Lovers

"Don't move," Cleo says.

Valerie's heart beats wildly as she imagines what she looks like bent over like this with her ass naked. A gasp comes out of her throat as she feels Cleo tickling her anus.

"Cleo, please . . . "

"I said don't move."

They've done this on other occasions and by now Valerie is used to it. Cleo's games. Valerie hears Cleo open the medicine cabinet, and a moment later she feels something cool on her anus, a lubricant jelly, always effective enough so that when Cleo pushes a finger inside her Valerie can take it without difficulty.

"My thumb," Cleo says with a soft laugh, the digit now wriggling in Valerie's rectum as Cleo's forefinger and middle finger slide effortlessly inside Valerie's wet vagina. "There, I've got you," Cleo says, her three fingers hooked inside Valerie two openings as if to hold a bowling ball. "Go on, move it, honey. Show Cleo how that ass can move."

Valerie loves it. She groans, the intense excitement producing a raging fire in her belly, a fire only augmented by the desperate embarrassment she feels, the awareness of her complete surrender to Cleo's will.

She moves her ass. Cleo taunted her during the ride home by telling her how they would do it, how Valerie would move her ass against Cleo's fingers, and now here they are making it real, Valerie humping her ass against Cleo's firm hand in order to fuck herself on Cleo's invading fingers. Valerie groans and grunts, desperately seeking an orgasm, arching her back as she thrusts her ass and cunt at Cleo's fingers. Cleo laughs as Valerie finally comes, as Valerie cries out and shakes her hips from side to side.

Her fingers remaining embedded in Valerie's two canals, Cleo says: "Good, baby? Come on, clamp down a little more and finish it."

Valerie is always amazed at the way Cleo understands everything about her body and the way it works and what brings the most pleasure when they fuck. She clamps her two holes on Cleo's fingers, groaning as she feels another squirt of bliss in her cunt. Cleo then slowly withdraws her fingers and she makes Valerie drop her dress and turn around. Cleo says Valerie ought to drop the skirt and just wear the stockings and heels. "You know how much I like looking at your legs," Cleo says.

Valerie is without a garter belt because the stockings have elastic tops. "What about my blouse?"

Cleo kisses her. "You can leave it on." And then she adds: "I've invited someone to join us and she ought to be here soon."

Valerie is stunned. "Someone to join us?"

Cleo chuckles, her hand stroking Valerie's cheek. "Don't worry, doll, it just makes things better for us. Her name is Susan and she likes doing whatever she's told. Won't that be fun?"

Still dazed by the news that someone is about to join them, Valerie follows Cleo out of the bathroom and into the living room. There Cleo reminds Valerie about her skirt, and with trembling fingers, Valerie unzips her skirt, drops it and steps out of it. The blouse she wears isn't long enough to cover her sex, which puffs out in a dark thicket at the joining of her thighs. Cleo smiles with approval and she makes Valerie do a turn to show her ass above the tops of the stockings. "You're delicious," Cleo says. "The shoes are new, aren't they?"

Valerie nods. Yes, the shoes are new, bought the day before on Oak Street because she had a date with Cleo and she knew Cleo would like them. Cleo does like them, and Valerie is happy that she's pleased her lover.

At that moment the front doorbell rings, and Cleo walks off to answer. When Cleo returns, she has Susan with her, Susan the tall college girl with dark blonde hair and a sultry beauty that Valerie immediately finds threatening.

"This is Susan," Cleo says, her eyes amused as she introduces them to each other.

Of course Susan's eyes are wide as she takes in Valerie's getup, the blouse and the stockings and heels and the exposed cunt. Susan wears long silver earrings and heels and a dress that Cleo wants removed at once. "Take it off," Cleo says, waving her hand at Susan in a way that makes Valerie understand that Susan is accustomed to taking such orders from Cleo.

Susan undresses without a word, unbuttoning her dress and then pulling it off her body with a single smooth movement. Under the dress, she wears only a white garter belt to hold up her stockings. Her pussy is shaved, the mound bald and shining, the upper part of her slit just visible between the plump outer lips.

"What do you think of her?" Cleo says to Valerie.

"She's beautiful," Valerie says.

Cleo laughs. "Oh, she's beautiful, all right. And she's also hot. Beautiful and hot." Cleo beckons to Susan, and when the girl comes forward, Cleo slides a hand between Susan's thighs to finger her bald cunt. When she pulls the fingers away, they glisten with Susan's juices, and with a laugh Cleo lifts her hand to Susan's mouth and she makes Susan lick her fingers clean. "See that? Do you see how hot she is?"

* * *

In the bedroom, Cleo lies in the center of the bed with Susan and Valerie on each side of her and Cleo's arms around their shoulders. Susan lies on Cleo's right and Valerie on Cleo's left. Valerie has removed her blouse, but she still wears her stockings and heels. Susan wears what she wore in the living room, the white garter belt, beige stockings and dainty Italian pumps. Cleo has removed most of her clothes and she now wears only a white teeshirt.

The window shade is down, the room in gray shadows, the bodies on the bed almost indistinct. From the stereo in the living room, comes the voice of Carey Wilson singing a plaintive love song.

Cleo now pushes at Susan's head, and Susan obediently slides her body downward on the bed, downward until Cleo is able to lift her right leg and hook her knee over Susan's shoulder. After shifting her body again, Susan gets her face between Cleo's open thighs and she begins sucking Cleo's cunt.

Cleo murmurs something, or is it merely a chuckle of happiness? She grips Valerie's shoulder more firmly, pulling Valerie toward her and kissing Valerie's mouth. Valerie moans against Cleo's lips. Then Cleo releases Valerie, and again Valerie gazes down to watch Susan as she eats Cleo's cunt.

Susan's eyes are closed, her nose buried in Cleo's blonde bush, her face sliding from side to side as she uses her mouth to massage Cleo's sex.

Valerie feels an intense excitement as she watches it. Susan is obviously hungry, her eyes closed, her mouth sucking ravenously at Cleo's upward tilted cunt. Does Cleo love Susan? Valerie realizes how jealous she is. She has such an enormous desire to please Cleo, and here she is watching another girl with her face between Cleo's legs. She wonders about Susan, wonders why Susan is so submissive. So far she and Susan have said hardly more than a few words to each other.

Cleo makes Susan stop what she's doing. She pushes Susan away with her foot and she tells Valerie to get over her. She wants Valerie straddling her on all fours so she can get at Valerie's hanging breasts. Valerie does it, groaning as Cleo takes her dangling breasts in her hands, then shuddering with delight as Cleo orders Susan to get behind Valerie and do her ass. "Rim her," Cleo orders, and the next moment Valerie squeals with happiness as she feels Susan's face pressing against her ass and Susan's tongue licking at her anus.

* * *

The afternoon light has faded completely, and in Cleo's bedroom a small lamp is now lit. The three women are still on the bed, but Cleo is now lying on her right side while both Valerie and Susan lie with their heads toward Cleo's feet. Susan lies behind Cleo with her face pushing between Cleo's buttocks. Valerie is on the other side, her mouth occupied with Cleo's cunt while Susan pays homage to Cleo's ass.

Muttering softly, Cleo slowly moves her loins backward and forward against the two mouths.

Valerie adores it. She loves the heady nectar flowing out of Cleo's cunt. At intervals her forehead touches Susan's forehead, making Valerie more aware of Susan's presence, Susan's tongue so close at the other opening, the sucking sounds made by Susan's lips.

But Valerie is also afraid. She's afraid Cleo will make her as submissive as Susan, make her a body slave like sweet Susan. Is it possible? Valerie shudders as she listens to the sucking sounds made by Susan's lips.

EIGHT: FRANKIE

At three o'clock in the afternoon in a large downtown auditorium, the Illinois Bar Association gathers to honor one of its own. Frankie arrives early and she decides to take a seat up front. She hopes maybe sitting near the dais will force her to keep her eyes open. These gatherings of attorneys are a professional necessity, but always so insufferably boring. Is there anything more boring than a pontificating attorney?

Gradually, the seats in the auditorium begin to be occupied, blue and gray suits worn by both the men and the women, an occasional flamboyant sport jacket adorning a flamboyant trial lawyer. As the noise in the room increases, Frankie opens the New York Times to read about the latest Wall Street scandal. She hopes the paper will screen her from old law school acquaintances she has no desire to meet again.

When the meeting begins, Frankie puts the newspaper away and she listens to a succession of speakers reviewing significant local events in the legal profession. Frankie takes notes because she likes to have a record of who talked about what at these meetings. The high point of the afternoon is the bestowing of a career award on an old teacher of Frankie's, Judge Elwood Beale. Frankie has little interest even in this event, except that when Judge Beale is called to the dais, he is assisted by a stunning young blonde whose beauty and grace produce a quickening of Frankie's pulse.

Who is she? Frankie finds the young woman an incitement to lust, fantasy, a sharp quivering in her belly. Is she so sexually bereft that she needs to respond like this to any attractive female? No, this one is something special, a rarity, tall, long- boned, a perfect face with high cheekbones, a wide mouth painted a light pink. The blonde is ravishing, a delight for the eyes. She assists Judge Beale to the podium, and then she sits on a nearby chair as if to watch over him. Who is she? Frankie only half listens to the judge's words as he begins speaking in a slow hoarse voice. Her attention is instead fixed on the blonde, on the blonde's face, her classic beige dress, the lines of her lovely legs in beige hose, the delicate shoes with modest heels. She's past thirty but not more than thirty-five, a blooming young woman with an appearance of an intense vitality. And as Frankie stares at her, the young woman finally turns her head to look at Frankie. Not a glance, but a look, a long look, a meeting of the eyes, a contact both electric and definite.

Oh yes, Frankie thinks. She has a sudden desire to throw herself on the dais and find the blonde's cunt with her mouth. Oh yes indeed.

The judge speaks only briefly, graciously accepting the award with an amusing story about his youth in law school. When he finishes, the attorneys in the audience applaud with gusto, happy one of their own has been honored, happy the dull meeting is at last finished. Frankie immediately leaves her seat and she goes to the dais to greet her old teacher.

Judge Beale doesn't recognize her at first, and then his eyes turn wide and bright and he says: "Ah, Frances Hooper, how are you?"

Frankie chats with the old judge, and before long the judge turns to the blonde young woman. "Alison, meet Frances Hooper, one of my best students. Frances, this is my daughter."

Frankie's mission is accomplished, the introduction achieved. The blonde's name is Alison and she's the judge's daughter. How marvelous.

"Hooper?" the blonde says. "I know a tennis coach named Sally Hooper."

"A distant cousin."

The blonde smiles. "How nice."

More talk. Frankie helps Alison get the old judge off the dais. Other attorneys are approaching now, the judge shaking hands, nodding at old friends.

Frankie looks at Alison and asks if Alison is an attorney.

"Oh no," Alison says. "I was a bad girl and I avoided law school. I'm in advertising."

She runs a small agency specializing in fashion. Frankie is impressed, more interested than ever, almost quivering with a need to know her better.

But before long it's time to leave, and sanity requires a polite exit.

"Well, goodby," Frankie says.

Alison smiles. "Thanks for helping me with Dad."

* * *

An hour later Frankie sits in her office in a state of distraction. She can't think of anything but the blonde, the judge's daughter, the blonde Alison Beale. Behind Frankie, the law books catch the light of the dying western sun. Her desk is huge, uncluttered because she hates a cluttered desk. The two large windows overlook the western part of the city, the sprawling avenues that go on and on to the far horizon. On most afternoons she enjoys watching the sun make its descent, the orange sky, the first lights of the city twinkling in the dusk. But this afternoon all she thinks about is Alison Beale.

At last, with a sigh, Frankie reaches for the phone book on the shelf behind her and she flips the pages to find the Beales. Beale and Beale and Beale. And finally Alison Beale and two listed phone numbers, one residential and the other a downtown office. Frankie calls the office number, and she feels a wave of happiness when she's put through immediately to Alison Beale.

"I thought we might have lunch sometime," Frankie says.

And on the other end of the line, Alison Beale says yes, she'd like that, she'd like that very much.

They agree on a day and a place, and when Frankie puts the phone down she looks at the instrument as if to recognize for the first time what a definite miracle it is.

Alison Beale will have lunch with her in a few days.

Frankie quivers, a sudden heat rising in her belly, a sudden uncontrolled passion for a woman hardly met and hardly known. Not known at all, really. Is it merely a woman she wants? Is that it? Giddy with her success at connecting with Alison, Frankie abruptly decides on a lark. Yes, why not? Oh my yes, she thinks, what a lovely idea.

* * *

It's almost five o'clock when Frankie enters the lobby of the North Michigan Avenue hotel. Valerie has already been notified not to expect Frankie home until eight or nine, and the hotel has already been contacted to provide a room for the evening. And so when Frankie approaches the desk and gives her name, the arrangements require no more than five minutes, and after that she has her key and a pleasant smile from the desk clerk as he says, "Have a nice stay, Ms. Hooper."

Upstairs in the room, Frankie calls down to order a bottle of chilled Chablis, and then she makes another call to a number outside the hotel, holding a credit card in her hand as she speaks softly into the telephone with her eyes on the window looking north along the busy boulevard. In a few moments the phone is down again, and Frankie sighs as she lies back on the bed thinking well, it's done, so stop worrying about whether you ought to do it because you've already done it. What she feels now is a marvelous tingling anticipation. She tells herself this is one way, at least, not to think about Alison Beale.

The wine arrives. After the hotel porter leaves, Frankie draws the drapes across the window and she pours herself a glass of cool Chablis. She feels good now, much much better. More settled. The anticipation is still there, the boiling under the surface, but she has the lid on enough to keep her mind clear.

Time passes. As she finishes the second glass of wine, someone knocks on the door.

Frankie goes to the door and opens it, and there stands a thin blonde in a red dress, a string of Italian beads around her neck, a large leather shoulder bag, charcoal stockings and black heels.

The girl smiles at Frankie. "Hi, I'm Carol."

Frankie holds the door open as the girl walks past her and into the room. After Frankie closes and locks the door, she follows the girl and says: "Would you like some wine?"

"Sure, thanks."

Frankie pours the wine as the girl drops her purse on one of the chairs near the window. As she hands the glass to the girl, Frankie says, "I'm glad you could make it so quickly."

The girl smiles. "I never lose any time when they tell me it's a woman."

Frankie chuckles. As she sips the wine, she looks the blonde over from head to toe. "You're very attractive," Frankie says.

The girl smiles again, sits on one of the two easy chairs and crosses her long legs. "What would you like me to call you?"

"Frankie."

"Hi, Frankie. Gee, this wine is good. I'm glad it's wine and not something stronger. Sometimes I just drink too much."

"That's not good for you."

"I guess not. Would you like me to get more comfortable? You just tell me what you want. Suppose I take my dress off."

Frankie nods. "All right, go on and do that."

Apparently happy, the blonde puts her wine glass on the table beside her chair and she rises. She weaves her hips from side to side as she begins unbuttoning the row of small white buttons down the front of her dress. "I can tell we're going to have a good time," the girl says.

"How can you tell?"

"Just instinct, I guess. I just look at you and I know it. Sometimes I get these phony old bitches and they're so dull. They don't know what they want or if they want it or whatever. Am I talking too much? Just tell me and I'll stop."

"No, it's all right."

But Frankie has no interest in the blonde's account of her experiences. She watches the girl as she slips out of the red dress. Carol now shows a red lace bra and panty set, and a red lace garter belt with long straps to hold up her charcoal stockings. The girl does a turn to exhibit her body, and when she faces Frankie again she giggles as she casually cups her crotch with her hand.

"Getting undressed for a woman always turns me on." Then Carol sits down again, crosses her legs and lifts her wine glass, sips her wine and then uncrosses her legs and leaves them open. Her crotch is revealed, still covered by the panties, but the plumpness of the mound evident.

Frankie's need is to be gruff, to emphasize the imbalance. She's paying for it, isn't she? If she wanted a romantic interlude, false as it might be, she could easily find one in a girl-bar. No, this is something different, an amusement requiring no commitment. And all because of Alison Beale, because if it hadn't been for that blonde Alison the little demons in Frankie's head would never have been allowed their voice.

"Show me the tits," Frankie says.

Carol blushes, aware that Frankie is suddenly the butch she appears to be in the first place. After placing her wine glass on the table, Carol unsnaps the front of the skimpy bra and she gets rid of it completely. She pulls her shoulders back to emphasize her small breasts, but she has hardly enough there to make a display. This annoys Frankie, who would rather have a girl with breasts than a girl without breasts, but then of course it's her own fault for not asking for it on the telephone.

Maybe Carol is aware of it. With an artful attempt to compensate by deliberately calling attention to herself, Carol takes her pinkish nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and she pulls them outward. "I'm not very big in the tit department." Then she slides a hand between her legs, her fingers tugging at the crotch of her panties, and she gives Frankie a coy look. "Should I take these off?"

Frankie takes in the offering. Carol's fingers have pulled enough of the panty-crotch aside to reveal part of her sex, almost all of the left outer lip, puffy, hairless, and definitely more interesting than her breasts.