Visions

by Larkin Rose

  Paige frantically searched the room. There was a bouquet of plastic tulips on the dresser. The kind little old ladies kept on their coffee tables to impress guests. A camera could fit in there. Absolutely. Hell, they made them small enough to fit in the smoke detector over her head. Any second now someone was going to burst through the door and hand her a gift card to Nordstrom for passing the time limit for enduring this nonsense.

  Please? Someone? Anyone? This had to be a joke. A cold but very good joke.

  Amy pulled her underwear to the side.

  Paige waited for it, for the touch of hot lips around her, of fingers to gently push inside her, slow at first, then faster, until she came around them. Please. Please. Please let this bitch be good at something other than drying up a crotch.

  When cold air swirled over her flesh, Paige raised her head.

  Was this bitch seriously blowing on her pussy? Where the hell had she gotten her diploma? A fucking Cracker Jack box?

  Amy winked at her. “Like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Told you I was good.”

  She blew again, this time harder. Paige was positive she could feel her clit shrivel and shrink as the cold air swarmed over her flesh.

  “Oh, for the love of kittens! That’s it!” Paige crawled out from under her, shoved Amy onto her back, and then straddled her.

  She was beyond furious as she pushed her hand between her own legs. How the hell did she do it? Time after time, she got herself into these predicaments. When was she going to learn her lesson? When was she going to get it through her thick skull that New Orleans was a fluke of nature, that she was never going to find that earth-moving kind of sex again?

  God was punishing her for some reason. There was no other explanation for it.

  Hadn’t she been a good girl? Well, minus the nights she stripped her clothes off, pinched her nipples into hard peaks, and gathered the dollar bills off the floor once the music screeched to a halt. That was survival, right? And He couldn’t count the lovers. She was young, and needy, and horny, for crying out loud.

  Paige flicked herself and circled her hips while Amy stared up at her, that demented smile on her face that was seriously beginning to scare Paige.

  Paige ground her teeth. She was a total nimrod for believing, hoping, this woman wouldn’t be another lousy lover. She should have been satisfied with her new purchase of sex toys instead of dreaming that maybe, just maybe, she could get off by the hands of another.

  Her bad.

  “Oh, how I love to watch a woman do herself.” Amy squeezed her hips and popped upward. The motion knocked Paige off balance. “Do yourself, baby. Do yourself hard. Do it so good.”

  Paige righted herself with a growl and closed her eyes, shoved away Amy’s voice, and willed the dark images of her masked warrior to her mind. She’d been perfect. Touched in the perfect places. Said the perfect things.

  Where, oh where, was she? Where, oh where, was one just like her?

  “Fuck your fingers, baby.” Amy snagged her hips upward so sharply that Paige was thrown off balance again.

  Paige growled, pushed her free hand in the middle of Amy’s chest, and pinned her down. “Don’t move!”

  A satisfied expression crossed Amy’s face. “Baby is filthy. Will you spank me, too?” She ground into Paige. Not in a seductive sway, but in a wiggle-wiggle movement that threw Paige from one side to the other.

  Paige slapped her hand over Amy’s mouth. “Don’t move another muscle! Don’t say another word!” She started grinding over her fingers again while Amy stared wide-eyed at her.

  She closed her eyes again and let her mystery woman bloom into view. The dark image of the stranger hovering over Paige, the sight of her staring down at Paige while she thrust inside her, the erotic capture of lips against lips, tongue against tongue, and the feel of those fingers driving deep.

  Paige’s orgasm reached the edge and fell over. It wasn’t as explosive as she’d liked, wasn’t explosive at all, but considering the circumstances, she’d take whatever she could get. Despite this woman’s intentions to the contrary, Paige was going to get hers. She’d endured too much in the past thirty minutes not to walk away with something.

  She rolled off Amy, donned each piece of clothing one at a time, and then walked calmly out of the house without so much as a backward glance. She’d seen and heard all she could for one night. Her spirits were ripped apart. If a sex professor wasn’t the good luck charm she’d been waiting for, who the hell would be?

  Still pondering the question when she walked into her house, she found the evil orange cat lying in wait just inside the door. He gave her that low growl he had mastered, and his ears went flat against his head. Was it possible for a cat to kill someone? If so, she was sure he was biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  Lucky for her, he couldn’t reach the kitchen knives. She’d deliberately stashed them in the drawers.

  “Hello, your evilness.” Paige shook the bag of cat food and his ears perked. “Ahh. Look how pretty you are when you want something from me. You wanna be my best friend now, don’t you?” She took a step forward and shook the bag again. “You know, I’m on to your little game. You’re getting a sick thrill out of puking on my beautiful rug, aren’t you? So, I was thinking.” Paige gave another shake. Another step. Damien backed up, watching her with wary eyes, his ears flattening once again. “If I only feed you once a day, you can only puke once a day. Your doc says you must have an irritable digestive system. Living off all that rotten tuna and fish guts probably gave you a sensitive little tummy.”

  She stepped around him and walked into the kitchen. With a quick shake and a loud rustle of the bag, she removed his box of Science Diet, the only damn cat food he would eat, and placed it on the counter. How was it a cat who had dined off maggot-infested grub had such expensive taste? “And since you’ve already been fed today, you won’t be needing any of this yummy, delicious, bacon-flavored food.”

  When she turned back to him, he lowered his head and hissed. “Yeah, I know, sucks to be you right now. Good night, pussycat.” She took a step forward, thought twice, then reached down and plucked the rug off the floor. “And this goes with me tonight, you evil puker.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was curled up in bed with her laptop, website open for her blog, and ready to share her nightly horrors with thousands of followers. Good thing someone would find humor with her torturous night.

  I met a woman tonight. In the grocery store. *seems to be my personal singles meet and greet lately* Tall, butch in all the perfect places we femmes crave…nice, tight ass. Except for the fact that I found her on the organic aisle, I was in lust from first glance. We gave each other the once-over, the one that says, “You’re cute. I’m interested. I’m totally not straight,” kind of stares. You guys know the look. I wanted to force her to come to me, to play a little hard to get. Didn’t want to show her how easy I truly am. But my horny curiosity got the best of me, and I was quickly lured down an aisle I wouldn’t normally be caught dead on. She had pretty eyes, cute smile, and heaven help me, she had the golden ticket hanging like a drug from her jacket pocket. It read…Sexologist! In horny pillow queen terms, it said, lie back and enjoy the ride. Holy frijoles! I can’t remember if I told her my name, if she even asked, before we raced from the store. I’d struck gold, so what the hell use was it to stall for such unnecessary exchange of information? I’ve been searching for this woman for years. I’d finally found her, with her tag screaming out all the things she was going to do to me. This was the one. At last! This was the one who was going to tilt my sexual fantasies into reality. This was the one who was going to lift me off my feet with an orgasm. She was going to make me scream from the intensity. She was going to make me cry from the wet heat. She was. Until…

  Chapter Two

  Mayson Montgomery balanced herself on a scaffold under the tormenting Sri Lankan sun and pulled the trigger on the nail gun. The sounds of construction echoed around her. O
ther nail guns popped in the distance, hammers drove against wood, and voices bellowed for supplies over the racket. But the most beautiful sound of all was the children laughing and squealing as they played Simon Says, a game she’d taught them shortly after arriving in this leveled village.

  She’d been the leader of hundreds of emergency missions, rebuilt thousands of houses, and each time, it was the children who caught her breath, not the unbelievable sight of devastation or the unreal images some people never witnessed in their lifetime. Sure, there were tears. Of course there was fear. However, behind those tears and their fear, almost always, there were timid smiles. Behind those smiles was hope. Hope that Mayson and her crew could bring laughter back to their lives even if through a damn nail gun or a simple game taught to them during a water break. Somehow, kids were resilient to disaster.

  The villagers called Mayson and her crew the heroes simply because they could create a foundation with concrete, because they could erect a house with two-by-fours or brick and mortar.

  To Mayson, these survivors were the true heroes. They had lived through emotional turmoil, witnessed something terrifying, lost loved ones, yet they still greeted each morning with bright eyes and an eagerness to be a part of the work. To Mayson, that was true heroism, to make it through something so unimaginable, so life altering, and still be able to face each day as a new beginning.

  With every smile and every outburst of laughter, she was witnessing their middle finger to the earthquake, to Mother Nature, that had shaken their lives apart. Every time they wrapped her in a thankful hug, she was experiencing miracles.

  She lived for the smiles. Those hugs were what drove her. It was her passion, her calling in life, to rebuild their broken dreams, definitely what made her tick. It was part of her genetics to give back, to always lend a helping hand to those less fortunate, and to be among the first emergency responders to every natural disaster. Being part of a team who gave her a rushed high she couldn’t describe.

  Building a billion-dollar empire of aquatic wind turbines on her own, feeling the surge of adrenaline every time one of those beautiful monsters was erected in the ocean, couldn’t compare to the elation of seeing order rise from chaos, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy.

  “Mayson! Take a break!” Tim, one of her crewman, yelled from the ground. “It’s an order!”

  She gave him a nod, disconnected the power, and laid the gun on the wooden planks before climbing down. The sun had taken a toll on her this morning. Not to mention her raging thirst. She’d run out of water several hours back.

  They’d been busting their asses since the sun slipped over the horizon, eager to put the final touches on the school. She was proud of each of them. Proud to be part of this reconstruction. Proud to be part of something so huge. The best part was yet to come. The reward. When those school doors swung open for the children to pour inside, to explore their new desks, computers, and textbooks in awe, she would receive all the reward she could possibly want or need.

  The satellite system for the Internet had already been installed, and a team was inside unpacking boxes of supplies. Within hours, their lives were going to be almost back to normal. Lord knew she couldn’t bring back their loved ones. This was all she could give them. Materials. A chalkboard. She prayed time would heal the rest.

  Mayson grabbed a water bottle, removed her cell phone from her work belt, and found a shade tree behind the supply trucks. She opened the inbox and skipped through less pressing business matters. She didn’t have time to think about aquatic wind turbines or business proposals today. Her private jet was already gassed and ready to take her back across the map, back to the States, back home, to Galveston, to civility, to her secluded beach house. That king-size bed was calling her name. Right now, after weeks of cold water in the port-a-shower, she’d pay bank for a leisurely hot bath without the gross, sweaty men waiting in line.

  Then she’d return to business as usual. Designing. It was in her blood, a trait handed down from her father. He was a prideful man who designed bridges and skyscrapers all over the world. Mayson looked up to him, saw him as an honest and loving father, who always put family first. He not only handed down the knack and ability to draw, he’d also taught her how to be noble, how to care about others before she cared about herself, and how to earn respect.

  Respect didn’t come from writing checks. It couldn’t be bought.

  She’d founded her company on a dream. A vision for the future. To erect the first wind turbines offshore in the North Atlantic. Everybody said she was mad, that the harsh conditions would wreck the giant structures long before they generated any power, and the extra installation costs, in such deep water, plus maintenance would cripple her financially. How wrong they were.

  Her self-found fortune had been strung behind by one failed relationship after another. Having money shouldn’t be that hard, but it was. People were money hungry. They wanted to marry it. Own it. To Mayson, it was just money, and if she couldn’t do for those without, as her parents and grandparents had done, what was the use of having it? Not like she could take it to her grave.

  The money made her keep people at arm’s length. She was always leery of new dates. As soon as someone found out who she was and what she was worth, dollar signs gleamed in their eyes. They either wanted to be her best friend or propose to her. That daily realization made her skeptical of people.

  Skeptical that she would never find what she was truly looking for in life. The one. The one she couldn’t live without. An unconditional love. She wanted to find a woman she couldn’t live a minute without. A woman she couldn’t tug from her thoughts every minute of every day. The sex would come naturally. Quick and hot. Unimaginably perfect.

  Like it had been years ago in the Big Easy, where the night had always been brighter than the day. Mayson feared her masked goddess had been the one, the one she was meant to spend eternity with. She’d definitely left her mark on Mayson’s ability to find her happy-ever-after. Their connection had started from across a room, churned with every stroke, and raged into a conflagration with every whimpering kiss. She wasn’t sure it had ever been extinguished. Not on her end, at least.

  She thought about the woman constantly. Heard her sighs and moans of passion in her dreams. Who had she been? Where had she come from? What was her name?

  Now, six years later, here she was, still single. Still searching for the one who didn’t turn into a simpering idiot when she found out Mayson could own the bank. She wanted that person desperately. Someone to love her regardless of who she was. She deserved to find that person. Deserved to settle down with a woman she couldn’t shake from her consciousness.

  Her special woman was out there somewhere. Maybe one day, when Mayson slowed down long enough, they’d find each other.

  After skimming through the most important of the unimportant emails, Mayson found one that made her smile, one that gave her a quickening of excitement.

  X had blogged.

  Mayson was addicted to the author’s flawless failures at finding the elusive sex partner. Her name was a mystery, simply signing everything X. Her blogs were always so comical, even when she’d had the most miserable sex imaginable. The stories were too hilarious to be made up. Even if they were, she’d read them anyway. She could relate, actually. She, too, hadn’t had much luck in the relationship department. Though her sex life was decent, it wasn’t amazing. Nothing like the sex with her masked stranger in New Orleans had been.

  Sex never rocked her world. No matter how hard she searched.

  Mayson opened the link to the blog and started reading, a smile stretching across her lips with every word.

  Until…she stabbed her tongue in my mouth.

  Literally. Stabbed.

  I tried not to panic as I gagged. So she couldn’t kiss. So she wanted to play Ping-Pong with my tonsils. That didn’t mean she couldn’t fuck. Don’t forget, I was in the hands of a professional. A woman who had studied the female body, wh
o knew exactly how to make me come, screaming.

  I couldn’t lose hope. My anxiety and excitement was too high at this point to be slam-dunked.

  And then she offered me…toys. Not just any toys. Toys from a freaking shoe box under her bed. Was she serious? What female would want used toys in her va-jay-jay? Not this girlie, that’s for sure.

  I politely declined, my excitement slowly fading.

  Finally, she opted for oral sex. Oh yeah. Now we’re talking!

  At this point, we’ve established that she’s not a good kisser, has no respect for secondhand bodily fluids, but please, please, please, let her be good with that tongue.

  *hands folded in prayer*

  Is it too much to ask for a simple orgasm? Too much to ask that another human being be present in the room?

  Why, yes. Yes, the fuck it is!

  I’m ashamed to admit this…

  She blew me. BLEW! Wtf?

  And not just a subtle puff of air. I’m talking full on, hard-core, blow job. Goose bumps crawled along my thighs and sprang to life across my stomach. And finally, my poor clit shriveled up like a lifeless raisin and ran for cover. I may never find her again.

  I’m mentally scarred from the whole ordeal. I will never get over this. She totally ruined my original mood to watch porn and masturbate with my new lipstick vibrator that arrived yesterday.

  *shakes head*

  Worse, now I have the incredible urge to cuddle the evil orange cat.

  ’Nuff said.

  X

  Mayson chuckled. Either X had the biggest imagination possible, or she was seriously the most sexually deprived person on earth.

  Was it truly possible to have an endless chain of appalling sex? Was that humanly possible?

  According to these blogs, all two years’ worth of them since stumbling across her butterfly vibrator rating, that Mayson had opted out of buying due to X’s words of discouragement, it was possible.