I need it. Her nose and her upper lip and the crazy-athletic tippy-tip of her deep-diving tongue...

  I lean forward, putting the weight of my body into her face, and she licks deeper. At the same moment her tongue uncoils to the deepest it's ever been inside of me, she swats my bottom.

  Ouch!

  Or was it an ouch? Actually, it's a sexy little sting. The afterburn... that's interesting.

  I wiggle my ass. Invite her to do it again.

  She swats with her open palm. Thrusts with her probing tongue. Three times she does that, and every swat lifts me closer to heaven.

  Then her hands are gripping my ass hard, gripping, pulling, squeezing, holding me there so her tongue and lips can perform their unimaginable magic without any more tease or delay.

  Chapter Ten

  Jessica

  Going slow isn't what I do. Taking my time, making sure it's all about the chick... ain't nobody got time for that shit. If you can't keep up with the big dogs, get off the fucking porch.

  So I don't know why it's different with Emily. It just is. From the very first time I saw her face, it's just... different. Even when all I saw was the photo of her face, one in an entire catalog of photos from one of Quentin's oh-so-efficient talent scouting expeditions, in my heart I knew.

  (And, yes, I do see a catalog of all the new club girls in town. It's part of my job to know that stuff.)

  How can a person know everything will be different from the shape of a face? The quirk of an eye? The quiver of a lip? Is it fate? The kind of fate where one glance is enough to remind you of something your soul has known forever from the very beginning of time? That sounds so superstitious, but introduce me to the gambler who says she isn't superstitious, and I'll introduce you to a stone liar.

  The taste of her confirms everything I felt from that first moment. The salt and the sweet. The whisper of musk that's barely detectable to anyone but me. A hidden message in a personal fragrance. Some pheromone her body makes that calls me to her, and I can't escape. I'm fucking addicted. The deeper my tongue swirls around and around, the more addicted I get.

  Knowing she's a virgin did something to me. Knowing she's pure and untouched starts a fire raging inside of me. I don't want any other person to touch her ever. She's mine. All mine. A primitive, possessive instinct I've never felt before. I get my girl, get my cookies, and get gone. That's the way I've always done it, and the way I always will do it.

  Except...

  I don't want to get my cookies and get gone.

  I want to linger. To probe. To roll every delicious drop over and over on my taste buds until I've memorized her special taste forever.

  So my tongue buzzes deeper to find all the hidden pulse points. I don't even know what's G-spot and what's simply an extra-sensitive bit of internal flesh, and it doesn't really matter. What does matter is the catch in the long muscles of her thighs when I lick just right. What matters is the way those legs tighten around my ears, pulling me
more urgently, like they'll never let me go.

  Don't worry, angel. I'm never letting go. Never, ever, ever.

  After I lick her cream from my mouth like a satisfied kitten licking up milk from a bowl, I push back off my knees and hold out both hands to help her out of the booth.

  “Wait,” she says.

  Wait?

  “We didn't pay.”

  “It's taken care of.” Invisibly. There's no leather folder with a check dropped off at my table.

  “OK. I just thought maybe you forgot.”

  “Because you distracted me with your sweet cootch.”

  Her cheeks look warmer. I touch them, and they feel warmer too. I like it, knowing she's sweet and innocent enough to flush.

  “The taste of you is a delicious distraction,” I say. “Ain't no two doubts about that.”

  Shopping is fun. The first shop has the sign turned around to say, “Closed,” and she looks confused, because it's four thirty in the freaking afternoon, and then somebody's opening up to welcome us inside, and then she gets it. Quentin has arranged for us to shop in private. They glide her into a pair of hundred-dollar silk stockings and then let her try on stiletto heels to her heart's content.

  There's a silver pair, a black pair with a golden heel, even a glass slipper with some kind of star-shaped shimmers in the see-through four-inch stacked heel.

  “I don't know which one,” she says, as she walks back and forth in front of a low mirror to show off a pair of red-and-black lizardskin stilettos. “I guess the black is the most practical.”

  “Fuck practical.” I gesture toward the shoe salesman in Armani, and I don't mean Armani Exchange. “Wrap them all up. All the ones that fit.”

  “Yes, Ms. Blaire.”

  “It's too much.” She sits beside me to kick off the red-and-blacks. “I lost one pair. You don't need to buy me five.”

  “I don't need to buy you anything. I want to do it.”

  Someone comes out to assist Armani dude, and it isn't long before he's got five boxes stacked up in his arms, almost too many for him to see over. I tell him where to have them delivered, and Emily's eyes go wide.

  “I can't live at the cabin.”

  That's cute. Already, she's getting used to calling it the cabin, although we both know it's a palace to her.

  Hell, it's a palace to any reasonable human being.

  Call me unreasonable.

  “Yes, you can, and you will, until we're certain you're out of danger.”

  “But my mom...”

  “Your mom will be there too. Somebody is already in contact with your mom.”

  Her mouth comes open, but she can't think of a word to say for a moment. Then: “She might borrow stuff.”

  We both know what she means, and I laugh. “Don't sweat it, Emily. I won't call the cops on your mom.”

  All the employees at the shoe store are men. All the employees at the lingerie shop are women. Very blonde women with long legs and Slavic accents. One thing's the same‒ when Jessica Blaire comes to buy, the place is closed to all other clientele.

  Emily shivers as three statuesque blondes gather around her to peel off her pullover top so they can take her measurements. It would never occur to the blondes that I shouldn't be watching, but Emily looks over at me wide-eyed, and I lift an eyebrow in a silent question. It's up to her. I'd rather watch, but if she wants me gone, I'm gone.

  After a pause so brief the blondes never notice, she nods the tiniest of nods.

  And then the long white hands are all over her to tug off the top and smooth down her hair before they take the mysterious little measurements needed to fit a bra on a voluptuous woman. Emily's all-natural boobs inspire a flutter of admiring commentary, and the tallest of the blondes pulls the measuring tape a little too tightly over the nipples to make them stand up hard and flirty.

  A tiny dent forms between Emily's eyes, and she glances over to see my reaction. I smile, but she can see the way I'm gritting my teeth. I don't want even the bra lady to be feeling around on what's mine. I know it's irrational, but it's what I feel, and we both know it.

  There's an audible spark of tension in the air, and the lady catches on and tones it down a notch. When she helps Emily into the pink satin brassiere, she makes more of an effort to avoid feeling the nips. Good. I like it when people don't waste any time catching the clue train.

  And there she is. Emily in the swirly peasant skirt that cost a peasant's entire annual income. No blouse, just the pink bra on top. Ballet flats, the better to let her spin and make the skirt fly up.

  She's a vision.

  The three blondes bring out a stack of flimsies and a silver tray bearing two flutes of sparkling wine and two pieces of strawberry petits fours.

  “Leave us,” I say, but they're already gone.

  Emily picks up one of the flutes but doesn't sip. It's a prop, something to gaze at me flirtatiously over while she studies my face. “You want me to model underwear for you.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You know, there's professionals who'll do that for you. It's practically a career choice here in Vegas.” She can have a very direct and unblushing gaze for a virgin. It's like she sees right through me.

  Fine. I can be just as direct. “I don't want the professionals. I want you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily

  I'm totes winning the Sugar Mama Seekers. Nobody in my little crew has hit the jackpot this fast, not like this. I pirouette in my new bra, and the skirt flies up to show off the slick columns of my hot thighs. It isn't just my thighs that are hot. I'm burning up all over.

  It's something about the way Jessica looks at me. Like she's never seen a woman before.

  “You can't just buy me,” I say. Even though the whole point is to be bought by a rich woman. I know that, I know I'm winning, I know I'm doing everything right.

  And yet somehow there's a part of me that wonders if I really do know what I'm doing.

  I do and I don't want to be her toy. Her plaything.

  I do and I don't love the glitter in her eyes when my skirt flies up for her.

  “Yes, I can. I can buy anything.” There's no arrogance in her tone, no assholery. She's perfectly calm. Stating a stone fact.

  Well, I need to play it just as calm and cool and collected, don't I? So I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, which appears to have glitter embedded in the paint. Then I finger the stack of French and Italian lingerie the salesgirls have left behind. I don't really need to try anything on, not in this place. Something about the way they took my measurements tells me they've supplied the perfect fit.

  The thing is Jessica wants me to and, fuck, I want me to as well.

  So.

  Turning my back on her, I wiggle out of the pink bra and replace it with a confection made of aquamarine satin edged in French lace. My hips sway from side to side as I dance out of my skirt. The underpants I put on at the cabin are pink cotton, and they suddenly seem so ordinary now.

  Jessica makes a tiny choked sound. I wonder if she's studying the dimple in the right cheek of my bouncing ass.

  Of course, she is.

  There's nothing to wonder about.

  I know.

  I've got her attention. Oh, fuck yes.

  I spin around in a one-eighty as I step into the scrap of aquamarine lace that passes for the matching panty.

  “Take off the shoes,” she says.

  I toe the heel of my right shoe, knowing they're the kind of flats that can be rolled off. She watches the maneuver with the concentration a cobra reserves for hypnotizing a bird, but she's the one being hypnotized. Yeah, I'm winning. Definitely winning.

  I roll off the second flat very, very slowly. Today, my toe nails are polished in carnation, with a top layer of shimmery gold glitter.

  She's having a lot of trouble breathing. I wonder if I should bring it to her attention. Suggest a little CPR.

  “You OK over there, Jessica?” I sashay over, my boobs bouncing i
n the bra. The design lifts me a little higher than normal‒ the old “lift and separate” thing.

  Her eyes cross as she tries to figure out if she'd rather fixate on my pink painted toes, my curvy thighs, or my deep dish cleavage. I must be sweating‒ excuse me, glowing‒ because I catch a whiff of the Vanilla Fatale wafting up from between my titties. A much more expensive version of the vanilla extract I wear in my real life.

  “Come here, little girl,” she says, at almost the same time I say, “I'm here, Jessica.”

  The camel-colored leather bench she's sitting on is backless, which makes it easy for me to wrap my legs around her without kicking into anything. The flimsy scrap of silk on my pussy doesn't do a damn thing to stop me from feeling the tension in her toned, tight body. I'm wrapping my arms around her neck, and I'm in control of this seduction, and I feel so... powerful. She might have the money and power in the eyes of the world, but I've captured her attention and she can't fucking look away.

  We're kissing, and there's a lot of tongue involved. She knows how to use her mouth to find all my sensitive places‒ something we already established back at her club, but I don't mind checking to make sure. Oh, yeah. That's a test I don't mind giving her every fucking day of the week.

  “I want you.” I emphasize each word with a waggle of my butt to grind me harder into her legs, her waist. “I'm ready.”

  “Not here,” she says. “Your first time can't be in a lingerie shop.”

  I giggle, and then I'm squirming out of her arms to change into the next selection. Red and black satin. A sexy devil's look. The panties aren't panties but some kind of garter belt with straps hanging down to leave my waxed pussy open to view. There's a matching pair of black satin stockings.

  “Jesus.” She swallows hard to keep from drooling. “I wish I had a picture.”

  “No photos, please.” I put the back of my hand against my forehead. “It's hell being beautiful.”

  “You should know.” She drops to her knees in front of me, and her tongue sweeps eagerly into my creamy slit.