After Midnight (24 page)

“Not so fast,” she said when I attempted to slip away. “I think you need some more.” Shedding the strap-on, she drew me back to my earlier position across her lap.

It was one thing to be splayed like that when she was spanking me; then, it made sense. But to have her fuck me in this position was almost too much. I buried my red face into her leg, embarrassed at giving away my body's secrets so easily, but Darla didn't lord it over me. In fact, she was almost tender as
she slipped her warm fingers inside me—two, and then I think it was three—stroking my hair, cooing at me, the antithesis of the fierce domme she'd been earlier.

It didn't take long before I melted against her, nearly sliding off her as my orgasm shook me all the way through. She kept her fingers inside me, still and strong, long after I was done. When I tried to return the favor, wanting to somehow give her back even a fraction of the joy she'd given me, she held a finger to my lips to shush me. “You've given me more than enough today, Amber. Maybe next time you're in town…” It was sweet of her to say that, because we both knew it wasn't going to happen. It was the equivalent of a halfhearted, “I'll call you.”

I straightened my hair and got dressed in a daze, my body electrified by what she'd done to me. I kissed her good-bye and left, lost in thought as walked back to where I was staying, knowing it'd be a while before my ass could withstand anything harder than a cushion beneath it.

Even though my thoughts were a little bittersweet on the flight back to New York, I don't know that I would have wanted to see Darla again. She's the kind of girl who sweeps into your life like a fast-moving storm, rearranging everything in its path, and just when you come to grips with what's happening, she's gone, leaving only the results of her work behind. Unlike a storm, though, her power was invisible, yet I feel it every time I see a girl with a certain gleam in her eye, the kind that transmits special signals for me. In fact, I rarely think about Darla so directly—she's usually more of a passing memory, a faint twinge as I bend over for my current lover to take her smacks. But sometimes it's nice to take a trip through history, and certainly, out of all the girls I've bedded, Darla's the one who had the biggest impact, in more ways than one.

 

 

 

 

 

I
met Traf six years ago in the fantasy room at
Gay.com
. We started our relationship proving the existence of God to a nonbeliever in the chat room by each bringing up love. If falling in love isn't a true miracle, I don't know one. She approached it through her Catholicism. I came at it from the gestalt viewpoint of a higher being consisting of all living things in the universe. We found our commonalities, the differences being minor.

Traf and I met in March, quickly moved in together, and committed to a monogamous relationship in April. The sex was fantastic, maybe even a little too much for me. I was forty-three while Traf was fifty-two. Even so, she was in fantastic shape and enjoyed four to five hours of lovemaking at a time. I on the other hand was ecstatic after the first hour, satiated after the second, tired during the third, and in pain during the fourth. For me it was more about the quality of sex than the quantity. But I didn't complain, because just days before meeting her I'd ended
a sexless two-year relationship. It seemed like feast or famine to me. I thought maybe I was out of practice.

Since then, our lives have melded together. Her children and grandchildren like me and call me Nana. Our community is friendly, and no one has a problem with two lesbians living in their neighborhood. We have a joint bank account, keep no passwords on our computers, and try hard to be honest and forthcoming with each other. We call each other
honey
and
sweetheart
and even
babe
freely, even in public. We're a traditional butch/femme couple. I wear lipstick, high heels, and jewelry. Traf wears starched button-down shirts, pleated slacks, and comfortable shoes. She supports my writing, and I support her passion for fishing. We're good for each other.

As fate would have it, my birthday falls two days before Valentine's Day. All my life up until meeting Traf, my lovers have taken advantage of this fact by buying only one present for the two occasions. Granted, it's usually a nice piece of jewelry, but still. A woman wants to feel special as a lover on Valentine's Day, not as if her birthday's being celebrated two days late.

Traf didn't wait. On the Sunday of my birthday that first year she took me out to dinner at a top-notch restaurant and gave me a gorgeous amethyst-and-gold ring. Afterward, we went out drinking and dancing into the wee hours of the morning.

Monday was the legal holiday for Abraham Lincoln's birthday, and Tuesday it was back to work for everyone in our snow-bound Minnesota town. I had enjoyed immensely our evening out, but I expected that would be it.

I spent Tuesday writing. I've only had time to do it since moving in with Traf. I'm driven to write, although the rejection letters keep pouring in. When I get deep into a book or story, I forget to eat or move from my chair. Traf knows this, and that day she pulled me out once or twice just to get me to stretch and
have something to eat. Then I went straight back to it, determined to get a certain chapter just right.

At six o'clock Traf appeared at my office door. She was dressed in a nice pair of blue slacks. Her breasts were constrained by the man's undershirt clearly visible through her starched white shirt. She looked good enough to eat. “Time to quit for the day,” she said. “Can you wrap it up in the next five minutes?”

“Sure,” I told her. I was satisfied. I still had some tweaking to do, but the basics were down, and I felt I could leave it until tomorrow. “What's for dinner?” I asked. One of the deals we have when I'm writing is that she does the meal planning and cooking, while all I have to do is the dishes. And Traf is an excellent cook.

“Al catra,” she answered, making me salivate. I focused my nose and smelled the delicious aroma. Traf was born in the Azores, and the smell of the rich red-wine-soaked beef roasting in a clay pot in a slow oven made hope soar in my heart. We were having a Valentine's dinner. Al catra is not for everyday eating.

“Do I have time to shower?” I asked casually, rising from my desk. I'd expected to be treated by Traf the same way I had by all my exes. I needed a few minutes to clean up and get perfumed, coiffed, and bejeweled.

“As a matter of fact,” Traf said, smiling at me, “I've already drawn you a bath.” She took my hand and pulled me down the corridor. I could smell what I thought were fragrant candles burning before I saw them in the sparkling-clean bathroom. The white tile and shiny chrome gleamed under the fluorescent lights, which were still on. Dozens of roses, a rainbow of colors, sat in large vases on the counter.

The bathtub was filled with steaming-hot water, a dozen
bright oranges rolling around the bottom of it. The scent of the fruit was the fragrance I'd noticed earlier. “Like my story,” I said, referring to a piece of erotica I'd written for her.

“I thought we could try it,” Traf said with a big grin. “You need to relax,” she added soothingly into my ear. “Enjoy your fantasy.” Her nearness sparked a familiar warmth throughout my body. This was going to be fun.

“Oh, honey!” I cried happily. She turned me to face her and pushed me gently back into the doorjamb, grabbing my arms and pinning them over my head. She leaned in and kissed me.

It started softly, her lips pressing gently on mine, but then she probed with her tongue. I parted my lips and invited her in. Our tongues dueled playfully. I felt her release my hands and pull me into her body. She pinched the straps of my sleeveless dress in her thumbs and pulled them down my shoulders, her strong fingers grazing my flesh. I reached behind me and unzipped. Traf tugged on my red dress, and it slid down to my hips.

My breasts were encased in a white lace bra, the matching panties peeking above my draped dress. I'm not too large, but I'm not too small either, and my breasts have stood up well over the years. I'm proud of them and drew in a breath to make them swell. Traf growled and buried her head in my cleavage. Her fingers found and sprung my bra hooks, her hands circling quickly to claim my breasts as they swung free. I shook off the bra, more intent on her thumbs circling my nipples. She lowered her head again and sucked first one, then the other, taking her time and doing it right. I moaned.

Traf pushed my skirt and panties down until they puddled at my feet. She helped me out of them, then reached behind me to switch off the light. The room twinkled by the light of dozens of candles scattered everywhere. She took my hand and led me to the bathtub, then helped me settle to the bottom, among the
rolling oranges. The warm water embraced my tired body, and I leaned back.

Our claw-foot tub is old and deep. I sank down until my shoulders were underwater, allowing the warmth to envelope me. I felt completely at ease in my world. Traf leaned over the tub and kissed me. I closed my eyes, completely content.

Ending the kiss, Traf knelt beside the tub, rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt, and reached for one of the oranges clustered on either side of me. She managed to tickle my inner thigh with it on her way up. I watched her with lazy eyes, anticipating. After all, I wrote the story. “I know what you're going to do,” I murmured, with a giggle.

“You ought to,” she laughed back, rising to her feet. She went to the end of the tub and reached back in the water for one of my feet. The warm orange rolled luxuriously against the arch of my foot. Thus began one of the greatest massages of all time.

That wonderful plump fruit was just firm enough to manipulate my aching muscles, and Traf's hands followed through. She spent a long while just on the base of my feet, then traveled up to my calves. It was wonderful.

She moved to the head of the tub, just behind me. The orange rolled over my neck, its warmth spreading into muscles tensed from hunkering over a laptop all day. Traf used her strength to push down on my shoulders, helping me relax further. Then she leaned me forward and worked her wondrous orange over my back. Her fingers skimmed my skin, igniting a trail of fire, but she concentrated on the massage.

Finally she leaned me back in the tub, cradling my head on a folded towel. Her massage continued along my neck, then traced my cleavage and circled my breasts. My breathing quickened, but she wasn't through yet.

Pulling her ever-present knife from her pocket, she sliced the orange neatly in two. She held each half over my breasts and squeezed.

Warm orange juice burst over my skin, trickling down my belly into the water around me. “Oh, my God,” I cried.

Traf leaned over and slowly licked up the juice from first one, then the other breast. “Not quite,” she laughed. She dribbled more on them and kept licking. I mixed my own fingers with the juice, the softness of my breast, and the firm insistence of her tongue. She leaned back to look at me, dropping the orange into the water and using her bare hands to massage my breasts.

“You look so handsome,” I said, enjoying the play of her biceps under her sleeves. “But perhaps you need to take another bath?” I nodded, encouraging her to join me.

“I will. Oh, I will,” Traf agreed enthusiastically. “Later.”

“Do some of the other things in my story,” I urged her. She raised her head and grinned at me. Reaching down beside my leg she extracted another orange. Taking up her knife again, she peeled it in one long strip, never removing her eyes from mine. It was impressive as hell. She took the rind and sliced it neatly into four pieces, tossing them into the water where they floated, curlicues of bright orange.

Peeling one section free, she placed it gently against my lips. “Like this?” she asked me playfully.

My lips have always been supersensitive erogenous zones. I felt them swell as I grinned, keeping them closed to continue enjoying the orange slice softly tracing their outline. They tingled and swelled even more. I flicked my tongue tip playfully at the orange. It invaded.

The firm warmth pressed through my lips to enter my mouth. Its fat flesh began to pump in and out, fucking my mouth. My
tongue danced around it, anticipating, enjoying. I raked the orange slice with my teeth, appreciating the sudden burst of flavor breaking free from its tender skin. Traf held the piece still, and I bit through it, chewing softly. She pressed the other half into my mouth, then reached for another section.

This one she drew over my face, teasing my skin with it. She circled my ears, traced my nose, descended my neck, and finally circled my nipples. The piece of orange painted strokes of desire on my skin. It descended below the waterline, tracing my belly and playfully tickling my navel. It traced the outline of my deep red curls, then made a
Y
down the meeting of my thighs. I parted my legs eagerly.

“I love you,” husked Traf as she always did before entering me. She used her fingers to hold open my two lower lips, then traced the firm fruit over my slit and clit. I moaned.

“Querida,”
I sighed.
“Minha amante.”
I reached up my arms and encircled her neck. She kissed me at the same moment she pushed the orange slice into my pussy. I thrust my tongue into her mouth as she used her fingers to slide it in and out of me. My pussy clenched around it, squeezing.

Traf paused, pulling away from our kiss but leaving the fruit inside me. She reached into the tub and raised first one of my legs over the edge, then the other. I was spread-eagled before her hungry gaze. She reached to retrieve the orange nestled within me. She brought it to her lips and held my gaze as she bit into it, chewing it slowly.