wracks her body. Jeanne’s tongue strokes roughly across her trembling pussy, coaxing more aftershocks, until Lila cries out.
‘Enough, enough –’
Jeanne pulls away and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her expression is indulgent as she shifts off her knees and stands. ‘Mmm. Just relax for me for a moment.’
Lila bonelessly obeys, her legs falling without Jeanne to hold her up.
It’s only a matter of minutes, however, before Jeanne returns. If Lila’s feverish brain is expecting anything, it’s a towel and some clean-up. What she’s definitely not expecting is the heavy slap of the back of a hairbrush across her bare thigh. Rather than rattling her out of her post-orgasmic haze, the thrilling shock of it rockets her into desire once more again.
The brush bristles look like they will scratch against thin tender skin. She thinks for a strung-out moment that Jeanne will do it. She tenses.
‘Ease back, love. Not today.’
Lila stares at the hairclips that Jeanne has carelessly stowed on the low-cut collar of her dress. She looks at their clamping teeth then down at the erect nipples distorting her own blouse.
‘Next time?’
A low chuckle as Jeanne hitches Lila’s legs back up into position.
Lila’s so wet that the handle of the hairbrush – smooth, thick, tapered – slides inside her immediately. She clamps around it instinctively, so tight that Jeanne murmurs as she tries to stroke it deeper.
‘Shh. Let me fuck this into you.’ There’s a bead of perspiration on Jeanne’s temple and hectic colour high on her cheeks. ‘Give me the rest of your cream, because I know you have more for me.’
Jeanne’s fingers flex against the brush and Lila’s glassy stare is riveted to the movement. She imagines those capable fingers, stretching her. Curling inside her. Rubbing the spot, this spot, that the handle is grazing with blunt, clumsy strokes. She loosens, just enough for Jeanne to push further. Lila groans, head tossing back and forth.
‘Yes,’ she pleads.
‘Stop ruining your new hair.’ Jeanne’s laughing command is choked, the sound of it bitten off. Her left hand works quickly, pushing and pulling on the brush with rough momentum. She licks the fingers of her right and rubs them with equal speed across the shiny swell of her clit.
It feels so good to have the thick length inside her … all Jeanne.
This time her orgasm is effortless; it flows over her, leaving her instantly limp.
‘Oh, oh,’ she hears Jeanne groaning in sympathy. ‘Take more –’
She lets her body go, giving it all up to her. Her eyes open again to find Jeanne looking somewhere between satisfied and starving.
‘You were right,’ Lila says when she’s breathing evenly again. She lowers her shaky feet to the ground and urges Jeanne up into her lap. She grins at the other woman, holding her tightly. ‘You did know exactly what to do with me. How is that?’
‘We gingers need to stick together.’ Jeanne’s hair is dishevelled, as devil-red as her swollen lips.
Lila explores her own hair. It feels good. Light and immediately comfortable. ‘So … how often will I need a cut and, ah, blow?’
‘Often.’ Jeanne’s cat’s eyes gleam. ‘High-maintenance, that style.’
‘Good,’ Lila tells her, because it’s very good. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
I met her at a party. She was … lovely, so perfect, like one of those cakes with butter crème icing so lush and pretty that you want to dip your finger in for a taste, but the tip of your finger hovers just above it because you don’t want to mar its beauty. She had that look: confident, chin high, eyes cool, untouchable. Made me want to touch her all the more. Long smooth legs, I wanted to stroke them. I wondered if she was strictly straight, or if she might be more adventurous.
I liked the way she moved, the delicate bend of her wrist, the way she shrugged and tilted her head when she laughed. Although nearly model-thin, she was easily a C cup and her ass was peach-ripe; made drool gather in my mouth and my teeth clench. I’d watched as she made her way around the room once before finding a spot to rest. Her café con leche skin was just a shade deeper than the pale olive most Americans attribute to Latinas, and her hair was a mass of dark, loose curls that fell to the middle of her back.
The night was a purple sky, stars, and a sweep of skyscrapers that framed her as she leaned into the right side of the nearly floor-to-ceiling window casing. Her dress, a slip of raw rose-coloured silk, barely covered the necessities. When she occasionally shifted from one leg to the other, the slippery fabric dipped into the crevice the movement created between her legs. A neglected spaghetti strap slid down her arm as she raised a tall frosty glass to her lips.
She’d hardly paused before they’d begun paying homage. I stood on the other side of the room sipping a beer and watching her hold court. Men and women stopped before her, smiling and offering eager conversation, their eyes wide, faces animated. Her face remained unaffected: a nod, a word, a brief shake of her head. Rejection. They moved on. I imagined she saw me, looked at me from across the room. Her eyes assessing, probing, measuring my worth. I smiled. She didn’t.
A man approached her. He wore a dark, very nice Hugo Boss, and a haircut that allowed a swatch to fall over his eye in just the right way. He leaned against the wall, towering over her. He spoke to her, but he didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. She said something that made him stop and look down at her, long. Then, smiling, he turned his back to her, but he didn’t move away as his eyes scanned the crowd again. He spoke again as though addressing air before turning back to her. Extending a large slow hand, he touched the hem of her dress. Finally, the tips of his broad fingers touched her inner thigh and slid slowly up up up until his wrist was suspended just under the slip of rose silk, his hand completely hidden. She didn’t move. I held my breath. I could feel my nipples straining against the fabric of my blouse. After what seemed minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, he pulled his hand away, brought his fingers to his nose and breathed in her scent. He leaned in and whispered something into her ear, his mouth pressed to the dark curls that fell around her neck. She shook her head, and he straightened, returned to his post on the wall near her. The fabric of his expensive suit fell flawlessly back into place as did the bored look on his aristocratic face, but he didn’t move on.
The heat rose in my groin and, although I held myself still, I couldn’t help squirming a bit as I leaned against the wall on my side of the room. The man in the Hugo Boss pulled his phone out of an inside pocket and called someone. He spoke quickly, still scanning the room. He turned to her again. She listened for a moment and nodded. He held his hand out to her and she took it. I watched as they crossed the room, he acting as navigator and she floating close behind as they waded through the crowd. I sipped my beer. As they drew nearer, I dropped my eyes, not wanting her to see me gawking. Her feet were smooth, a lean line that ended in a slanted plane of glistening crimson-blush-coloured
