("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
               K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
	      _________________________________________
		             WARNING!
	      This text file contains sexually explicit
	      material. If you do not wish to read this
	      type of literature, or you are under age,
	      PLEASE CLOSE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
	      _________________________________________



     	             Scroll down to view text














--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------

The Inn
by Mike Logan (paladin_svcs@yahoo.com)

***

A man and a woman spend a weekend at a New England bed 
and breakfast and find that the innkeeper has an 
interest in them both. (MFF, bi, mast, swing)

***

I. How They Found the Inn

It was a clear and bitingly frosty night in the early 
days of autumn. He lay on his back atop the hill 
watching the stars. The Milky Way split the dome of the 
dark blue sky in half. The moon was new, rendering the 
heavens especially vivid. Once in a while, a meteor 
streaked across the sky, a speck of dust or pebble done 
with its ride through space, blazing silently through 
the Earth's atmosphere on its self-destructive path to 
extermination.

He felt like one of those meteors that night. Once 
again, an evening with blazing erotic promise had ended 
in an unspectacular fizzle and disappointing burn out. 
What was wrong? Was it a physical problem? Had he 
fallen out of love and tumbled out of passion? Was he 
tired? Maybe, he posited more analytically, the idea of 
leaving the big city to open this damned bed and 
breakfast together was the slayer of their passion. 
Each day ended in fatigue, frayed nerves and, 
inevitably a polar bedtime. The bottom line was that 
his cock had betrayed him for the eighth time in less 
than a month.

Maybe, he reasoned to himself, once the place was 
established, then it would be as they'd hoped it would. 
Bliss. Wendy had left the governor's office, sick to 
death about writing lies for a hopeless sleazeball and 
a salary nearing six digits. Greg had left the joys of 
managing La Maison d'Alouette and filling in for its 
drunken sot of a cook, Jean-Pierre, whenever the 
Frenchman felt like polishing off a case of the 
restaurant's pinot noire. 

They'd been together as a couple for a few months more 
than a year, growing closer and closer to commitment as 
they each wandered in disillusion further and further 
from their respective careers. 

One lovely weekend in October, they decided to leave 
the city and their onerous occupations behind for a 
long Columbus Day weekend in New England. The foliage 
was at its glorious peak. Armed with a paperback guide 
to bed and breakfasts, they packed leftovers from the 
restaurant and headed north. God! The sexual tension on 
that trip north. They listened to romantic tunes and 
kept the car warm running the heater on low. Once they 
entered Connecticut, they couldn't keep their hands off 
of one another. 

At one point, not far from the Maine border, Wendy, all 
giggles, put her feet up on the dashboard and taunted 
Greg with a view of her shaved pussy. She didn't seem 
to care that truck drivers were vying for position, 
trying to get a look at the erotic sight. It was 
probably because Wendy kept her eyes on the growing 
bulge and spreading stain of wetness in Greg's crotch 
that she paid them no mind at all. But Greg noticed. He 
left the interstate and swerved onto a local highway. 
"A little jealous, are we?" Wendy taunted. 

"Well, yeah. Sure I am, but this is our turnoff, " he 
replied with a little bit of a blush. 

"Good. You must think I'm a slut. You don't find me a 
turnoff, do you?"

"Shit, no! But I'm glad these seats are treated cause I 
might pop at any minute."

"If the sight of my pussy is making you so hot, what do 
you think would happen if I put a few fingers inside?" 

"I think anyone else on the road would be in grave 
danger and uh I ... uh ... think you'd have to lick up 
the mess you caused." She'd hoped for but hadn't quite 
expected that answer. She looked at him. Was he 
serious? The thought of making him cum by putting on a 
show for him turned her on more than a little and she 
could feel her juices trickling steadily down her thigh 
and ass cheek. She reached under her denim jumper and, 
making sure he was watching, teased her clit. 

With her left hand, she darted a finger inside slowly 
and to the first knuckle, then deeper until her index 
finger was completely buried. She withdrew her finger 
and seductively placed it in her mouth, sucking her 
nectar gently from the digit. God was she ever wet. 
She'd come soon, she knew, if she kept this up. Greg, 
who had been stealing not-too-furtive glances at Wendy 
while watching his odometer, would have come soon as 
well with but a mere touch of the woman (or himself).

"There it is! Better close up shop," he shouted. At the 
entrance to the property, a painted wooden sign 
announced that they'd reached the bed and breakfast. 
Even from the dirt road, it was a lovely place, 
overlooking a quiet, dark pond. A huge old colonial, it 
had been booked up weeks in advance. The only reason 
they'd gotten a room at all was only because of the 
death of one of the establishment's "regulars." 

Columbus Day weekend in New England is a hot ticket, 
with country fairs and fall foliage at their peaks and 
they'd all but resigned themselves to staying in some 
seedy motel on the interstate. This place was a bit 
pricey, even for them, but they were grateful that they 
wouldn't have to sleep on lumpy mattresses while being 
serenaded by the roar of trucks all night long. 
Besides, the guide they'd brought with them gave Sandy 
Shores four out of five stars, so it was a price they'd 
gladly paid.

They'd each carried a small suitcase as the gravel 
driveway crunched beneath their feet, competing with 
the silence of the forest and pond and an occasional 
crow's squawk. From a bay window, the owner, a forty-
something widow watched them. The innkeeper, Mrs. 
Lattimer, was a tall, slender, attractive lady in a 
tweedy kind of way. She wore her long and thick dark 
hair in a French braid and was quite a contrast with 
the short, slim-hipped athletic-looking blonde woman 
walking up the path. 

Mrs. Lattimer was so stricken by the appearance of the 
woman that she'd not noticed the man. When at last she 
did, her heart rose up into her mouth. He could have 
been a twin of Jack, her late husband, with his broad 
shoulders and dark intense face. She smiled as she 
noticed the dark blotch in the man's chinos. That was 
like Jack also. How she missed that big fat cock of 
his!

Wendy rapped the iron lion's head knocker twice, joking 
to Greg that she hoped that Marley's ghost would not 
appear. Greg laughed lamely at her literary joke and 
Emily Lattimer opened the door.

"You must be the New York couple," she stated 
smilingly, extending her hand to Wendy, who grasped it, 
noticing immediately the hand's smooth warmth. Mrs. 
Lattimer was obviously a woman who took care of her 
body. Momentarily, she fretted that she'd held onto the 
innkeeper's hand for too long. 

Was it her imagination, or had the woman and she been 
looking into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Wendy 
could not deny the eroticism of the moment. Nor, for 
that matter could Greg, who had his hand extended for 
the innkeeper to shake. She shook his hand and abruptly 
let go of it, almost as though the hand she'd taken 
into her own was a hot iron poker. Yes. The resemblance 
to the late Mr. Lattimer was shocking.

They signed in, presented their plastic, and were shown 
to their room that, they were told, was the finest one 
the inn had to offer. Sandy Shores was a trove of 
antiques. It smelled of rich, maple wood smoke, as each 
room had its own woodstove along with a supply of split 
and seasoned wood to keep away the cold of autumn New 
England nights. The floors were dark, polished oak, 
affixed to the foundation with dowels. The wide wooden 
boards were covered here and there with oriental rugs 
of deep claret color and intricate design. 

To offset the dark of the wooden floors, the walls were 
papered in a bright yet subdued, beige and gray-striped 
pattern and punctuated by lighted brass wall sconces. 
In all, both Wendy and Greg felt transported to a day 
and age so far removed from the rumble and chaos of 
their complicated lives that they could, with each 
step, each feel their stress shedding off and floating 
into oblivion. 

Their room was all that the guidebook had advertised to 
be. In actuality, it was a suite rather than a single 
room and was composed of a full bathroom, dressing and 
sitting area and the bed/living area. A large bay 
window looked out onto the dark lake that already was 
carpeted with a flotilla of gold and scarlet leaves. A 
fire was already lighted in the woodstove, which had a 
glass window through which they could see the fire 
flicking and throbbing within. 

The stove was directly opposite a queen-sized four-
poster and, upon seeing it, both Greg and Wendy got 
their respective mental fantasy machines going. On 
either side of the bed and in front of it were 
luxurious oriental rugs. The three were, for all 
intents and purposes, a matched set. To the right of 
the bed was a long dresser, on top of which, affixed to 
the wall, was an ornate, gilded mirror.

As she showed the couple their lodgings for the long 
weekend, Emily Lattimer informed them that that mirror 
had supposedly belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte at one 
time and that it had been her husband's prized 
possession. 

He'd bought it at an estate auction and he'd installed 
it there himself. Greg and Wendy exchanged glances. 
Each, by the knowing look they exchanged, knew that the 
other was thinking, "I'll bet he put it there himself 
and I'll bet the two of them really enjoyed having it 
there. And I'll bet we'll enjoy having it there, too." 
She showed them the dressing room with the chaise 
lounge and vanity and the bathroom with its brass 
fixtures, its huge, claw foot tub and black marble 
floor. "Just like my apartment, " Greg joked, "minus 
the roaches, of course." 

Emily withdrew a velvet-covered menu from the 
nightstand, told them the hours dinner would be served 
and, wishing them a good stay, she left.

As soon at the innkeeper left, they kissed and wandered 
over to the window. It was after four in the afternoon 
and they had been driving since nine in the morning. 
Their fatigue suddenly caught up with them and Greg 
yawned. The yawn finished, he put his arms tightly 
around Wendy and, feeling his love pass into his arms, 
he stroked her hair and pulled her closer. Wendy 
snickered, then giggled and then began to laugh. This 
was not the reaction he'd hoped for. "What the hell's 
so funny?" he demanded. 

"You didn't notice?"

"Notice? Notice what? That the two of you were turned 
on to each other like cats in heat? That?"

"Well, yeah, that. But you didn't notice she was 
looking at you the whole time she was showing us around 
the room?" 

"No. I thought she was like looking at the floor for 
dustbunnies or something." 

"Really? Come look in the mirror and I'll show you what 
she was looking at, my big, horny hunk of a guy." They 
walked over to the mirror. The four-inch diameter wet 
mark in the groin of his Dockers was unmistakable. 
"That is what she was staring at. Either you are 
incontinent or..."

"Ohhh shit. I am embarrassed!!!"

Through the mirror, from inside her apartment/office, 
Emily Larrimer smiled. This might be a fun weekend 
after all.


II. Acquaintances

They napped soundly. When they awoke, their stomachs 
growling in a duet of hunger, they discovered that 
they'd slept through dinner. It was now dark outside 
and, as Wendy stumbled in the dark to the bathroom to 
pee, she noticed that the fire in the woodstove was 
nearly out. The room was chilly and she had goosebumps 
coursing up and down her body. 

The stove, set upon a pink granite slab sat in front of 
what was once the fireplace. Greg's trusty digital 
watch sat on top of its marble mantle. Wendy reached 
for it as she made her way to the bathroom, thumbing 
the bar that turned the face bright green as she 
walked. 8:40. They had slept for more than four hours. 
She made her way to the toilet and thought about this 
place and about Greg as she peed. 

It felt good here. It felt right being here with Greg. 
She pondered these two feelings, especially the latter 
on her way to the bathroom. What was it, though, about 
the guy that turned her on so much? She'd never dreamed 
she'd ever shave her pussy, much less masturbate in a 
car on an interstate highway. With him, she could do 
anything and say anything sexual and it was not only 
welcomed, it was desired. 

The only downside she could think of was the 9 pounds 
she'd put on since they met the result of his 
incredible cooking. Greg was definitely like no one 
she'd ever met. He was at once passionate, creative, 
supportive and cuddly. He was also more than a little 
perverse in bed. "What would it be like to live in a 
place like this?" She wondered. Then she expanded that 
thought to, "What would it be like to live in a place 
like this with Greg?"

"Hon," Greg started, appearing suddenly and startling 
her out of her reverie, "what do you think it would be 
like running a B&B like this together, you and me; away 
from the hustle and bustle. Just the two of us." She 
sat there open mouthed, saying nothing as she continued 
to pee.

"You okay?"

For reasons she could not then explain, she squelched 
the temptation to tell him that she'd at just that 
moment had the exact same thought. It scared her a 
little. No, she admitted to herself. It scared her a 
lot. She looked at him.

He saw her expression changed and stammered, "Hey, 
look, it's not a proposal or anything. Well, I guess it 
is kind of a proposal but not a marriage proposal. Kind 
of a business proposal but more than that. Am I making 
any sense?"

She wiped, flushed and, as she was washing her hands, 
looking at him all naked and eager looking at her 
lovingly at her from behind, she answered. "It's an 
interesting idea, but first things first. I can't think 
right on an empty stomach. What's the plan?" 

"Well, how's this? I think there's a little bit of the 
mushroom souffl‚ and the duck still in the cooler. If 
we could manage to rustle up a few plates from the 
kitchen and then start up that woodstove again, I bet 
we could warm it up on top of the stove. I bet that 
cider we picked up on the way up is nice and cold from 
sitting in the car. Take your choice, build the fire, 
fetch the food or listen to our bellies growl all 
night."

"I'll take option number two, thank you. Building a 
fire is a guy thing and belly growling is definitely 
not in the cards."

He took his turn peeing and heard her pull on her 
ubiquitous sweatsuit and leave for the car. 

It was bitingly cold and crystal clear. The air was 
redolent with pine forest and a hint of salt from the 
ocean that was more than ten miles to the east. She 
could see her breath as it's moist warmth contacted the 
frigid air and she could feel her nipples harden 
beneath her sweatshirt. The walk to the parking lot was 
further than she thought. 

Her nipples were so tight and hard that they ached. 
Through the fleece fabric, she rubbed them, recalling 
earlier in the day when she'd put on her exhibition in 
the car for Greg. Man, they'd ached then, too. What she 
wouldn't have given for Greg to suck on them, to lick 
them with his warm lips, mouth and tongue. She knew 
what dessert would be.

Wendy opened the trunk of the car and pulled out the 
cooler and the plastic gallon jug of cider. The cold 
air had kept it nice and chilled. She locked the car 
and started back to the inn. Although the moon was only 
half full, she could see her surroundings with little 
eyestrain. The door to the inn opened. In the light of 
the moon, she saw the innkeeper briefly backlit by the 
lights inside. She wore a bulky white fisherman's 
sweater and white tights. 

Wendy flashed back to their handshake this afternoon. A 
chill shivered its way crookedly up her spine. Only 
once in her life had she been so turned on by another 
woman. That was what? Eight years ago? Back in college. 
As she walked toward the figure in the door, she 
remembered.

Her roommate's younger sister Lindy had come to visit 
and spent the weekend. Bitch that her roommate Connie 
was, she went out on a date and left her visiting 
sister with Wendy. She was between relationships at the 
time and Wendy had resigned herself to a weekend of 
homework and television. Lindy, who was a senior in 
high school, suggested that they get out, so they went 
to a movie, had coffee afterward, window-shopped and 
came back to the room. 

To this day, Wendy had no idea how it happened, but no 
sooner had they closed the door to the dorm room than 
they were in each other's arms hugging and then 
kissing. These were open-mouthed, wet, tongueful 
kisses. They stroked each other's hair and fondled each 
other's asses. Then the doorknob turned and bitchy big 
sister entered, more than a little drunk. And that was 
that. 

During the night, though, Lindy lay on the floor in her 
sleeping bag between the two beds. During the night, 
they held hands and each masturbated out of 
frustration. Both came quickly and in frustrating 
silence. They didn't dare do more. 

The next day, Wendy woke up to find both women gone. 
She found a note on her dresser from her new lover. 
Nothing like that had ever happened to Wendy. Nor, 
according to the letter, to Lindy either. "Please, 
please call me. We have to finish what we started." She 
had left an address and a phone number. 

Out of fear or shame, Wendy never used either, but for 
a long time, when she masturbated, she'd think about 
that night and about what almost was. And now, today, 
that touch. This woman. She was almost angry that these 
feelings of raw eroticism were now taking center stage, 
keeping her from the equally erotic events she'd had 
planned for her and Greg. 

"Good evening. You missed a great dinner. Beef 
Wellington, lobster bisque, whipped garlic and sage 
potato pie..." Mrs. Lattimer was standing in the 
doorway.

"I, uh, know," Wendy stuttered. "We were tired. 
Overslept. I was just getting some food from the car."

"I know. I saw you leave. I haven't slept well at night 
since ... Well, since I've been alone."

Suddenly Wendy realized that this woman had to have 
seen her massage her nipples as she walked in the cold 
to the car. She blushed. As if reading her mind, the 
innkeeper continued, "cold, huh?" Yup. She'd seen her 
all right. Wendy shivered, though not from the cold. "I 
have some leftovers if you like. You don't have to wolf 
down sandwiches." 

"Uh. Not sandwiches. Greg is a, uh, chef. He manages 
this French restaurant in the city but he's a uh 
trained chef. We have some good stuff here, too," she 
smiled, a little too brightly. "Why don't you ask him 
if he'd like to have a pot luck. I can open up the 
kitchen and, to tell you the truth, I really didn't eat 
much tonight and I always like to sample other people's 
cooking. But of course, if you have other plans..."

Suddenly, Wendy remembered those other plans. 
Nonetheless, they'd need to get into the kitchen and 
get the dishes anyway. What the hell? "I'll go ask 
Greg," she offered. 

"You do that. I'll turn on the oven," the innkeeper 
offered. "Damn," Wendy thought to herself, "this woman 
is either sure of herself or lonely or..." 

She opened the door to the room. Already the fire in 
the woodstove was blazing. Greg was standing nude in 
front of the bay window, looking out at the stars and 
moonlight reflected into the lake. She just loved that 
ass of his. He'd heard her enter. "You've got to see 
this," he stated excitedly. She put the jug of cider 
and the cooler down, went to him and put her arms 
around his chest, pressing her breasts into his back, 
resting her face on the side of his shoulder. She 
sighed. "It's beautiful. And you are gorgeous." 

"I've never seen so many stars."

"I know."

"And look. There's a halo around the moon. Know what 
that means?"

"Good luck?"

"No, woman. It means it's probably going to rain."

"You mean all those beautiful leaves are going to be 
gone?"

"Well, maybe, if it's a nor'easter, but it's going to 
be a real comfy, cozy weekend and we won't even feel 
like leaving our bed for anything but food."

"Speaking of which..." and she told him about Emily's 
offer.

"Mmmm. I love Beef Wellington. Is that what you want to 
do? I mean we could be real comfy in here and zee chef 
'as nevair let you down, no?"

"I'm okay either way," she said in an air of seeming 
nonchalance. 

"Well," he said, "if we're going to be cooped up here 
for the weekend, we might as well see what kind of fare 
we have in store for us."

"That's kind of what I was thinking."

The dining room was designed with family-style eating 
in mind. Its centerpiece was a long, mahogany table 
that could seat about ten. Three place settings were 
already set at one end of the table. 

Their hostess had not only begun to cook; she'd changed 
from her previous attire to a much more casual chenille 
robe. She'd also loosened her hair from its braid and 
let it hang down in a ponytail. "Had she worked this 
fast or had she planned ahead?" Wendy wondered. The 
smell of good food was already in the air when they 
arrived.

"Greg, let me show you where everything is so you can 
warm your food. I can hardly wait. Wendy tells me you 
are a chef. "

Greg smiled. "Not usually. Usually I manage the 
restaurant, but we have this cook..." and here he went 
on to tell the story of his frustration with Jean-
Pierre. She showed him into the kitchen and gave him a 
tour, noting no stain in the crotch of his navy sweats, 
but a decided bulge indicating a lack of undergarments 
and a nice-sized cock. This time, Greg noted the visual 
attention their hostess was paying to him and his cock 
jumped a bit. Back to the task at hand, he began to 
warm his food as Emily left to join Wendy.

As the pots and pans clattered in the kitchen, Emily 
poured three glasses of red wine into healthy-sized 
crystal goblets. Emily raised her glass for a toast. 
"To love, health and laughter. Nothing else counts." 
The two women clicked glasses as Greg puttered in the 
kitchen. As they did so, Wendy noted the freckling on 
the tops of Emily's breasts. 

The robe had parted a bit and, although they talked 
about politics, about life in the big city, about the 
tragic and too early death of Mr. Larrimer and about 
the running of a bed and breakfast, it was all a 
facade. When Emily shifted her position, Wendy would 
catch a hint of pink areola. When Wendy's hand would 
leave the table, Emily would catch her breath at the 
thought that there was a hand rubbing a clit through 
those gray sweats. Each noticed the flush on the other.

At one point, Wendy, her hand on the table beside her 
plate, said something about the stress of being a woman 
in a high powered job. Emily covered her hand with her 
own, telling her she knew what Wendy meant because 
before opening Sandy Shores, she'd been an attorney for 
a large corporation. Emily caressed Wendy's hand as she 
told her how wonderful it was just walk out.

"Is it hard running a place like this?" Wendy asked, 
changing the subject and withdrawing her hand. 

"Sometimes. This is our busiest time. Fall. Isn't it 
glorious? We're full now, but spring is mud season and 
it's hard to get people to come and times get very 
lean. It's almost the same with winter. It would be 
different if we were nearer to skiing. To get the 
winter people, we've started offering discounts, cross-
country skiing, ice-skating and rides in horse-drawn 
sleighs. 

It's made a difference, but we still struggle. 
Especially when we get big snows. Then, come summer, 
we're booked again. It's the ocean. Only eleven miles 
from here. They're drawn to it like lemmings." With 
that, her elbow brushed against her now empty goblet, 
sending it crashing to the floor. 

"Damn. And then there's maintaining the place." Wendy 
moved to help clean up the glass. "No. You wait there. 
I've got this great hand-held vacuum," Which she pulled 
from a breakfront and plugged in. She bent over to 
clean up the mess, picking up the larger pieces with a 
cloth napkin while vacuuming the rest. Now she was 
certain. Wendy could see a pink areola. Two of them, in 
fact. Each areola was at the crest of a smallish, 
apple-shaped dome and each surrounded a thick, longish 
pink nipple. 

"Dinner... is... served," Greg announced. I hope buffet 
style is okay. I've ... Oh. I thought I heard something 
break." By the look on his face, Wendy knew that he'd 
seen what she'd just seen. "I've set it all up on the 
island in the kitchen. The Wellington looks wonderful. 
Just pink enough." Had Wendy seen what he'd seen? How 
could she not have?

They served themselves. Emily, as she was accustomed, 
sat at the head of the table. They ate well. The cooks 
complimented the other on their respective products. 
They drank more wine and drank hot cider in mugs with 
cinnamon sticks as stirrers. Somewhere near the end of 
the meal, Wendy began to feel the buzz of the wine and 
then she felt a hand, Emily's hand, on her thigh, all 
concealed by the long burgundy tablecloth covering the 
table. They talked about the hospitality business as 
Wendy, taking the initiative, placed her own hand on 
Emily's thigh. The robe had parted. Her fingers found 
warm, smooth flesh.

The thighs parted. Emily continued to talk as though at 
a chamber of commerce meeting as Wendy's trembling hand 
inched higher and higher up the limb. Pretending to 
slouch in the chair in comfort, Emily issued an 
invitation to her secret lover. Wendy accepted 
gratefully. She could feel the slick sheen on Emily's 
thigh and she was till four or five inches away from 
its source. Now Wendy slouched as well. Emily 
maintained her conversation with Greg who, noticing a 
change in his lover's coloring, attributed it to the 
wine. Wendy never had more than two glasses of wine in 
a night. She'd already had four.

At last. Wendy found her hair tickled by the hairs of 
this strange and, edging forward, encountered the warm, 
soft wetness of the woman's lips. A slight change in 
finger position and her index finger encountered the 
finger of the hostess already engaged with her clit. 
Wendy said something inane about feeling an outsider 
listening to the two of them talking about industrial 
stoves and refrigeration and, while saying so, inched 
her finger into the woman's pussy. It was hot and 
inviting. Densely humid. She felt her own pussy leaking 
and, looking down, noticed a growing circle of dark 
gray moisture at the juncture of the legs of the 
sweats. 

Her whole finger was inside the other woman's pussy 
now. Was it her imagination or could she smell that 
fecundity now. Emily's or her own? The thighs closed 
suddenly and tightly around her hand and, masking her 
orgasm with a yawn, Emily came, startling Wendy with a 
stream of liquid that soaked her past her wrist.

"God. I'm tired," Emily declared after her loud 'yawn.' 
Why don't the two of you just head on to bed and I'll 
feed the dishwasher tomorrow before I start breakfast. 
With that, Emily knocked her mug of cider into her lap. 
"Talk about klutzes. Aren't we a pair? I think we'll 
take you up on your offer. Let me just clean up before 
it stains. I'll be right back, Greg. We'll get the 
cooler in the morning." She went into the kitchen and 
couldn't help herself. As the water ran, it only took 
several strokes of her clit before she came. 

III. Like Mackerels

As she slid her pewter Mercedes sports coupe into the 
one remaining guest parking space, Mrs. DuPont took in 
the old-fashioned, romantic charm of this country B&B. 
She wished it was earlier in the day, she could vaguely 
make out a well-manicured garden of shrubs, some still 
holding leaves of red or holly-green. She slipped on 
her red fox wrap and picked up her soft-sided leather 
overnight bag along with the matching shoulder bag that 
held all her necessaries, stepped delicately from the 
car and set the alarm on. 

She could not resist a further look at the garden and 
made her way gingerly to what looked like the entry 
point. There were two ornate white iron benches 
flanking the way. She set her bags down and stepped 
into what now, on closer inspection, appeared to be a 
walking maze of bushes trimmed to about 6 feet tall. 

The exhaustion of the drive from the Cape slipped from 
her as her curiosity and delight peaked. There were 
footlights every 10 feet or so, just enough to enable 
her to pick her way through in the growing darkness. 
Despite her careful lifestyle, she could not resist 
such an artful treat, even if her best judgment told 
her to head inn-side and register. 

She heard rustling of leaves, and jumped, startled by 
an overly friendly tabby Tom now wrapping himself 
around her calves, his tail tickling between her 
thighs, further up. Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke to 
her, the nearness of the voice, highlighting her 
vulnerability out here in the darkness and privacy of 
the maze. 

"Ma'am, you might come on inside, now. We need to make 
repairs to the little bridge you'd come to near the 
center, and it's treacherous at night... both dark and 
slippery." 

"Oh, of course, thanks for the warning," she barely 
whispered, still startled and wondering how the cat and 
the woman got so close so quickly and so quietly. "I'm 
Rochelle DuPont. Are you the gardener?" 

"Oh no, " the young woman said, "I help Mrs. L. when 
she needs me in the kitchen and I help with 
housekeeping too, but only on weekends. I'm still in 
school during the week." The redhead's frown made it 
clear she was no one's star pupil at school. 

Rochelle thanked the girl for her timely advice. They 
walked together to the front porch, the girl carrying 
the larger of the two leather bags for Mrs. DuPont. On 
the last riser, the door opened as if on cue, and a 
woman who was obviously in charge, stepped out to 
welcome her guest. "Mrs. DuPont, how wonderful to see 
you. Your suite is ready. Welcome back." Rochelle, 
accepted a warm embrace from her old friend, and the 
women smiled softly to each other.

A huge fire blazed in the dining room hearth, and a 
trio of black and white dogs peered at the threesome 
coming in, not sufficiently interested to move from the 
warmth and the red rug. They were beautiful, Rochelle 
thought, canines in a heap like rag dolls temporarily 
forgotten by an untidy little mistress. She had a deep 
love for such randomly esthetic moments created by 
chaos, and she reflected on the apparent orderliness of 
her life. One needed a certain amount of regularity and 
structure to function well in this world. 

In her world, where the rich work and work at play, 
form was paramount and The Rules were worshipped as 
intensely as any god. And while she was generally able 
to swim with the rest of the well-dressed mackerels, 
there were times she knew she had better absent herself 
to avoid becoming a Disruption. 

Unlike many of her peers, she still appreciated having 
the where-with-all to get away for a long weekend to 
obey her own instincts. She was a good team player, but 
she never could identify with the team the way the 
others did, and therefore, did not derive as much 
pleasure from simply fitting in as she might have. 

"Your fire will need rekindling, now, Ma'am." said the 
freckled girl, innocently offering to add a few more 
logs to the dwindling fire. Mrs. Lattimer and Rochelle 
exchanged quick looks of surprise and delight. The 
suite was as magnificent as Rochelle remembered. Her 
country getaway, she had to laugh to herself, was every 
bit as luxurious as her regular haunts. The difference 
here was that one could never guess the inclinations of 
the other guests. 

In the light of one hurricane style oil lamp and the 
quieting fire in the hearth, Rochelle took in the room. 
The four poster bed, wider than it was long, draped in 
a lofting white comforter and chiffon netting, beckoned 
to the Rochelle. A single yellow rose rested on a soft 
mound of goose down pillows. Next to the hearth, where 
the girl was carefully placing aromatic splits of 
hardwood was a small, intricately carved table holding 
a crystal decanter and three goblets. She smiled to 
herself again, remembering the last visit, and charmed 
that Mrs. L. took such care of her. 

With that, she glanced warmly at Mrs. L., complimenting 
the room and said to the girl, "that fire will do 
nicely, thank you, young Miss." Rochelle paused, then 
added, "do please fetch the small kennel from 
passenger's seat. You'll need to twist the key twice to 
disable the alarm," handing a small set of keys to the 
girl. "If you're unsure..." she started to say but Mrs. 
L. piped in offering to retrieve the kennel herself. 

Rochelle noticed another of those randomly and 
transcendently beautiful moments. The girl was back lit 
by the now blazing fire creating an aura of hot copper. 
When she passed the brightly glinting keys to the older 
woman it was as if she was transferring some mystical 
feminine energy. The receiving hand of Mrs. L. warmed 
by the images of the fire, girl, and keys, glowed 
warmly as she smiled gently at Rochelle. "I'll be back 
momentarily," the young redhead told her.

Both women left the room, the younger one shutting the 
door softly. Rochelle slid out of her shoes, padded 
along the thick carpeting, poured herself a short 
snifter of brandy, and proceeded to the bathroom. 
Lighting a fat white candle, she was welcomed home by 
the deliciously enormous claw foot tub. 

She set her drink on the marble ledge and ran her hand 
along the cool enamel of the tub. Pure white terry bath 
blankets were stacked nearby and a long white robe hung 
on a porcelain hook. The room was elegantly dressed in 
black and white, reminding her briefly of the dogs, 
with a checkered floor of large tiles and white walls 
trimmed with double rows of narrow black tiles at the 
level of the oversized sink. The only nod to color in 
here sat gracefully next to her goblet on the marble 
mantel, a large bouquet of her favorite yellow flowers, 
the thorny stems revealed by the tall clear vase.

Rochelle overheard a small commotion downstairs as the 
kennel was hurried past the dogs in formal wear. She 
went to the door, opened it and stood waiting for her 
beloved. At the far end of the great hall, she watched 
the familiar head rise like a dark sun over the rich 
maroon Oriental carpeting, and watched as the tiny 
vinyl and mesh pet carrier emerged into view. 

Mrs. L. carried her precious load in both arms, like 
one would carry a small child and told Rochelle that 
she had let the little one out to "tend to business" by 
the garden, and that she should be set for the evening 
now. Thanking her, Rochelle, accepted the small burden 
from Mrs. L., touching her hands softly as she spoke. 
"I'll be retiring in about an hour, Emily," she said 
and stepped back into the room, pushing the door shut 
with her bare foot.

Rochelle set the carrier on the bed, and unzipped the 
screen, reaching in and lifting out her girl. Amanda, a 
five pound Yorkshire Terrier, was a Lady's lady, her 
long silky hair pulled into a topknot of chestnut brown 
and black with escaping wisps demurely covering one 
eye. Those large, soft brown eyes gazed into her 
mistress' face. 

In place of a collar, Amanda wore a gold bracelet that 
was inscribed with a phone number and the simple word, 
"reward", as if there would be any doubt of 
compensation for returning this little girl. The tiny 
fox face wore an alert and gentle expression, her 
muzzle opening in a Yorkie smile revealing tiny white 
baroque pearl teeth and a clean ultra-pink tongue. With 
two quick licks to the nose, Amanda greeted Rochelle. 

"Good kisses, Manny, you're my good girl." At that, 
Amanda brightened and returned the affection by licking 
the hands that held her. "Let's get you undressed, 
girl," Rochelle said as she unzipped Amanda's pink 
fleece warm-up jacket, adding, "oh, you are a beeee-
yoo-tiful child." Amanda shook out her silky tresses 
and stood before her mistress, who then lifted her and 
headed for the bathroom. 

Rochelle fluffed a white towel and set it next to her 
drink and the roses on the mantel, which was wide 
enough to comfortably accommodate the small dog. Amanda 
settled quietly into place, watching every move her 
mistress made. Rochelle set out a few towels for 
herself. She started the water running into the deep 
tub, adjusting the temperature, and undressed quickly, 
silk falling from her hips and shoulders like a soft 
rain. She was formed elegantly and white as porcelain. 

Before even an inch of water had accumulated, Mrs. 
DuPont stepped into the tub, feeling the barely warmed 
water around her ankles. The candlelight licked her 
skin. She slowly sat, letting her delicate parts test 
the water. "Perrrfect," she said to Amanda, as she 
inched closer to the front of the tub, lifting her legs 
to hang over the porcelain lip. With a quick rocking of 
her hips, she positioned herself under the water, 
regulating the flow to be full, but soft, and which she 
knew would lap her gently and untiringly. 

The water flowed between her thighs, nearly cool, 
kissing her labia and sliding between her inner lips to 
lick her clitoris. The sensation was delicious, and 
Rochelle leaned back onto her elbows, letting her head 
roll back and exposing her long white neck. She rocked 
her hips to direct the water to lick her growing bud 
from side to side. When she tipped her hips toward the 
ceiling, the water traced a course over her clit and 
along the sensitive skin to her vagina, gently filling 
that loving cup and spilling over onto her ass.

 The depth of water in the tub was still shallow, and 
it's relative coolness next to her growing heat made 
her ecstatic as it rose slowly up her ticklish sides. 
She rocked forward, opening her legs wider and 
directing the stream over her clit and sat still, 
nearly breathless with pleasure. The smallest motion 
would redirect the stream, but wherever it fell, it was 
delicious. 

As her excitement grew, and the tingling around her 
clit signaled orgasm, she tried to hold completely 
still, letting the natural variation of the water 
flowing on her clit and lips and vagina and ass drive 
her to the brink. The water level was getting higher 
around her body, and definitely cool, and her 
unrelenting liquid lover licked and pushed and seeped 
into her and flowed out of her. 

Her pleasure zone was submerged now; the cool stream 
was even softer, gliding over her engorged and super 
sensitive clitoris like silk. She was paralyzed with 
pleasure, hyper aroused, and aware of the movement of 
every drop of her chaotic lover's liquid sliding and 
probing. 

Close to orgasm, she rocked her hips, spreading the 
fluid kisses over every part of her pussy, and feeling 
the pool around her responding with its own rhythm, 
quick tides lapping against and into her holes. Her 
cool watery nymph was everywhere at once, completely 
submerging her in pleasure. 

As the water rose to touch her nipples, she began to 
come, slowly, effortlessly, completely filled and then 
wrung with pleasure, until every bit of her was 
cleansed by her orgasm. 

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 30