So she relaxed and received. Charlie had her in a firm grip around her leather-clad waist, both her hands pressing on Jamie’s clit. With each jerk of her hips the pressure of her hands increased too. Now Jamie had an awfully sensitive clit. She used to get off just from riding her motorbike. She suspected Charlie did, too, from the way she was panting as she rubbed against Jamie’s arse. Anyway, that meant it didn’t take much for her to come, but she was unprepared for what the orgasm felt like with the cock inside her too. Normally, she felt the contractions as vague spasms, but now her muscles had something to grip and every time they contracted the pleasure intensified. It beat the breath out of her so that she couldn’t suppress a groan.
Apparently pleased with her accomplishment, Charlie let herself go and came as well. Jamie could hear her gasp right next to her ear. Her red curls tickled Jamie’s neck as she momentarily rested her head on Jamie’s shoulder, then her head was gone and she was all buttoned up before Jamie had the chance to collect herself. When Jamie turned around to face her, flushing cheeks and somewhat rapid breathing were the only signs she showed of any illicit activity. As for Jamie, she leaned heavily against the church wall, still fumbling with her button fly. She, who was always so cool and collected!
When she’d pulled herself together, they shared a cigarette on the low stone wall with the view. Jamie’s knees were so shaky she wouldn’t be riding a motorbike anytime soon, a strand of hair had actually managed to come loose from all the Brylcreem, and the crotch of her rolled-up jeans was all wet and sticky. She didn’t usually get so very wet, but then she didn’t usually get fucked either.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” she said, referring to the way Charlie had dominated her.
“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t known you were up to it,” Charlie asserted, back to her sweet self.
“How did you know?” Jamie asked. “I didn’t know myself.”
“Oh, I can tell,” Charlie said lightly. “I didn’t know I wanted it until I got it either.”
“You do this a lot?” Jamie asked, curiosity once again winning over her habitual reserve.
Charlie shrugged and grinned. “Not an awful lot. Most of the time I’m with my mistress, meek as a little lamb.”
“And she… takes you?” Jamie knew this was none of her business, but after what she’d let Charlie do to her she didn’t care.
“Me regularly and other boys and girls occasionally.”
Jamie was too awed not to ask further questions: “She takes boys too?”
She wanted to make sure Charlie had meant proper boys and not boys like the two of them.
“Aye, there are ways of doing that,” Charlie mocked, amused.
“I know that,” Jamie retorted, annoyed that Charlie had thought her an imbecile, “I just don’t see why a woman would want to do that.”
“Oh, I can see why…” Charlie said.
“Each to her own,” Jamie muttered, recalling how Charlie had had a crush on a boy, once.
She supposed that if you had to do it with a man, that way was better than the ordinary way. But she would have none of it. She sucked on her cigarette and fell silent.
After a while Charlie jumped to her feet, reaching out her hand to Jamie: “It was nice meeting you. Perhaps we’ll see each other on the road again.”
Jamie shook her hand, an awkwardly formal good-bye, but one she too preferred to a kiss or a hug.
“Sure,” she said. “Nice meeting you too.”
She remained on the wall and lit another cigarette as Charlie disappeared from view. After a while she could hear the engine of a motorbike, the most beautiful sound. From where she sat, she caught the occasional glimpse of the lone headlight on the dark streets as Charlie rode out of town.
IN THE SAUNA
Stella Watts Kelley
Bridget was the kind of woman whose presence conjured immediate fantasies in anyone who loved women, the kind of woman who turned cowboys into stammering fools and made straight women question their sexuality. She was equally beautiful with or without makeup, dressed in strappy black heels, plunging-necked halters and silky black skirts, or in running pants, dripping with sweat from a gym workout. The teenage boys in her fitness class couldn’t get changed fast enough; they trotted behind her, ready to do an hour of push-ups and crunches if that was her wish, grateful for the opportunity to be in her presence.
Soft spoken with a ready laugh, she was simultaneously elegant in bearing and down-to-earth, a nature girl who loved to surf and snowboard. She wore low-rise jeans and clingy shirts that somehow managed to look both sexy and restrained. I first met her at a preschool potluck dinner at our children’s school. Our families often ate together; our husbands became fast friends and often went mountain-biking. And every time I looked at her, I wanted to take her clothes off.
She was not the first woman to arouse desire in me; as a child, I often had crushes on my female friends. But my husband and I met when we were quite young, before I’d had the opportunity to explore that particular aspect of my sexuality. And so, for more than twenty years, my desires remained known only to me, lying dormant because of both my vow to my husband and, frankly, a lack of opportunity. I sometimes wondered what would happen if the opportunity presented itself, but decided I’d leave that bridge uncrossed.
One summer, when our sons were invited to a birthday party at a classmate’s house, Bridget suggested we spend our free day at a nearby spa. Our husbands thought it great that we were having a “girls’ day out” to pamper ourselves and looked forward to our returning open armed and relaxed. In the empty changing room, we found our lockers, one next to the other, and began to undress. Between periods of comfortable silence and light conversation, initiated by Bridget, I listened, offering a word of agreement here and there. Mostly, I watched her undress.
I had never seen her naked. As she removed each item of clothing, she placed it in the locker. First she took off her T-shirt, revealing a slender but muscular back, evenly tanned a deep cinnamon. Her silky auburn hair brushed the middle of her spine, and as her hair shifted, I noticed a small tattoo of a Chinese character on her left shoulder blade. I wondered what it signified but didn’t ask. I removed my own shirt and bra, noting the contrast between my pale skin and her darker hue. As she reached to put her shirt in the locker, my gaze shifted to her breasts. Her small breasts were perfectly formed, petite, round and plump, each tipped with a small areola and lovely, deep pink nipple.
We removed our pants, and as I bent slightly forward to take down my denim capris, I peeked from under my own long hair as her jeans slid down over her thighs. Could she tell I was watching her? No, she seemed focused on what she was saying. Her words were just sounds coming from her mouth; I couldn’t hear their meaning, but I loved the calming sound of her voice, the delightful music of her laughter, the flash of her smile. As I watched each piece of clothing come off, my mouth went dry. I longed to touch her but kept my hands on my own clothes. So this is what it feels like for men, I thought. As a woman, I was used to being watched. Now, I savored the role of watcher.