thumb, nestling it at the top of my clit. I haven’t imagined anything. Our eyes are solidl y locked. I’m holding my breath .
“It’s okay,” she says again.
I exhale. This isn’t happening. For a thousand reasons, this isn’t happening. I’m married, we’re straight, we’re soccer moms, she’s my waxer , she’s my friend. But then she asks me a question and I’ve always been a horrible liar.
“Does that feel good?”
I can’t say yes, because what I need to do is stop this. Her thumb is still in place and my body is beginning to ache for more of her touch. The room is silent. She’s posed a question, waiting for my answer, and I can’t do anything but tell her the truth.
“Yes,” I whisper.
She moves her thumb in slow circles.
“Ye s,” I repeat. “That feels good. But we should stop.” There’s no conviction in my voice and I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be wavering in the situation. This isn’t me or us or allowed .
“Maybe we should stop,” she says softly, “but do you want to stop?”
“No,” I admit. “But…” I can’t think of what to say. Words and rational thought have been trumped by a sexual impulse I didn’t know I had.
Her right hand stays, her thumb moving diligently, rhythmically. With her left hand she strokes the inside of my thigh, slow and gentle. This hand moves up and starts to caress the freshly waxed lips of my vagina . Delicate fingertips trace up and down on either side of my cunt. It’s a soft tickle, the tingle of want mixed with vulnerability.
“Melanie,” I say. My eyes are closed now, my body conflicted. She hears this in my voice.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s just sex.” I open my eyes to look at her. She says it again. “It’s just sex.”
These words change the conflict in my mind, perhaps because I want them to. Suddenly I see the situation not in terms of right or wrong. Questions of loyalty, sexuality and appropriateness disappear, because Melanie’s hands on me are now nothing more than two people enjoying the simple act of touch. My head is light and I’m not sure if my thoughts have touched on truth or if I’m rationalizing the situation. It occurs to me that it doesn’t matter.
“It’s just sex,” she says again . With this repeated phrase I let myself go completely and open my legs wider for her. She takes a hand away and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s going to stop, but she repositions herself closer in to my body and lowers her head, first pausing in between my knees where she stops to lick tiny circles on the inside of one thigh, then the other. I’m perfectly exposed and as she moves her head from one thigh to the other, her silky brown hair brushes against me. A chill rushes up my arms and back, the nerves in my pussy feel suddenly hyper-sensitive, searching and needi ng more contact. I’m wet and the air feels cool on my skin where moisture appears.
Melanie moves in deeper and brings her mouth to hover just an inch away from my clit. I can feel her breath warming the chill of a moment before . Her tongue starts licking outside, so light it’s almost a tickle. I’m gripping the sides of the table, here in this spa, this place of business, where I can hear women chatting with stylists in a room only feet away. On the floor above us, masseuses work deep tissue and for the first time I question all that goes on there. Melanie adds a little pressure to her tongue, but still hovers on the periphery of where my body begs to be touched. She’s t easing the climax out of me . There’s an ecstasy not just in her touch, but in her pace. Her rhythm is slow and deliberate, her every action telling me that there is no cause for rush or worry or apprehension. Then she move s her tongue inside me and up, sucking where her thumb massaged me moments before. The sight of a woman between my legs is unchartered territory for me, the thrill of a first roller coaster ride, or more appropriately, a first kiss.
“It’s okay,” she says again.
I exhale. This isn’t happening. For a thousand reasons, this isn’t happening. I’m married, we’re straight, we’re soccer moms, she’s my waxer , she’s my friend. But then she asks me a question and I’ve always been a horrible liar.
“Does that feel good?”
I can’t say yes, because what I need to do is stop this. Her thumb is still in place and my body is beginning to ache for more of her touch. The room is silent. She’s posed a question, waiting for my answer, and I can’t do anything but tell her the truth.
“Yes,” I whisper.
She moves her thumb in slow circles.
“Ye s,” I repeat. “That feels good. But we should stop.” There’s no conviction in my voice and I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be wavering in the situation. This isn’t me or us or allowed .
“Maybe we should stop,” she says softly, “but do you want to stop?”
“No,” I admit. “But…” I can’t think of what to say. Words and rational thought have been trumped by a sexual impulse I didn’t know I had.
Her right hand stays, her thumb moving diligently, rhythmically. With her left hand she strokes the inside of my thigh, slow and gentle. This hand moves up and starts to caress the freshly waxed lips of my vagina . Delicate fingertips trace up and down on either side of my cunt. It’s a soft tickle, the tingle of want mixed with vulnerability.
“Melanie,” I say. My eyes are closed now, my body conflicted. She hears this in my voice.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s just sex.” I open my eyes to look at her. She says it again. “It’s just sex.”
These words change the conflict in my mind, perhaps because I want them to. Suddenly I see the situation not in terms of right or wrong. Questions of loyalty, sexuality and appropriateness disappear, because Melanie’s hands on me are now nothing more than two people enjoying the simple act of touch. My head is light and I’m not sure if my thoughts have touched on truth or if I’m rationalizing the situation. It occurs to me that it doesn’t matter.
“It’s just sex,” she says again . With this repeated phrase I let myself go completely and open my legs wider for her. She takes a hand away and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s going to stop, but she repositions herself closer in to my body and lowers her head, first pausing in between my knees where she stops to lick tiny circles on the inside of one thigh, then the other. I’m perfectly exposed and as she moves her head from one thigh to the other, her silky brown hair brushes against me. A chill rushes up my arms and back, the nerves in my pussy feel suddenly hyper-sensitive, searching and needi ng more contact. I’m wet and the air feels cool on my skin where moisture appears.
Melanie moves in deeper and brings her mouth to hover just an inch away from my clit. I can feel her breath warming the chill of a moment before . Her tongue starts licking outside, so light it’s almost a tickle. I’m gripping the sides of the table, here in this spa, this place of business, where I can hear women chatting with stylists in a room only feet away. On the floor above us, masseuses work deep tissue and for the first time I question all that goes on there. Melanie adds a little pressure to her tongue, but still hovers on the periphery of where my body begs to be touched. She’s t easing the climax out of me . There’s an ecstasy not just in her touch, but in her pace. Her rhythm is slow and deliberate, her every action telling me that there is no cause for rush or worry or apprehension. Then she move s her tongue inside me and up, sucking where her thumb massaged me moments before. The sight of a woman between my legs is unchartered territory for me, the thrill of a first roller coaster ride, or more appropriately, a first kiss.
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