Authors: Madeline Moore
Then she knew that she could, and she knew that her sex lips had parted on their own, exposing their sensitive inner surfaces. She knew because those delicate internal membranes were being tickled.
Somehow, Sarah resisted the urge to hump up against her
tormentor
. Despite her attempts to control herself, her head whipped from side to side. Wet hair flailed her cheeks. She had to have been sweating. Sarah whimpered, pleading wordlessly for mercy, but to no avail.
Peter grunted. Sarah slitted her eyes. He was peeling the mink glove off.
How could he? Did he mean to leave her like that? That’d be too, too cruel.
He nudged her hip. Obediently, she rolled over again but with her head turned so that she could spy on him. He had a bottle of oil in his hands. Peter leant over her, pressing close enough that if he hadn’t been wearing that robe she could have got her mouth to his cock. She could taste its aroma, though, in the air. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but the torment he’d put her through had to have teased him almost as much as it had her.
Oil dribbled across her shoulders and in a line from her nape down to the base of her spine again. Strong fingers took hold of her trapezius muscles. Powerful thumbs pressed into her flesh, separating those muscles. They kneaded. Sarah sighed. She was still taut with lust, but those hands, working so artfully, were relaxing her. They moved lower, one to each shoulder blade, and somehow worked those flat bones in little circles. She sighed again. The knuckles of both of his hands pressed on each side of her spine.
It felt so good that he had to have had training in massage. Perhaps he was a therapist of some sort, or a chiropractor. Sarah suppressed a giggle. Women would give good money for what she was experiencing, and here she was, being paid to endure it.
The knuckles worked down, down to the pad of her tailbone. He poured more oil. Some of it trickled into the crease of her bum. Was he going to touch her there now? She’d been thinking about that sort of thing, ever since James and Daphne, but she hadn’t made up her mind if she was ready to be touched in that taboo place.
A hand encompassed each cheek of her bottom. They
kneaded
. Pressing down firmly, they rotated, moving her buttocks independently. As they moved, they were squeezed together and then pulled wide apart. Sarah felt herself blush. When her bottom was spread, her anus was exposed. He’d be looking at it! No one had ever inspected her there.
His hands moved on, to her relief. Peter worked the long muscles in the backs of her thighs, passed on to her calves and then, this time, he paid attention to the soles of her feet. Strong probing thumbs separated tiny bones, working between them. It was absolute bliss. It occurred to Sarah that the first massage Peter had given her was aimed at awakening her skin. Now he was stimulating her at a much deeper level, inside and between her muscles. It felt as if his fingers were investigating her very bones.
Peter took hold of the baby toe of her left foot and tugged it. She felt a ‘crack’ but it was too soft to hear. He passed on to the next toe and so on, each tiny digit getting its own dose of therapy. Although Sarah’s sex was still in a state of arousal, the rest of her body, and her mind, were lulled into a dreamy torpor.
But his touch on her hip awakened her. Roll over? Those clever hands were going to manipulate the front of her body? Would he …? She decided that yes, he would, but she’d have to wait for that. Impatiently. Fuck! Sarah really needed to be touched there, in that intimate place that so far he’d only threatened to fondle. Or promised?
Peter anointed her body again, a drizzled cross that drew a line from nipple to nipple, from the hollow of her throat down to her mound – and beyond. Oil dribbled onto her swollen outer lips and trickled between them.
She was going to be massaged there! But when? Soon? Please, soon.
His fingertips came to rest on her collarbones. The heels of his hands pressed lightly down on the upper slopes of her breasts. He rotated. The movements wobbled her breasts. His touch became firmer. Peter’s fingers moved a little lower and manipulated her pectoral muscles, making her very aware that
they
were her breasts’ support. By ignoring those parts of her breasts that men doted on the most, her nipples, he was demonstrating his complete mastery over them, and her.
He was in control. She was being controlled. That thought was simultaneously relaxing and exciting.
His massage wandered down her sides. Once more she squirmed when he reached her waist but he didn’t linger there. He compressed the fleshiest parts of her hips, palpitating, and moved lower, when she really wanted him to pay attention to her sex. The large muscles of her thighs were pliant under his firm ministrations. It was a contradiction in a way: he was making her very aware that those muscles were strong but at the same time soothing them so completely that they felt like jelly.
Peter moved her kneecaps. That felt weird, but not at all unpleasant. The fingertips of both of his hands pressed against the insides of her knees, not massaging now, just urging them further apart.
At last!
Sarah whimpered, to encourage him, and spread her thighs wide. From her knees down her legs dangled over the sides of the table. Inside, she twitched with nervous thrills. She’d endured the longest and most elaborate foreplay she could imagine and was so fucking ready to be fingered that she could have screamed.
He was standing at the far end of the table, pouring oil over his own hands. With a movement so sudden that it made her flinch, he reached up the table at her, took her behind her knees and dragged her down towards him. More oil was poured, directly onto her sex now, onto and into it. She could feel the oil trickling into her intimate crevices and secret depths.
Peter came round to her side again. His hands lifted high to shake his sleeves back to his elbows. He inspected his own hands, fronts and backs.
In her head, Sarah screeched, Get on with it!
There was a sly little grin on his face as he reached over her.
Peter
did that little ‘hovering over’ that was so maddening. Sarah couldn’t help it. Her hips rolled slightly. Her back arched. The long muscles in her thighs knotted and relaxed. Her belly clenched.
One hand descended and came to a gentle rest, its heel on the base of her pubic mound, its fingers cupping her sex. His thumb and little finger moved, pressing down on her outer lips, tugging them further apart. Three fingers curled under, and into, her.
Hell! They didn’t have to push or probe. Her pussy had to have been gaping wide, waiting. Fingers dabbled in the softness of her sex’s vestibule. The heel of his hand pressed down and rotated.
It was on her clit, her bare, engorged, exposed clit. Thank Christ!
Inside her, the fingers curled up behind her pubic bone. There, they explored. They came to rest on the area she’d read about in a magazine, her G-spot. There’d been some debate over whether it really existed and if it did, did all women have them.
Whatever ‘all’ women had, she certainly had one, though no one had ever touched hers before now. Fingertips palpitated. Their pressure became firmer, more insistent. It was as if he were trying to make something happen.
Sarah gasped. Something
was
happening. The insides of her sex, its walls, were oozing.
Peter chuckled softly.
It was a cliché but he really was playing her body like a musical instrument. He was a maestro. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was surrender, just feel, just let him have his way with her. With a long sigh, she went limp.
The hand that had taken possession of her sex pressed and rotated, rolling her clit under its heel while three fingers coaxed her fluids to flow. His thumb seemed to be stroking her labia and one finger, his smallest, see-sawed between the cheeks of her bottom. Its tip stroked her bum hole. Before now, she’d have clenched and jerked at that contact, but given the
state
she was in, she had no emotional responses. She simply absorbed sensations. There were no rights or wrongs apart from ‘feel good’ or ‘feel bad’. Nothing he’d done had felt bad. If his little finger had pushed up into her rectum, she’d have accepted it. He didn’t. All the oily pad of his finger did was circle her sphincter. It felt nice but those sensations were minor compared to the divine thrills that the fingers inside her and his stroking thumb and the palm pressing on her clit were giving her.
But he’d oiled both of his hands, and he was only using one.
Sarah let her head flop to the side and her eyelids part a fraction. So, that was why. Peter’s free hand was inside his robe. By the movements of his elbow, he was masturbating.
She’d enjoy watching but it was hard to concentrate because the heel of his other hand pressed down harder, pushing her clit against her pubic bone. She’d never in her life been handled like this. Not even Jack had shown such incredible ability, even when using two hands. Peter was done playing now, she was sure of it. His hand beneath his robe was pumping, but it was the hand inside her, the fingers and thumb that pressed and rubbed and stroked and plunged, moving ever faster, that she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. She was held down by the force of his hand on her clit as surely as if she were bound to the table.
‘Oh God, Peter, you’re good, you’re so good …’ She was starting to rave now, the words tumbling from her mouth as the sensations piled on top of each other. Each thrust of his fingers made her ache for the next. Each stroke of his thumb made her labia swell. Her clit was thick beneath his palm, her head was thick with words and her groin was thick with boiling blood that had to, had to be released.
He grunted, once, and bore down harder. Sarah yipped. Her entire body folded up around his arm like an elapsed-time film of a closing flower. The release was complete. Sarah could do nothing but hump and judder and yip until the paroxysms ceased and she lay limp on the wet mink.
Wet?
Peter cleaned his hands on a small towel and handed her a big one. She wiped the oil off her body and sat up. Yes, the mink beneath her was soaked. She dabbed between her legs. Also wet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘Silly,’ he said. ‘You ejaculated.’
‘Oh.’
He fetched her dress for her. She climbed off the massage table onto trembling legs.
‘That was nice,’ he said. He barely looked at her. He was captivated by the wet fur. His hands twitched above it. ‘There’s something for you on the table by the door.’
Sarah picked up the generous tip on her way out. As she closed the door, she caught a glimpse of him climbing up onto the massage table. He stretched out face-down on the wet fur with a sigh and closed his eyes.
Another satisfied client for Sarah Meadows. She headed for the elevators with a jaunty spring in her step.
7
PROFESSOR BRAUN WROTE
furiously on the second of three blackboards at the front of the classroom. Many of the students attempted to keep up, but not Sarah. She’d figured out his
modus operandi
. He was teaching them existentialism by example. Long before even the keenest of her classmates had managed to copy his scribbling, he’d run out of blackboard space, erase everything and start over.
They’d been through this before. Every moment in his classroom was meaningless torture, but since the only requirement for a pass was perfect attendance, not showing up was not an option.
On the one hand, she hated him and his arrogant teaching approach. On the other, she had to hand it to him. How better to teach the ‘futility of life’ than this?
Penny slid into the vacant desk beside her. She’d been in many of Sarah’s classes over the past three years but they’d rarely talked, until lately. For some reason, perhaps because of Sarah’s new style, she’d become one of the gang in a way she never had before.
It hadn’t bothered her, she didn’t think. Or had it? She’d always been a loner. But it was fun, much more fun than she’d have imagined, having a give and take sort of friendship with the other students.
‘Hi,’ said Penny. She jerked her head towards Professor Braun. ‘Back at it, I see.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Suckers,’ muttered Penny, glancing at the bent heads of the keeners. ‘None of it makes any sense. Have you noticed?’
‘Yep,’ Sarah replied.
‘Some of us are hitting the pub night tonight. Wanna come? Thirty-five cent chicken wings.’
Sarah’s reflexive response would have been to beg off, but she hesitated. Her best friend through her school days had been Alice, another bright, odd-girl-out type who was now studying archaeology at Luxor University. Their communication was limited to emails and occasional phone calls.
Sarah had always been content with one friend, and once she’d come to university David had filled that spot quite nicely. Now, however, she avoided him as much as she could.
Since she kept her escort work for weekends and only acted as a tour guide Saturday mornings she was free to play the part of the student tonight. She almost laughed out loud. It wasn’t, after all, a ‘part’, not the way ‘voyeur’ or ‘nurse’ was. It was what she was.
‘Jeez,’ said Penny. ‘It’s an invitation to the bar, not a question about the meaning of life.’
‘Yes to the bar,’ whispered Sarah. ‘And, since you obviously haven’t been paying attention to Professor Brain: life, my child, is meaningless.’ She jotted in her notebook. There might be something worth investigation in her musings about the roles she played. All the world’s a stage, Shakespeare wrote, and all the men and women merely players … What, one might ask, does it mean?
That evening, Christopher shouted, ‘You got to drink lager, mon.’ He was West Indian, slender and fine-boned, the colour of quality toffee.
‘OK! If it means that much to you, I’ll drink lager.’ Sarah held her hands up in mock surrender. When she put them down, she let her arm rest on the table, a hair’s breadth from his. The contrast in the colour of their hands was fascinating.
‘A lager for the lady and one for me,’ called Christopher. He seemed to have only one volume level, although in the noisy students’ union pub it made sense.