I was not relaxed when I left the spa. I was in need of a massive dildo or rabbit vibrator STAT.
Only I didn’t own either of those things. I’m a traditionalist.
No, I’m cheap, but I’m also a little repressed.
Anyway, I headed home in a funk.
I pieced together a load of colored clothes. I even threw in two towels to make it a medium load. Then I grabbed a book. I dumped everything in, putting more on one side to ensure better vibration, but didn’t start it.
You need a glass of Merlot, Swan.
I grabbed one and set it on the dryer. Then I pulled the little knob and started reading the latest lit-porn I’d picked up in my monthly trip to the second-hand bookstore. I skipped the boring back story and scanned the second hundred pages for key words that signaled the kind of scene I needed.
His hands ghosted along her sides, firmly gripping when he reached her hips…
I took a sip and started reading. The washer had another five minutes before the first spin, and I needed to get good and wet.
Only, the man in the book was described as having dark wavy hair. I turned the book over and looked at the picture on the cover.
Yep, long dark wavy hair.
I turned back and mentally replaced each “dark” word with something coppery and each “blue” eyes reference to “clear green.”
I heard the cycle click to wash, so I spread my legs and leaned forward a little.
His hand reached the apex of my thighs and stroked between my wet folds.
I steadied myself with one hand, while I grinded against the now warm metal top of the washer.
I stayed away from the edge because one time, I thought I could get better friction if I worked the corner…but it didn’t work. I couldn’t hang on and I couldn’t jump off; so I scraaaaaaaped off, like melted cheese on bread. I had to walk around with a sore pussy for a week.
Anyway, the washer was doing its thing and I was doing mine, sprawled out in an ungainly fashion, but getting what I needed. The book was helping, but eventually, I had to throw it down and get myself off.
I closed my eyes.
I was in the spa, getting a clitoral massage by a professional.
Edward is stroking my clit with a firm tongue, slowly…no, really fast and then rubbing me with my—his—fingers.
I’m so wet that his hands are slipping and sliding all over the place, and then he moves them in a circular motion, teasing me a little, his head buried between my thighs and I look down, and he’s looking up at me, and I can see a smile in his eyes, and then he—
No, that wasn’t right.
I opened one eye, trying like hell not to lose the vision of him between my legs. I looked behind me (still just one eye) and saw…
The fucking washer was on pause.
I opened both eyes and slid around so I could fully assess the situation.
Fuck me…with a hand blender.
I had put it on gentle cycle.
I rolled my eyes and popped off the machine.
“Shower head it is!” I said to myself and my Merlot.
I called Heidi the Spa Receptionist on Monday and asked her if she had any other openings on my usual Friday, because I had another appointment at my usual time.
This was a lie.
“And don’t just look at Edward. In fact, he’s probably overwhelmed with adding Jessica’s workload, so just look at the others, and don’t worry about him.”
Of course, like any nosy bitch, she just had to ask if there was something wrong with Edward.
“Um, no, I’m just, you know, keeping my options open.”
Keeping your options open? What the fuck is this? Dating?
“Oh, OK. Well, let. Me. See…” I heard clicking, pausing, more clicking, what sounded like acrylic nails tapping a desk and more clicking.
Finally, she said, “I have a nine a.m. with Sylvia, but she really doesn’t like for me to give her clients for the first slot of the day…and it’s only a 30 minute slot.
“Oh! But she’s got an opening for two p.m. the following Friday!”
Hm. What happens when I see Edward there?
He’s going to think you are avoiding him because that’s exactly what you’re doing, my sinister self smugly said.
“Nah, just forget it. Just cancel, and I’ll call when my um…Fridays free up again.”