“Don’t waste much time, do you, sailor?” Ambera moved her butt provocatively, and Kael slapped it with a cupped hand. A pink welt appeared. She splashed a bit of lake water on it, not sure if it would soothe or sting.
“Not one hot minute, baby.” Kael then kissed where she had slapped. She wondered if Ambera’s ass entrance was a darker rose, and how tight. She longed to lie full length next to her, slowly pushing her thumb up Ambera’s butthole, without lube, while the rest of her hand briskly rubbed Ambera’s sweet cunt and clit to completion. But they were in the water, shakily maneuvering on a raft losing air, and if not for Kael’s swimming prowess, might be drowning by now.
Staying afloat using a modified frog kick, Kael got back to the business of stroking Ambera’s mons, finally parting the curtains and finding Ambera’s clit, hard as a jewel. She teased the nub, observing the writhe and roll of Ambera’s body, listening to her rich moans of pleasure.
Soon, Ambera’s voice thick and husky, requested it. “Inside. Please.”
Sinking the raft deeper with her body weight, Kael guided her middle finger into Ambera’s snug pussy. How excellent the warmth of the sweet, moist cave compared to the coolish temperature of Lake Travis. Kael slowly pulled out to the threshold, circled and then drove two fingers in with more force. Ambera bucked and shuddered. Getting owned. Kael pushed in and out of Ambera’s fine cunt, picking up the pace, then slowing in dream-like rhythm.
“Ain’t I master of this ship?” Kael wasn’t really expecting an answer. The answer came from Ambera’s moans, the pink-painted fingernails of one hand digging into the side of her float, the other hand at her cunt, wildly massaging her clitoris. The beer bottle rocked precariously in its holder as Ambera’s velvety ass bumped the raft gently, causing rings to fan out over the lake’s surface.
Kael filled her lungs with air and paused for a moment. Ten months ago, she’d lain in a single bed, nauseous as hell, bald, vaguely aware of the cadre of friends attending to her. And here she was, relatively buff, hair thick and now silver, with an inviting woman, afloat in her favorite element. Small, simple miracles turning the day.
Kael swam to the side of Ambera’s float and opened her lips with her tongue. There was great pleasure in kissing and caressing her face with watery fingers. Ambera answered with kisses that were submissive, yet returned with a nuanced heat. Her lips sought, then took up Kael’s thumb. Ambera sucked deeply. Kael immediately felt radiating heat in her root chakra, hardly cooled by the tepid lake.
Ambera slowly removed Kael’s thumb from her hot mouth and began moving it down her torso to her mons.
“I’ve got a thing for thumbs,” she whispered into Kael’s ear while spreading her well-shaped legs. Kael dearly hoped there wasn’t some ass-hat with a camera on shore, ready to scurry home and post their tryst on some porn site. This was the stuff of universal fantasy, and they were creating it. Kael was drawn back into the moment by Ambera’s murmur.
“Fill me up, merman. You know you can.” Ambera shifted onto her back, raised her hips slightly off the raft and began fiddling her clitoris. Kael, gaining purchase on the side of the raft deliberately pushed her thickish thumb into Ambera’s sweet tunnel, the rest of her powerful fingers angled tightly against her anus. Treading vigorously, she managed to continue their kiss. Both sets of Ambera’s lips opened and closed with each thumb thrust.
After a novel’s worth of steady strokes, Ambera tightened her asscheeks, gathered the raft with both hands, and heaved, letting out several musical sighs.
Sated, she gave Kael a smile, and drank a bit of her over-warmed beer. “And how about you, sweet merman… or are you stone?” While she wasn’t exactly stone, Kael was wearing a tight one-piece and frankly, not ready to expose her mastectomy scars to Ambera or anyone else on the planet. Not yet. And she wasn’t sure if ever.
With no answer forthcoming, eyes steady on Kael, Ambera lay back and relaxed her grip on the beer bottle, which hit the water with an exhausted splash.
Kael avoided Ambera’s eyes and smiled shyly. “Gonna go catch that.” She put her face in the water and headed for the deep. She dolphin-kicked and caught the Pacifico bottle at about twelve feet.
Kael stayed suspended in the midnight blue of the lake, feeling an odd peace. Moments, maybe hours passed. When she looked up, she saw Ambera’s brilliant pink raft slowly turning circles on the steamy surface.
IMAGING
Sharon Wachsler
There are three things nobody told me before my MRI: (1) You have to keep your eyes shut the whole time. Blinking is a form of movement, and you need to be perfectly still for the full half hour. (2) Everyone—my doctor, my friends—told me it’s loud, with a lot of banging. They did not tell me how rhythmic the banging is. (3) My uptight, head case ex-girlfriend, Stormy, works there. Can you believe it?
No, you probably can’t. For one thing, you’re thinking, “Stormy?” Gimme a break. But I swear to god, she works there and that is her name. Call the hospital. Ask for Stormy in Imaging. Just don’t get hooked, listening to her silky voice. Just don’t take a stroll past her desk where she taps her long nails on the pink, yellow and white insurance forms laid out in triplicate. Because underneath all that gorgeous, curly black hair and that smooth, soft skin is a paranoid control freak—a typical femme who, once you—a little drunk, a little sloppy and grope-inclined—take her home, will want to know every single thought that passes through your skull every minute of the day, until she moves out for no good reason and leaves your head—the one she tried so hard to get into—spinning.
Seriously, when I roll in to Imaging with Janet, my personal care attendant, and see Stormy, I almost lose my lunch. Then I laugh. Perfect. Of course, she works at a place where they examine each millimeter of your brain. It’s her fucking dream come true. When we were together and I’d come in at five a.m., she’d rain down the questions like rocks wrapped in lace: Where had I been? Who was I with? Why couldn’t I have waited till she was off shift to take her, too? That was her big one—being left. She wouldn’t even give me time to sleep it off and come up with answers. One time I told her (I thought this was pretty smart, considering how fucked up I was), “Listen, you’re gonna have to slice open my head and read my mind, cause I’m going to bed and I don’t talk in my sleep.”
Boom! A year later, I wheel in, all shivery in a flimsy gown, and there she is, waiting to see digital slices of my brain. Crazy. Last I knew, she was a cocktail waitress at UpSide Town. I bet LJ told her to quit. She’s the one that got Storm into the whole sobriety thing. Probably convinced her that her “work environment” wasn’t good for someone “in the program.” Back when LJ and I were friends, I was totally cool about her taking Storm to meetings. That’s how much I trusted LJ, even if she was all about “in recovery” whenever anyone offered her a drink, like she was incapable of just taking it to be polite.
I fucking hate that term, “in recovery.” I sure as shit know what a real disease is, and it cannot be cured by giving up beer. Maybe LJ sees things differently ’cause she became a quad from drunk driving. She’s bitter—that’s why she did what she did. Whereas my being a crip’s nobody’s fault—except maybe God’s—and I can still stand and walk a little on my good days.
Anyway, about Stormy in our good ol’ days: truth is I liked having my girl come out with me and my friends. First we’d do some shots. Then, if I was buzzed enough, I’d wheel onto the dance floor with Storm in my lap. She’d shriek while I did donuts. Sometimes I’d slip my hand under her skirt and we’d make out between spins, giving our stomachs a chance to settle. She’d get so wet, sometimes I’d fuck her right there, my fingers sliding in and out, my thumb giving her some clit action. She’d be breathing heavy and moaning and pushing herself up against me. I guess we must’ve made quite a sight ’cause usually LJ or Peg would come over and tilt their heads at the john. So we’d finish up in the handicap stall. If I was packing, she’d straddle me and I’d grab her ass and pull her up close, and she’d grind against the bulge and get off like that.