by Ella Ford
I began to trace my fingers up and down her leg, stroking the dark curves of her calf, her knee, her thigh. Every tender touch elicited gentle shudders in the girl and lustful moans.
I pulled back, removing my mouth from her foot. Her toes curled in silent protest, animated by the internal energy that must soon be released.
“I want to see you,” I breathed, gazing down at her from behind her raised foot. She peered back at me quizzically, unsure what I meant, seeking clarification. “I want to see your body,” I offered with a sultry smirk. “Sit up.”
Without a second of hesitation, the hitchhiker curled her legs beneath her and sat up, sitting before me on the bed. I reached to her sides and gripped her t-shirt, causing her to raise her arms above her head. Slowly, I inched the white garment over her body, brushing my fingertips against the toned flesh of her sides. She shuddered and moaned, quick breaths spilling from her mouth in urgent pants. I pulled the t-shirt over her head, studying the gentle rise of her modest breasts, held in place beneath a practical bra. I tossed the t-shirt to the side as she reached up and unclipped her hair, allowing tumbles of curls to cascade down her shoulders and back like a honey waterfall.
“Hold still,” I breathed, touching a finger to her bare arm, causing a rash of gooseflesh to erupt at my caress. Then I leaned forward and to her side, reaching around her body to unclasp her bra. I could feel her beside me, hot and trembling, caught like a deer in headlights, breathing in quick, shallow sighs. Her face was a mask of trepidation and desire, not quite either but somewhere in the middle. She wanted what I was offering, but she was nervous, reluctant, unsure of the implication of my gift.
As her bra fell forward and her breasts spilled free, it was my turn to sigh, drinking in the sight of her, youthful and vibrant, breasts tanned and perky with rigid pink nipples that brushed against mine as I pulled back from her body. My pussy sang out now, desperate for satisfaction, hot juices lubricating my thighs with every movement.
“Shorts,” I breathed, barely a whisper, unable to gather the words for a full sentence.
She nodded and sat back, then reached down and unbuttoned her denim cutoffs, wriggling her body to push the shorts over her hips and ass, down her legs. With a flick of her foot, the shorts disappeared out of the scope of our sordid tryst, joining our other discarded clothing in irrelevance. I glanced down at her, and studied her body as she lay before me, then I gasped.
“You’re not wearing any panties,” I grinned, adopting a mock tone of stern disapproval as I studied the line of her pussy, a muted line that ran between her legs beneath her pantyhose.
Willow gasped and blushed a ruddy pink. She lowered her eyes and stammered. “I-I’m sorry… I never expected… this,” she said glancing around the room.
“Ssh,” I smiled and moved beside her, touching a hand to her thigh, pushing her legs open, then moving my fingertips down to that immeasurably warm place. She sighed and her mouth fell open with lustful desire. I stopped short of her face, positioning myself so that our mouths were inches apart. “I like it,” I breathed, allowing her to feel my words on her cheeks, relishing the gentle shudder of anticipation that rippled through her body.
I could feel the energy in her, a crackling electricity, sparking between our bodies. It was a mirror of the energy in me, an unquenchable need, an insatiable longing. She craved the release that I did and it was time to give her it. I lifted my hand to her neck, gripping around her ear, plunging my fingers into the cascading tumble of her hair. Then I pulled her towards me, locking my lips on hers and smothering her with my kiss. She was surprised at first, meekly accepting my assault, allowing my tongue to crawl over her lips. But her initial nerves melted away and she soon reciprocated, shifting around and lifting herself to her knees, pressing her body against mine, stomach against stomach, breast against breast, nipple on nipple. Our mouths danced together, a mutual quest for taste and sensation, tongues dueling in the air between us. Then I reached down and laid my hand flat on her belly, inching my fingertips towards where their destiny lay. She tightened her grip on my head in anticipation, quickening her kiss with furious purpose.
My probing fingers reached the waistband of her pantyhose and slid beneath the soft material, allowing nothing to stop them in their bold quest. Willow shifted her weight again, parting her legs, inviting and inciting me. But I needed no encouragement and my fingers leaped down, plunging into the hot, damp folds of her pussy. She yelped in surprise as I touched her, breaking from the kiss and pulling my body close, locking my hand in place between her legs.
“Yes, yes, there,” she moaned. As if I needed instruction!
My fingertips swept through her lips, savoring the damp warmth of her. She was dripping wet, slick with moisture and aglow with desire. I began to move my hand in a slow rhythm, constrained by the tight material of her pantyhose but finding the places I sought. Gently, I massaged her labia between my fingers, allowing the wet flesh to slide through my grip. Willow moaned and sighed, pressing her breasts against mine as though possessed by a need for our bodies to merge like droplets of mercury. My fingers found her clit, a hard, throbbing bud that pulsed with an urgent need. I set to work there, moving my fingers in lazy circles, pressing it against her body, never repeating a motion twice.
She screamed out and then returned her mouth to mine, kissing me urgently, hungrily, as though she wanted to devour me. Then I felt her hand leave my face, dropping between my legs, mirroring the journey that my own hand had taken in all aspects but the haste with which she moved. With a trembling touch, she pushed between my legs and began to explore, the unfamiliar geography of my pussy causing trepidation, but the instinctual awareness of what a woman wanted, what a woman needed, spurring her on, fueling her exploration.
We became a perfectly symmetrical sculpture, two naked goddesses joined by two probing hands, gripping each other’s necks, bodies held together with an urgent need.
I felt her boldness escalate with every touch of her hand, each tender caress, each subtle manipulation, sending increasingly intense ripples of pleasure through my body. I struggled to maintain focus, struggled to keep my own hand moving on her pussy. The growing warmth in my body raged, the tiny conflagration now a roaring fireball of lust and need. I pulled her closer still, resting my head against hers in the crook of her neck, savoring the feeling of this naked beauty beside me, her hand between my legs, her hot breath on my skin.
Faster and faster I worked, pushing down harder on her clit, sweeping my fingers through her dripping folds, nudging against the tight hole of her pussy, entering her, inciting her to enter me. Like Newtonian motion, every action elicited a bold reaction from the sexy hitchhiker, a constant feedback loop of growing pleasure. Our bodies fell into a hot synchronization, becoming a machine that generated heat and lust and desire. Our skin became slick with perspiration, tiny beads of sweat glistening in the dim light of the room. I felt her slide against me, the slippery smoothness of her body, the silky softness of her pantyhose covered legs, and my pussy sang out, finally reaching that oh-so-craved release.
Like a breaking wave, I felt a rush of pleasure from between my legs, triggered by a rough touch on my clit and pushed past the point of no return. As the storm broke, I worked between Willow’s legs with a growing urgency, sensing her coming close to her own climax.
And then the sensation in my body escalated exponentially, freezing me in place as my muscles hardened. “Oh, oh, oh,” I cried out, pulling her towards me, feeling her heart jackhammering in her body.
Then Willow cried out, her voice joining mine in a chorus of release as our orgasms exploded in our bodies. I felt a splash of warmth on my fingers, felt her thighs tighten around my hand, locking me in place on her boiling pussy. “Oh shit,” she cried with a sudden desperation, but her voice was distant and faint as I struggled with my own internal supernova.
Inside me, the maelstrom continued, setting every nerve ending alight, firing every synapse simultaneously. A
constant eruption of white-hot pleasure that raged through my body and blanked every thought, every consideration. I felt the universe collapse, shrinking down with exponential speed until it consisted of two embracing figures, joined by sex and mutual pleasure. It was intolerably intense and I felt as though I might not be able to survive its onslaught.
And then, as quickly as it began, it ended. For myself and for Willow alike. We collapsed to the side, deflating bodies falling to the bed beneath us, limbs still entangled, muscles spasming against each other. I could feel her breath on my skin, fast and urgent, but slowing with every quick pant.
As my body began to recover, I started to shiver and shake, the fading warmth of the orgasm leaving a feeling of exhaustion in my muscles. Instinctively, I tightened my hold on Willow, drawing her close, sharing the cooling afterglow of our sinful tryst. In time, sleep took us both, descending over my thoughts like a dark blanket.
---
In the morning, Willow was gone. I woke at just past eight and gazed around the room, bedsheets crumpled and discarded clothing on every surface but no sign of the young hitchhiker. On the table by the bed, something caught my eye. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, moaning as my aching muscles screamed out their protest at this unwanted movement.
Beside the lamp was a note. Scrawled quickly on the motel’s notepaper.
Thank you, Willow xx
I sighed, feeling a pang of regret. The young hitchhiker had been a wonderful lover, a quick learner and very eager to please. We’d fucked many times after that sweaty first time, exploring each other’s bodies with an urgent zeal that I’d seldom experienced before. But our sensual coupling was transient and fleeting, the chance meeting of two travellers, an infinitesimally unlikely blessing. And now it was time to go our separate ways.
I sat back on the bed and gathered my thoughts, wondering where my journey would take me next, worrying distantly that I wouldn’t be able to match this early experience.
Then a bundle of leaflets and brochures caught my eye. I slid over the bed and reached across to the desk, gathering the gaudy, glossy advertisements, hoping to find inspiration.
The pile of pamphlets was similar to those you’d find in any American motel, a summary of every theme park, water park, museum and curiosity in a two hundred mile radius. Promising fun days for the whole family, I began to lose hope that I’d be able to find anything that suited me. And then I spotted something that stood out from the other cartoonish solicitations. A matt black card with simple pink lettering and a distinctive logo - a stylised etching of a woman’s leg, outlined in glowing pink neon.
Madame J.’s - a place for women. Unquestioningly discrete. 20 miles off Highway 34.
My road trip had its next destination!
The Stripper and the Older Woman
June 18th, 2016
“What can I get you honey?” the bartender smiled at me. Her voice was low and deep, a honey-coated growl more than a question, it suited her look perfectly. She was tall and thin, with tiny breasts and strong arms. Her hair was cut in a stark, short crop, bleached blonde and impossibly soft. Her face was angular and masculine, with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. Yet her large, blue eyes radiated a captivating femininity that seemed at odds with her butch appearance.
“A cosmopolitan, please,” I replied, returning her smile. I was acutely aware that the bartender was checking me out. Her eyes flicked over my body with a brazen confidence that she didn’t try to conceal.
Her attention didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, I’d been to lesbian bars before and knew that such safe havens were accompanied by a liberating ability to express your desires without fear of judgement or castigation. And this was a lesbian strip joint after all.
“Coming right up,” said the bartender. “I’m Kim, by the way. You new in town?” she asked as she prepared the cocktail with expert hands.
“Just passing through,” I replied, feeling myself relax in the friendly atmosphere.
“Heading anywhere nice?” asked Kim, lifting her thumb to her mouth and idly sucking a splash of lemon juice from her skin.
“Vegas,” I replied, realizing that I probably sounded like ninety percent of the club’s patrons. “Cliché, right?” I smiled, deciding to acknowledge my lack of originality.
Kim smiled back and laughed. “Depends what you’re doing in Vegas,” she said, “or who…” She glanced back over her shoulder as she wandered the length of the bar to use the blender, flashing me a knowing wink. I felt my face flush slightly, a warming mix of arousal and embarrassment.
As the bartender fixed my drink, I glanced around. Madame J.’s was a curious mix of small town seedy dive and metropolitan lesbian bar; a gaudy stereotype that was lit in endless pink neon and dark decor, plush velvet sofas and dark mahogany fixtures that lent the place an old fashioned vibe that dripped sexuality. My fellow visitors to Madame J.’s were, naturally, all women, an equal split between the butch and beautiful. Sophisticated business women, on the road and desiring a break from their normal lives, indulging desires seldom realized or simply playing out masculine power fantasies. Pretty looking college girls with firm, toned bodies and long legs, poured into tight mini-dresses that hugged their figures provocatively, displaying their offerings in a way that was obvious and unmistakable.
Most of the women were alone, sitting around raised runways, populated with chrome plated poles and gyrating dancers. The onlookers gazed at the menagerie of performers with barely concealed lust and need. Meanwhile, in darkened corners and out-of-the-way nooks, private dances were taking place - single women or rare couples, enjoying the singular attention of a scantily clad dancing girl, slipping the occasional five dollar bill into the girl’s panties as she moved her body against her captivated client with a hypnotic rhythm.
The whole room reeked of sex and perfume, a heady mix of feminine and animal aromas that tantalized the senses and drove me wild. I felt myself growing dizzy by it all, a rush of desire flooding through my body as I struggled to take in the scene of sapphic debauchery. With a sigh, I turned back to the bar, just as Kim was returning with my cocktail.
“Seems you have a friend,” she said with a filthy smirk.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
Kim turned her head and glanced to her right. “Drink’s on the smart lady at the end of the bar,” she said with a nod, then head off to serve another customer.
I followed her gaze to where she’d indicated and located my mysterious benefactor. An older woman, probably in her thirties, sitting on the corner of the square bar. As I looked over, she beamed a sultry smile at me and raised her glass. I smiled and nodded back, then turned my attention to the crimson drink before me, feeling slightly intimidated by the attention. Don’t get me wrong, I was used to being bought drinks in bars; usually after making a provocative show of my pantyhose covered legs or spending long minutes dangling my high-heeled shoes from my nylon covered toes. But this was provoked by nothing more than my presence.
I looked over at the woman again. She’d turned back to watch the dancer on the bar to her left, a pretty, young blonde in a plaid skirt and skimpy halter top, wearing white thigh high stockings and red pumps. The girl’s hair was held in pigtails and her makeup was a hyper-sexual caricature of a school girl. The older woman seemed transfixed by the blonde gyrating against a metal pole, thrusting her shapely hips against the chrome as though it was penetrating her with every rhythmic thrust.
I took the opportunity to study the woman while she was distracted by the dancer. She was wearing a loose blouse, white in color, buttoned up to her chest but revealing enough of her cleavage to provoke interest. Her hair was raven black, cut short in a stark bob that ended around her neck and framed her pale face with millimetre precision. Her makeup was bright and precise, full red lips, glistening wet in the light of the bar and dark eyes behind large, round glasses. As she lifted her drink to her lips and took a sip, I noted that her fingernails were painted in the same provocative shade as
her lips, enticingly sexual. I found myself wondering if her toenails were painted in similar fashion, whether she was wearing pantyhose, what kind of shoes she was wearing… My familiar litany of interest.
Suddenly, she turned back to me and interrupted my sordid musings with a deliberate glance. I gasped and turned back to my drink, chancing a quick look to see if she’d noticed. The woman was stirring her drink lazily with a long spoon, smiling wickedly, her eyes narrowed and her mouth slightly parted. As I watched, she licked her lips, then began to stand, lifting her drink with slender, painted fingers.
As she walked around the bar towards me, I felt a mild panic, unsure whether she was coming to seduce me or reprimand me for staring. She had that kind of look to her, stern and commanding. I felt myself wilting at her approach.
She reached where I sat and pulled up a stool, lifting herself onto it with a graceful fluidity that suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d seated herself at a bar.
“Natasha,” she said, offering a dainty hand out to me.
“B-Becky,” I stammered, taking her hand in mine and shaking it gently.
“I don’t normally do this,” said the older woman, settling back into her stool and crossing her legs. She was wearing black pants, tight on her long limbs, ending just above her ankle and revealing feet wrapped in strappy, high-heeled sandals and sheer black nylon. “My husband is very conservative, he’d have a coronary if he knew I was in a bar like this, let alone buying attractive young girls drinks.” Her voice had a wistful tone, and I sensed she was being sincere with me.
“It’s… thank you,” I said, unsure what to say to the woman.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I did?” she said, raising an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth. She took a sip of her drink, never once taking her eye off me.
I felt myself shrinking under this unexpected scrutiny. It was silly, I was used to dealing with dominating women. My boss, Jamie Danvers, was a perverted minx who liked to use her employees for more than just taking memos or completing reports, and I’d found myself staying late at her sordid behest at times too numerous to mention. I enjoyed surrendering control to her, giving her the use of my body, taking commands and instruction from the experienced older woman. But there was something chilling and enthralling about this woman, Natasha, something irresistibly awe-inspiring. My usual poise had deserted me completely.