Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 HOT SHOWERS AND STRAWBERRIES January, 2001



   It had been a tough week, there on the third floor of "The Firm." They
often called it the "third floor dungeon," because it was there in their
offices that the shit invariably, and always eventually, hit the fan. 
Deadlines, uncooperative clients, staff shorthanded because of the
lingering winter flu season and John Keith, their boss, who could be a real
son of a bitch when the stress level got too high.  It had, in fact, been a
tough year, and Wendy Michaels and Peter Slate, co-managers of this latest
brou-ha-ha, were bone-tired and ready for a weekend as far away from
business and from each other as they could possibly get.

   Normally, Peter and Wendy worked well in tandem; the practicality and
logic of one sparked the imagination of the other.  They were a good team:
all business, sure, but they could be playful when it seemed necessary to
lighten the load.  Flirtatious, even, though it had never occurred to
either of them to pursue a relationship outside of the office.  Right now,
though, they couldn't stand the sight of one another.  There had been too
much acrimony, too much disagreement on fundamental principles, too many
angry words.  But the project was over finally, deemed a success by the
powers that be, with neither of them knowing or acknowledging who could
take the credit for it.  The tension between them had not gone unnoticed.

   John Keith was in a celebratory mood.  Wendy and Peter had each found an
announcement on their desks.

   "I've reserved a suite at the Towne Plaza.  A chance for everybody to
wind down.  Suite 822.  Be there at 5:30."

   Damn.  The last thing either one of them wanted to do was mingle with
clients over cocktails, make polite chatter, drink too much.  Their bodies
were physically weary from the stress, muscles aching as if they had played
too much handball or tennis when they were out of shape.  Wendy's feet were
killing her; Peter was fighting a low-grade cold.  The only thing they each
wanted at this moment, they muttered under their breath, was a good hot
shower and a long sleep.  It was the first thing they had agreed on for
weeks.

   They drove to the upscale hotel in their separate cars, each planning to
duck out at the earliest opportunity.  They found themselves headed for the
revolving doors at the same moment.

   "After you, my love." Peter's voice dripped with sarcasm.

   "You are too kind." Wendy could match him, icicle for icicle.

   Standing then in the lobby, Peter attempted a thaw.

   "Come on, Wendy, we're both exhausted and on edge.  Why don't you let me
buy you a drink before we go upstairs.  We sure as hell both need one."

   The cocktail lounge, wood-paneled, low-lit, soft music playing, exuded a
calm elegance.  There were no seats at the bar so they let themselves be
directed to a quiet booth.  They sank into upholstered comfort opposite
each other.  Peter ordered Irish whiskey for both of them.

   "I'd forgotten how posh this place is," Wendy sighed.  "I haven't been
here for ages.  I think I could sit here forever listening to that music,
sipping on this golden liquid at least 'till hunger got the better of me.
God, but my feet hurt!"

   "Put your foot up here." Peter motioned in the general direction of his
lap.

   "What?  Now what is going through that diabolical mind of yours?" Wendy
was immediately on her guard.

   "Don't argue.  Put your damn foot up here." His voice was not gentle.

   She didn't argue.  He reached under the table and slipped off her shoe,
supporting the weight of her foot in his hand.  He clamped his index finger
and thumb around her instep and pressed hard.  She sucked in air, and
started to say something.  He interrupted her.

   "Relax, damn it.  Close your eyes.  Take deep breaths."

   He moved his finger and thumb, then, in small circles, exerting pressure
over the instep, on to the tendons at her heel, up to her ankle, down to
her toes.  He continued with both hands, rubbing, probing, squeezing,
smoothing out the stress in her right foot.  She did not close her eyes but
watched the concentration on his face.  It surprised her that he could be
so gentle.

   He slipped her shoe back on to her foot.

   "The other one.  Let's have the other one."

   She lifted her left foot and he repeated the stroking.  Now her eyes
were closed and she had a small smile on her face.

   "The second foot is better than the first."

   It really was, she thought.  More of a caress than a massage.  She felt
her whole body relaxing, at the same time a warmth of unexpected desire
building.  She pulled her foot away, sat up straight, and opened her eyes.

   "Umm.  Thanks.  That was great.  You're very good.  You ought to go into
business." She hoped light chatter would dispel the surprising tingling
between her thighs.  "Maybe we ought to get upstairs to the party."

   They stood apart in the elevator going up to the eighth floor.  He
noticed, though, in a way he never had before, the curves of her body, how
the quick intake of her breath made her breasts rise and fall.  Nice
breasts, he thought.  Her lips were full, and she kept moistening them with
the tip of her tongue.  He could still feel the slimness of her foot in his
hand, and he fought an arousal.

   It seemed very quiet as they got off the elevator.  No one was in the
hallway except a bellman outside the door numbered 822.

   "Perhaps they've all gone and we've missed it," said Wendy.  "Oh, lord,
I hope so.  Then I can get home to that hot shower."

   Instead, the bellman opened the door to 822, stood aside, and motioned
with his eyes for them to go in.  The door closed quietly behind him as he
left.  The suite was a large one, richly appointed and no one else was
there.  They both concluded, immediately, that a mistake had been made.  It
was then they saw the roses, the iced champagne, the bowl of fresh
strawberries and the note.

   "We've stumbled into someone else's party, that's obvious," said Peter.
"Let's see if the note gives us any clue." He picked up the paper and read:

   "You two have been royal pains in the ass for weeks now.  With each
other and with everyone else as well.  It's a blooming wonder we pulled off
this project at all.  But we did, and it's thanks in no small part to your
skill and professionalism in spite of yourselves.  You are both too good
and too valuable to go on sniping at each other.  Hole yourselves up in the
comfort of Suite 822, drink as much champagne as you care to, do whatever
you need to do to be able to work together again without killing each
other; and don't come out of there until things are settled between you. 
Put room service on my tab.  See you Monday in better humor, I hope."

   Peter groaned.  "It's from that lousy bastard, John Keith.  Some kind of
a sick joke.  Well, I'm outta here.  Let's go, Wendy.  Wendy?"

   Wendy, while Peter was reading the note, had been exploring, touring the
rooms of the suite.  In addition to the sitting room with its comfortable
couches and, good grief--strawberries, was a bedroom with one of the
largest beds she had ever seen in her life.  Good heavens, she thought,
it's as large as some kind of a playing field.  She swallowed hard at her
own obscene mental suggestion.

   The bathroom was all marble and gold.  Glassed-in shower; sunken
whirlpool tub.  Mirrors everywhere.  Literally stacks of thick, thirsty
towels, expensive shampoos, razors and hairdryers, soft terrycloth robes on
oaken hangers.  The management or John Keith, damn him had thought of
everything.  She made a fast retreat back to the sitting room.

   Peter had opened the champagne and was pouring two glasses.

   "Might as well not let the good bubbly go to waste.  Here, drink up.  A
toast to the perverted sense of humor of our good boss.  I guess maybe,
Wendy, we should bury the hatchet, at least for now.  I'm sure we shall
live to fight again another day.  The sooner we can say we are friends
again, the quicker we can get out of here and home to the hot showers and
comfortable beds."

   Wendy, back from her tour of Suite 822's hot showers and comfortable
bed, downed a glass of champagne in a single swallow, shocked at the
pictures his words evoked.  What was going on here?

   "Uh...you know, Peter.  There is the most incredible shower and
tub...uh...right here.  Eight spray jets in the shower stall.  I've never
seen anything like it.  Whirlpool tub.  I couldn't count the number of
thick towels.  I don't know what your bathroom is like where you live, but
mine is nothing at all like this one.  John Keith is picking up the tab. 
Might as well taste a little luxury while we're here.  I can shower while
you stay out here and drink champagne...uh, you could call room service and
have them send up some sandwiches.  Then we could switch and you could
shower, while I settle the hunger pangs that are rumbling through me."

   He couldn't believe his ears.  This was a playful and adventurous, an
almost childlike and spontaneous, side to this woman he hadn't seen before.

   "I'm game," he said.  "You go first."

   Each of the shower jets had its own control.  She found she could adjust
the temperature and the angle and the pressure of each one.  She shed her
clothes and stepped into the spray.  She increased the temperature until
the hot needles of the jets turned her skin to a rosy glow.  She angled the
spray to hit her breasts and her sex.  Hot water streamed down her hair. 
She closed her eyes against the steam.

   His voice surprised her.  He had slid open the glass doors and was
watching her through the steam.  He was humming, growling a little, it
seemed, through the loudness of the water against her ears.  She opened her
eyes and saw that he had removed his own clothes.  He stepped into the
spray and pulled the shower doors closed behind him.

   "You forgot the soap.  I thought you might need it."

   She did not protest in false modesty, but she turned her back to him. 
He lathered her back as far as the crack of her ass, and stopped.  He
rubbed her shoulders and the back of her neck with the washcloth.  He
raised each of her arms over her head and soaped it from wrist to elbow to
underarm.  He lingered at her underarm and the curve of her breast.

   "Let me do you," she said quietly.

   They both turned and she soaped his back.  He seemed so much taller now
that he was naked.  Now that they both were naked.  She had to raise
herself up and lean against him to reach his shoulders and his neck.  Her
breasts brushed against his back and her nipples tightened and hardened. 
She reached around him and lathered his chest, but went no further.  He
turned the jets down to a gentle spray.

   "I didn't finish you," he said.

   They both turned again, her back to him once more.  He put down the
cloth and lathered his hands and moved them up the sides of her body from
her hips to her waist.  When he moved his hands around to her front and
pulled her body close to his, she felt his penis against her, erect and
hard.  The soapy hands lifted her breasts from below and cupped them,
feeling their weight with the water streaming down.  He swung her around
and kissed her.

   Their mouths explored one another, tongues tasted; he sucked her lips
and bit them.  They turned the jets higher and hotter.  They could not
press their bodies together close enough.  The soapy lather had long since
flowed away down the drain.  The hard spray hit their bodies, their faces,
their hair, from above, from every side, like a stinging fountain of jet
from below them.  Without knowing she was doing it, she cried out above the
roar of the water in her ears.  He turned off the jets, wrapped her in a
towel, and carried her to the bed.

   Peter dried her gently, exploring with the towel and with his hands
every inch of her water-softened body.  They had been under the spray so
long his fingertips were wrinkled.  She sucked them, bringing the blood
back to them.  He moved them down her body, wet with her saliva, pinched
and pulled at her nipples; and when the nipples were hard and extended long
and swollen, he took them into his mouth and suckled her.  His mouth did
not leave her breast, while his hands continued down her belly, and
reached, finally, between her legs, feeling the still damp pubic hair, the
warmth and swelling of her labia, the moisture of her arousal.

   As his head lay on her breast, she took the towel and dried his hair,
pushing his head slowly down her body until his lips found the hood of her
clitoris and his serpent-tongue flashed in excitement.  She moaned and
arched herself into his mouth and their terrible passion echoed the wild
jet spray and the steaming heat of the shower.  He entered her, then, his
cock driving hard against the magic of those inner spaces, feeling her
tight around him, their blood pulsing together as they rested between
strokes.  She bit and scratched and cried; he pulled her hair away from her
face and kissed her eyes.  They came together, with a great shudder.

   And then they laughed.  It started on each of their faces like a secret
smile, became a joyous giggle, and grew until it was a whoop of delight. 
They rolled in each other's arms and laughed until their insides ached.

   "That was some hot shower," he said, catching his breath.

   "We forgot to wash my hair.  I think we have to take another one," she
answered.

   "Oh no you don't, you little minx.  I'm the one who's hungry now, and
the only thing out there is a bowl of strawberries and some flat champagne.
Let's see what we can scare up."

   Fortunately, room service in four-star hotels is accommodating and
quick. They replenished their energy with shrimp cocktails and
porterhouses, foregoing the ham and cheese sandwiches since they were not
paying for the room.  They did not talk much, feeling suddenly shy, like
two people who have just met, getting acquainted with one another.  Their
bodies, though, in the loose, half-open robes were not shy.  She marveled
at the muscles of his chest and of his legs; she touched often the softness
of his resting penis.  He reached out while they ate to cup her breast in
his hand; and he watched the glistening drops of moisture on her pubic
hair. By the end of the meal, he was again totally aroused.

   "There's nothing for dessert except thee and me and strawberries.  Come
sit beside me on the sofa and I will feed you strawberries."

   He held one of the ripe red fruits to her lips and she slowly drew it
into her mouth with her tongue.  The juice ran down her chin and he licked
it off. She fed him, and he fed her again.  They tasted the berries in each
other's mouth with their tongues, and swallowed the nectar they found
there. She lay back against the pillows of the sofa and he crushed
strawberries between her breasts; then drank the red juice that flowed down
her belly.  Her nipples were stained red with berry juice and swollen from
his teeth and his lips.  The last fruits from the bowl of strawberries were
hidden deep inside her sex for him to find with his tongue.

   Faces, hair, breasts, bellies, fingers, cock and pudendum were all
sticky with berry juice.  There was nothing for it but to take another
shower.  This time they remembered the soap and the shampoo, and played
with the angles of the jets just so until they excited their sex
insistently.  He held her close against him, his jutting penis hard against
her ass cheeks, while he lathered and washed her hair.  She closed her eyes
and purred while his fingers massaged her scalp.  He knelt in front of her
so that she could wash his hair and pressed his face into her sex between
her legs and drank in her sweet, clean juices.

   He soaped her throat, her breasts, her belly, the lips of her vulva.  He
probed her sphincter with a soapy finger and she groaned.  She reached for
his testicles and soaped them and pushed back the foreskin and soaped his
penis.  The hot water rinsed the soap away and their skin glistened.  She
sank to her knees and took him in her mouth, thrilling at the taste of him.
He grew harder and larger as she sucked him.  He pulled her to her feet and
kissed her mouth.  The water from all eight jets pounded their bodies.

   He pushed her, then, against the wall of the corner of the shower stall,
raised her right leg so that her foot rested high on the recess for the
soap dish and angled the jet spray so that it hit directly on her clitoris.
Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed tight, her nails pushing into the
palms of her clenched hands.  When her body began to spasm with approaching
orgasm, he plunged his penis into her, lifting her off her feet and riding
his cock, with her legs wrapped around him.  It did not take him long to
come, so powerful was the intensity inside him.

   They dried each other with the thick towels, in a kind of slow motion,
suddenly sleepy and satiated.  The giant bed loomed, with down pillows and
a soft comforter.  They had had their hot showers; it was time now for a
long sleep.  They hung the "Do not disturb" sign on the door.