“Well, do you want to know who I am?” the woman asked teasingly.
Amanda smiled. She knew who she was. She looked down at her hand. The ring was not there.
The woman noticed the confusion. “Oh,” she gasped. “You think I am Anna. No, Anna was my secret plaything at the library at around about the same time she seduced you.”
Amanda was more confused than ever. “So who are you?” she asked.
She laughed again. “I arranged with Anna to watch you together. And God, it was one of the horniest things I’ve ever seen.”
It all made sense now. “So you were the girl behind the bookshelf.”
“Yes,” the woman said, leaning forward and giving Amanda a gentle, affectionate kiss on the lips. “But at the time, I was also the librarian.”
MOTEL HUSTLE
Lynn Lake
“I’m not sure, really. One night at least, maybe more.”
She smiled at me. Her full red lips could barely hold it, they were trembling so badly. Her blue eyes almost pleaded with mine, scared for understanding.
I just grunted, pulled the cigarette out of my mouth and blew smoke, said, “A hundred bucks a night. In advance.”
She fumbled open a big designer purse and paid me in cash, what else.
I’m night manager at a sleazy motel in the middle of the Florida swamp. It’s a way station, for runaways and getaways, people looking to lie low or on their way to other, better places. The temperature always hovers around 100, the humidity the same. There are no tacky Disney attractions here, just vast tracts of mosquito-infested scrub and swamp, people on the lam.
“I-I like your tattoos. And all your piercings.”
I counted her money twice, checking it for authenticity. “Yeah?”
“Um, yes. They’re very . . . attractive.”
I looked up at her, grinning from around my cig. The money was good. She wasn’t half bad herself. A little old, late forties probably, but with a handsome, high-cheekboned face and a straight nose and plush lips, those wide blue eyes. She was wearing a dark, sleeveless, form-fitting dress, her arms and legs slender and smooth and tanned. Her breasts bulged out the front of the dress, her butt doing the same job at the back.
I’m a night owl, a nighthawk. That’s why I took the job. That, and all the interesting people I meet, of course. In my early twenties, I figure it’s good experience, life experience. My skin is pale from lack of sun, shoulder-length black hair sleek and shiny. I’ve got tats up and down my arms and a ring through my nose, more on my ears, a pair adorning my nipples, a barbell my pussy. To go with the goth-punk wild-child image, I deep-blacken the rims of my brown eyes, wear black half T-shirts and slash black skirts. I live on coffee and cigarettes and sex. I do better than all right.
“Room twelve . . . Joyce,” I said, dangling the key in front of her. Her fingers touched mine as she took it.
I watched her unload some expensive brown-leather suitcases from the trunk of her rental car, carry them into her room. Her breasts shuddered as she staggered forward with the heavy bags, perspiration dewing her face and shoulders.
I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the call came into the switchboard about an hour later – more towels, if you have them. I had them, and more of what she really wanted.
The door was cracked open an inch, so I could see inside. Joyce lay on the bed, her back up against the headboard. She had nothing on except a black-lace bra and black-lace panties, an anxious expression on her heavily made-up face. Her right hand was deep in her panties, rubbing, her left hand cupping a bared tit, squeezing.
I plucked the cigarette out of my mouth and tossed it down, crushed it out with a boot heel. Then I knocked on the door.
“Come – come in!”
Her voice squeaked under the pressure, still cultivated as hell. I shoved the door open, a couple of scrawny towels under my arm.
“H-hello, Sasha.”
“Got your towels.”
She expected more, maybe expected me to be shocked, surprised to catch a nearly naked mature woman with her hands all over her cunt and tits. I’d seen a lot more shocking and surprising things than that, though. I set the towels down on the battered bureau next to the thirty-year-old TV set and turned to leave.
“Sasha . . . please!”
I turned back around, a cool grin frosting my black-lacquered lips.
Joyce dropped her eyes, her face going even redder under the country-club tan. Then she swallowed, and boldly looked up, moving her hand in her panties again, pinching a nipple through her bra. I watched, building the tension, putting another coat of sweat on the woman’s already glistening body.
Then, finally, I smiled and kicked the door shut, pulled off my T-shirt. My firm little boobs shone ivory white under the low-watt lighting, nipples standing out pink and pointing, pierced by those twin silver rings. Joyce’s mouth broke open, her eyes gone wide. I unhooked my skirt and let it drop, walked naked except for my boots over to the laid-out older woman.
“I-I left my husband,” she offered, staring up at me. “After I had an affair with another woman, and he caught us. It was . . . my first time. I’d suppressed my true feelings for so—”
I plopped down on the bed next to her and grabbed on to her long, dyed brown hair and jerked her mouth forward, against my lips.
I’d figured it would be something like that. Late-in-life lesbian discovering her real sexual self, but saddled with a husband, maybe kids, a house in the ’burbs and membership at the club, a staid, strict upper-class existence.
“So you had to get away,” I said, breaking moist lip contact with the woman.
She bobbed her head, gazing deeply into my hooded eyes.
I took her hand off her tit and replaced it with mine, drew her other hand out of her panties, the fingers wet, slid my other hand inside. She spasmed and moaned, tit and pussy jumping against my fingers.
Her breasts were heavy and soft. I cupped the one, squeezed it, worked it. Her pussy was a matted wet jungle of fur. I rubbed it, stroked it, easily finding her clit with my fingertips. She shook like the bed was one of those ones that vibrate for a quarter. She was so keyed up she was ready to come at the first touch of a pretty young woman’s hands.
I pulled my hands away, kissed her quivering lips again. She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight, mashing her mouth against mine. I popped her bra open at the back and pulled it away. Her tongue swarmed into my mouth and thrashed all around.
“Oh, Sasha! Oh, God!”
I fed her my fingers, slick with her own juices. She sucked on them, as I hefted a tit and took the thick, tan nipple into my mouth, sucked on it. Her groan traveled all along my fingers and up my arm. I tugged on her nipple, all the tit I could cram into my mouth.
She didn’t want foreplay, couldn’t handle it, wasn’t used to it. She wanted to fuck, to get off, now. That was fine with me. I couldn’t leave the front desk empty too long, after all.
I squirmed out of her arms and tugged down her panties, tossed them aside, pulling her down flat on her back on the sagging bed at the same time. The bed creaked dangerously, as I stretched out on top of the woman, draping my naked body over hers.
She was on fire, her skin superheated with more than just air temperature. My tits sank into her tits, our stiffened nipples pressing together. Our pussies met, my shaven pink lips almost as moist as hers.
Joyce rolled her head around on the pillow, her eyes closed, her glossy nails digging into my back. I grabbed hold of her hair again and steadied her head, kissed her, Frenched her, our tongues leaping together, entwining over and over. I undulated my hot little body on top of hers, rubbing nipples, bumping cunts.
“Oh, Sasha! Yes, Sasha!”
There was no time to lose. I kneed her legs apart and planted my pussy squarely on hers, a position I knew well. She shrieked and arched up against me, our cunts squishing together. I pumped my hips, fucking the woman.
She realized what I was doing, real
ized it couldn’t last. Our clits were hard pink nubs, rubbing and rubbing together. She grabbed on to my taut little butt cheeks and helped me pump, her eyes glazed, frenetic. My nipple rings caught at her nipples, tweaking them, our tits shuddering against one another’s.
“Sasha! Dear Sasha, I’m . . . I’m . . .”
She jerked, bucked. Our pussies went molten. I bit my lip and shivered, riding the woman’s wildly quivering body, suffused by my own wicked orgasm.
She wanted to talk, to cuddle. I told her I had to get back to the desk. She fumbled more money out of her purse and gave it to me, as a “gift”.
I let her gift me after we’d fucked for the next week or so. Until she started making with the advice, “motherly advice”, telling me how to dress and talk and act, and not to smoke. That’s one of the reasons I was at the motel, to get away from that kind of shit.
So I told her to shove off, get lost. There was no more lesbianism for her here.
I’d gotten a pretty good bankroll off of the woman by that time, anyway.
They pulled into the motel around midnight, hottest time of the night. Not that they would’ve noticed, with the air-conditioned luxury of the black Lexus they were riding in. The hard-faced, butchy redhead was at the wheel, the little femme blonde her passenger. Butch was driving this getaway, no doubt about it.
“Give us your best room,” she commanded me.
Her name was “Dixie”, her cute silent partner, “Olivia”. Dixie’s hair was buzzed short, her face free of make-up, her wiry body clothed in a baggy shirt and baggier biker shorts. Olivia was dressed up like a doll – a frilly blue dress on her girlish physique, her blonde hair braided into shoulder-brushing pigtails, blue eye shadow and red lipstick adorning her pretty oval face. She was wearing red slippers, a large diamond ring on her left middle finger, gold stud earrings in her ears.
Both girls were no more than eighteen years old. Their eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, red-veined from way too many hours on the road.
“The best we have,” I said, blowing smoke at Dixie and handing her the key to room nineteen, the one next door to the guy with the drum set who’d set up semi-permanent residence.
Dixie grabbed the key, squeezing Olivia tight against her with a long, covetous arm. “Only the best for my baby.”
I wasn’t buying it. And neither was the petite little blonde. She looked like she wanted to be somewhere else, realized she’d made a big mistake highballing it down the road with the butch.
And when Olivia only replied with a slight grimace, Dixie lifted the girl’s chin up and planted a wet one right on those pouty silver-spoon lips. I smoked my cigarette and watched through slitted eyes, wondering why Olivia looked so familiar to me.
It came to me a couple of minutes later, when I had the big city paper spread out on the counter. I’d been swatting flies with the thing until a headline caught my eye: PROMINENT BUSINESSMAN’S DAUGHTER MISSING.
There was a picture – it was Olivia all right. A little less dolled up, more smug-looking. Apparently, it was rumored the girl might be on the lam with a “friend”, her parents asking that people be on the lookout. She’d just turned eighteen, was presumably free to do her own thing. Unless your rich parents didn’t approve and had pull with the state police.
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Ice!”
It was Dixie, doing her best to be boss. “There’s a machine in the laundry room,” I informed her. “Next to the office.”
“Well then, bring—”
I hung up on her. I cater to customers worth catering to, not to punk kids trying to act big.
The one I didn’t mind catering too, though, was the one sent out into the heat of the night to collect the ice – Olivia. She trudged past the office and into the laundry room, looking like a wilted southern flower. I scrapped the paper and followed after her.
She couldn’t figure out how to work the ice machine. No doubt others attended to those chores at home.
I said, “Here, let me help you with that.”
I arced my cigarette out the door and then closed the door, walked up to the little doll and took the plastic ice bucket from her, stuck it in the slot and hit the bar that set the ice cubes to tumbling.
“I-I think I’ve made a big mistake,” she whispered in an adorable drawl, green eyes pleading with me. “I thought I was in love, but . . .”
“It was just pussy, er, puppy love,” I quipped. “Infatuation. Something to tick off the parents, huh?”
I was talking too much, breathing too hard. The girl was really beautiful, soft and sensuous and feminine like I like them, her perfume sweet and airy and suffocating my brain. It didn’t help my composure any when she reached out and touched my hand with her porcelain fingers, breathed, “Yes.”
“I’ll help you. Get things straightened out for you.”
“Oh, would you?” she gushed, putting just a little too much sincerity in it.
Her kiss was real enough, though, on my cheek. Her lips were like orchid petals.
I left the ice cubes to melt, grabbing Olivia in my arms and kissing her hard on the mouth. She squealed and squirmed, inflaming my passion even more. Usually I’m cool as the weather is hot, but there was just something about this babe. And she knew it, and used it.
She was still murmuring protests and wriggling around when I pulled her dress down, grasped her tender little tits and pushed her up against the ice machine. Her breasts were B-cuppers, perfectly formed, delicately blue-veined and daintily topped by puffy pink nipples looking like cake ornaments. She whimpered and writhed when I sucked on the one darling bud, moaned and mussed up my hair when I tongued all around her other delicious nub.
I had to see the rest of her, love the rest of her. I yanked the dress all the way down so that it puddled at her slippers. And she was starkly naked. Her pussy was decorated with downy blonde pubes, her legs girlishly slim, her waist narrow enough to wrap your two hands around.
I’d just dropped to my knees to worship at the girl’s golden temple, when the door suddenly banged open and someone bellowed, “What the fuck?”
Dixie.
She glared at the naked babe pinned up against the ice machine, at me down on my knees with my mouth inches away from juicy nirvana. “I thought you were getting ice! Not getting laid!”
She stalked into the room, slamming the door behind her. I got to my feet.
“I . . . She . . . I got excited, Dixie!” Olivia squealed. “It was all a mistake!”
We didn’t know if she was talking about just-now events or recent events. I wasn’t worried; I could handle myself. Dixie was worried, though, about holding on to a good thing.
She forced a smile onto her rigid face. “OK, OK! There’s plenty to go around, right, Olivia?”
Olivia sighed, replied, “Right, Dixie.” She curled a lithe arm around my neck and drew me closer, painted my lips with the tip of her coral-pink tongue.
Dixie joined us. We all kissed, three-way, making up, making out, flailing our tongues together. We embraced as a trio, Dixie’s strong arm hooking around my waist and holding tight, other arm coveting Olivia’s soft rounded shoulders under my arm. She kissed me, Olivia, everyone together.
Still tongue jousting, sucking face and swapping spit, we explored each other’s body with our hands. Dixie roughly gripped one of my tits under my half-tee, Olivia cupping and caressing my other breast. I mauled one of Dixie’s high and tight tits, lovingly handled Olivia’s precious breasts. Nipples were fingered and rolled and twisted, everyone breathing hard into everybody else’s face.
Dixie’s right hand palmed down my body and up under my skirt, onto my pussy. She rubbed, hard and fast, glaring me in the eyes, anxious to bring me off. I deftly popped her baggy shorts open and yanked down her zipper, stuck my hand inside, over her ginger-furred cunt. She was sopping hot, too. I rubbed heavy and quick.
Our free hands found Olivia’s petulant puss at the same time. We rubbed in unison
, lusting to give the sweet little girl maximum pleasure. Olivia just leaned against the ice machine and took it, enjoyed it, occasionally lightly grasping one of our breasts and squeezing, gently pinching and plucking a nipple, when she remembered it was all about mutual pleasure.
The tension built, our bodies shaking, pussies stoked. Dixie and I flat-out scrubbed each other’s cunt, staring at Olivia, lovingly polishing her pussy, watching her long eyelashes flutter and her petal lips part with emotion. The girl gasped, then shivered, squirted honey against our buffing fingers.
That set the pair of us off. I hooked three fingers inside Dixie and pumped, knuckling her clit. She grunted and jerked, coming with a gush of hot breath and juice. Her rough fingertips scoured my clit, pressing the inflamed button almost back inside of me. I moaned, bit my lip to draw blood, spasming with red-hot wet orgasm after orgasm.
I locked Dixie in the laundry room afterwards. Long enough for Olivia to snatch the car keys and a couple of bags from the motel room, and drive away back to her parents and the plush comforts of home.
I got my monetary pay-off, to go along with the three-way sexual one, from the sweet little Southern belle. Night clerking just doesn’t pay well enough, unless you hustle up some benefits on your own.
“What’s there to see around this place?”
“You’re looking at it, Domino.”
The women laughed, looking at me.
There were three of them, said their names were Domino, Lucinda and Yvette, were just touring the state on vacation. Their accents were pure Brooklyn, but the tinted-window van they pulled up in had Illinois plates. That jibed as much as their “vacation” story.
“There’re some alligators back in the swamps, if you go in deep enough,” I responded, not really minding Lucinda’s crack.
“You provide tour-guide services?” Yvette rasped.
She was the oldest of the three, a tall, cigarette-thin bleached blonde with a pinched face and sunburned skin, dressed in a black blouse and white capri pants, plenty of lipstick. Domino was short and lush, top heavy, with soulful brown eyes and a pincushion mouth, caramel-drenched skin and chestnut-brown hair. She was wearing a purple tank top and pink shorts, a mouth-watering confection. Lucinda was slender and sleek, doe-eyed, her skin dark as the night and just as velvety. She wore a black dress that fitted her like a second smooth skin.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories Page 24