Some Tourist... Ch. 1

Summer should be a wonderful time. After a school year so hectic, so full of lectures and readings, papers and paperwork, needing 28 hour days but only having 24, using a survival technique that can only be described as academic triage--there's no way you can do everything that's expected of you, so you make choices, giving the squeaky wheels the grease and hoping the things you let slide won't come back to bite you. Summer. Ah yes: swimming pools, waterskiing, working on the tan, hiking, biking . . . NOT! Not if you have to work all summer to make enough money to cover what your scholarship doesn't. But the summer is not entirely without rewards . . .

Like half the women who stay in town after school is out, I got a job as a "server," as in "Hello, my name is Audrey and I'll be your server tonight," said with a big smile and fond hopes for a big tip. Although there's a college here, the town's economy is dominated by tourism. Sitting on the edge of a Rocky Mountain wonderland, surrounded by scenic beauty, the tourists flock here in droves during the summer. And, like people everywhere, they need to eat! There are dozens of restaurants in the downtown area, some fancy, some not; some filled mostly with tourists, a few that cater to locals. The one I work in seems to cross over. Locals inhabit the place in winter, but being close to the big hotel in town, it gets it's share of tourists during the summer. I didn't go to work there thinking it would be the perfect place to meet people. I went to work there because my best friend was working there and she told me they needed help. But I soon realized that if a person wanted to expand her horizons by getting to know interesting people, she could do a lot worse than serving food to folks who have the desire to travel and enough money to do it.

Okay, let me get this out in the open right now: I'm not going to write a travel piece, or an exposé about the plight of the poor working girl; nothing like "Nickel and Dimed.". This is going to be about sex. Sex, plain and simple. If you don't like sex, read no further. Go get a textbook and study. I get enough of that all year.

Summer is for something else. I find myself wanting to use that sentence as an opener, sort of like a murder mystery opening sentence; a lead-in, something a lady private eye might say in a lesbian spoof of all those dumb private dick movies. Something like, "Yeah, she was something else all right. She had the kind of legs that made a girl want to become a pair of stockings, a gentle swell where her cunt showed through that short, tight dress that made me want to lick until my mouth was sore. . . ," but I'm not quite ready for that yet.

You need to know more about me to know why I was so intrigued when she appeared for breakfast at a corner table for one that was mine. I'm not going to do one of those bogus lesbian biographies, the ones that talk about how the girl always knew she was a lesbian, from the moment she was born, how her first love was a girl in pre-school she rolled around with in a sleeping bag after cookies and milk and nappies. Until last year, I didn't have a clue. I was a "normal" kid; had a vanilla, high school sex life. Which, of course, means I blew most of the guys who took me out so they wouldn't want to fuck me and get me pregnant or worse, cum all over me and make a fucking mess without giving me any pleasure. They grabbed my breasts and rubbed my cunt too hard, and, of course, they never ate me. And, of course, I never came. I giggled, did my hair, put on makeup so the boys would look at me, even dressed so they would drool at me. I wanted them to like me, but frankly, there was never a sexual payoff and I never knew why. I guess I figured orgasms with partners were for boys. When I came, I did it myself. I'd let the water from the spout in the bathtub run on my clit; I'd rub myself in bed; sometimes, I'd have dreams where I was flying, and I'd wake up sexually aroused with a wet cunt and I'd finish the feeling, half asleep, laying on my tummy with my hand between my legs. But I always thought I was straight, that I'd marry a boy and make babies. That he'd take care of me and I'd, what? God, what a scary thought!

I certainly didn't know that sex with another person could make your belly heave, your cunt drip, your body shake and tremble; make you moan and babble uncontrollably, give you a cresting wave of feelings so powerful you'd do anything to feel them over and over and over. I didn't know because all the sex I'd experienced had been with guys who didn't know what the hell they were doing, and I sure as hell didn't know any better. That all changed last year.

Her name was Linda. She was about to graduate and leave college. I was a lowly sophomore. She was the star of the English department. A fucking genius. I was in awe of her. She used big words, talked literary criticism in the student union and used post-modernist intellectual jargon likeshe actually understood what she was talking about! She loved to recite Adrienne Rich poetry extemporaneously. And she was gay. Everyone knew it. She made it obvious. She wasn't butch. She was sort of cute, but she would walk hand in hand with women she was seeing. She would openly kiss women on campus. Whenever I would see her holding or kissing another woman I'd get the same feeling I got in those flying dreams. A lot of us suspected she was sleeping with the department chair. I tried to picture that, her with a forty year old woman, and got those same feelings, again. She was smart, confident, pretty, and I thought she was somehow way beyond me. I was afrasid to even speak to her.

She was working in the English department office. One day I went there needing help with registration. My schedule was a mess, and nothing seemed to be working. Linda told me we could do it together, she'd help me, but she hated the mob in the computer lab, the office computer was down, but she had a fast internet connection at home and we could register there. She told me to come by that evening.

I went to her apartment. We went into her bedroom where the computer was, and when she turned it on, the wallpaper on her desktop was a picture of two women kissing. She watched my face to see how I'd react. I guess I blushed. She laughed. But being in her bedroom, knowing she was a lesbian, that we were alone together all somehow made me feel unbelievably sexual. I was attracted to her. I certainly never thought that I would feel that way, but there you have it, I did. Linda asked me if I'd like to see some more pictures, and I told her I would. She brought up a kind of slide show of women kissing, then the pictures progressed until the women were touching each other, naked together, and one of them showed a woman kissing another one between the legs. I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen pictures like that, and, surprisingly, it made me very hot. Lindsay asked me if I knew that she was a lesbian. I told her I suspected that she was. She asked me if I came over because I wanted to make love with her. I honestly answered that the thought had never entered my mind. I'll never forget what she asked me next. Or, how I answered.

"Has it entered you mind now?" she asked, staring into my eyes with something that looked a lot like hope, a lot like lust.

I looked back at her and answered, simply, "Yes."

The rest is a bit of a blur. Somehow we moved to her bed. She took off my clothes, kissing me wonderfully, softly, on my mouth. Her hands touched me, not like boys had touched me, but gently, confidently, knowingly. Like she was doing it to please me! And every touch seemed to build the fire in my cunt. I was whimpering, kissing her back, scared to death but so excited I could hardly stand it. The first time I came with Linda, she was fully dressed. I was naked. We were sitting on the edge of her bed. She was kissing me. My mouth was open, and our tongues were touching. Her hand was on my cunt, her palm pressed against my clit which was still buried in folds of skin. One of her fingers was sliding in my very slippery crack, but her palm pressing into me there, my hips pressing back, pushed me over the top. I came kind of quietly, with a stifled moan and a big shudder, but it was more than I'd ever felt with another person. Way more. After that, she undressed and rubbed her wonderful warm naked body against mine. I felt her breasts rubbing against my breasts, then against my tummy, her hard nipples almost tickling me. Her mouth found my nipples, kissing and sucking. Her breasts and nipples rubbed across my cunt (that was something!), and my thighs. Her lips and tongue found my cunt. I watched, as if in a dream, as if this was happening to someone else. When I came that second time, I was too far gone to stifle my moans. I don't really know what I sounded like, except that Linda told me I sounded wonderful. I know that I came harder than I'd ever come, even with my own fingers or a jet of water. I came so wonderfully hard and long, came in a way I never knew you could; and knew I would love her forever. And I did, for what remained of the term. She graduated and left for Alaska after a couple of weeks of madly passionate lovemaking.

Which left me to my fingers again, and with the understanding that I could cum with a woman like I never did with a man. I'd never really thought of men sexually, I realized, even though I knew that I turned them on.. I'd never really thought of anyone sexually. But now, when I masturbated, I pretended Linda was touching me, eating me, rubbing a breast or her leg there, that Linda was kissing me all over, pressing a slippery wet finger into my ass, licking my hole while I masturbated, on my knees, my breasts hanging down where she could hold them (god, I loved that!)--or, I'd now find myself imagining some woman I'd seen that day who looked sexy to me, someone I could pretend I was making love to. I had changed.

So there she was, remember, the tourist lady at my table, the one with the legs and the cunt? (She had wonderful breasts, too, a lovely neck, bare shoulders that drove me crazy, a lovely face that semed very worldly, jet black page boy hair and lipstick that was wildly red.) She was there for breakfast. She was wearing a black dress that was very short, with a bare bacvk to go with those bare shoulders. She had black thigh-highs on, and spiked heels. Her hem was high enough when she sat to expose an inch or two of bare thigh between her dress and her stockings. She was dressed to kill, and I had clearly been murdered. She was definitely not a local, and not a typical tourist, either. Mostly the tourists wear shorts and polos or tee shirts; yucky polyester slacks and stupid sweatshirts or tees with dumb writing like, "I'm with stupid." Thier kids wear shirts that say, "My mom and dad went to Colorado and all I got was this lousy Tee-shirt." Why do they wear that shit? The locals, mostly mountain jocks, wear running shorts and halters, or biking clothes, or hiking clothes. Polar fleece is big. Nike and New Balance. Birkenstocks (I was guilty of that one, myself). Not slinky designer dresses with short hems. Not black thigh-high stockings with bare thigh showing, and definitely not spiked heels!

When I took her order, she was somewhat formal, but she asked me if I was a student at the college, and what I was studying. I politely answered her questions, and tried to be professional, but I was clearly shaken.

I delivered her food, poured her coffee and went about my business, re-filling her coffee cup, clearing her dishes, taking care of my other tables. Bringing her desert. Making small talk. Although she was reading a newspaper, she watched me when I wasn't at her table. When our eyes met, she would smile. And when I brought her the bill, she took it from me, letting her fingers slide across my wrist and hand. It sent shivers through me. She left me a twenty dollar tip. I felt like it was Christmas. Christmas with a tinglebetween the legs!

She came back for three days, each morning sitting in my station. Each day asking more and more about me. Each meal, staring at me more and more obviously, letting her eyes linger on my eyes, my breasts, my ass, my cunt, my legs. And each time she left, she would ask for her bill and hold my hand when I would bring it. On the fourth day she was standing when I came with her bill. She moved close to me when she took it, letting her warm leg linger against mine. The heat was electric. Along with the tip, another twenty that she pressed into my hand, holding me there for what seemed like forever, there was a note. When she walked out of the restaurant, I took it into the bathroom, my heart pounding, and read it.

" I am staying at the Prater Hotel. Room #417. I will be in my room this afternoon if you would like to join me for a pot of tea and conversation, say 3 o'clock? I would ever so much love to get to know you better. Laura."

Each day her effect on me had grown. I found myself eager to get to work to see if she'd be there. Every day she dressed like she was going on a date in some big city, not out for breakfast in an outdoorsy tourist town. And each afternoon, when I got off work I would go home, lock myself in my room, lie down on my bed and masturbate, imagining that she was making love to me.

Work took forever that day, but somehow I managed to get through it. I ran home to shower, and, I realized, to dress for her. From the way she had touched me, the way she had stared, I just knew her interest in me wasn't purely conversational. I put on a short cotton sundress with a stretch bodice and no straps. Now my back and shouldersd would be bare. I stepped into a pretty pair of sandals. I did not wear a bra. I did not wear panties. "If I'm wrong about this," I thought, "I will die of embarrassment!" But I was so excited thinking about her, so badly wanting her to make love to me, I just had to dress in a way that made my desire clear.

I walked to the hotel, feeling every puff of wind on my naked thighs and bottom, every blustery breath under my dress, on my exposed cunt. God! I was so excited! I took the elevator up to her floor, and once the door had closed, I slipped a hand under my dress and touched myself. I was wet and slippery. I rubbed some of the wetness, the scent, on my neck and throat. When I got to her floor, I walked to her room and found the door ajar. I knocked, and heard her voice from inside say, "Come in, Audrey." And entered.

She was sitting in a wing chair near the window. The white lace curtains were drawn, but the heavy drapes were open, filling the room with soft, diffused light. I couldn't believe what she was wearing, and not wearing! Sitting there, she was naked, except for those shoes, the tall black spiked heels, the black stockings that ended mid-thigh, and a broad necklace that wrapped her neck like a choker. It was covered with what appeared to be diamonds, but how could they be, it have cost too much. I must have looked stunned. She smiled.

"Surely you're not completely surprised, Audrey?"

"Well . . . I,"

"I have been sending you sexy vibes from the minute I laid eyes on you."

"Yes, I know, I felt it . . ."

"But this, does it seem a little, well a little abrupt. A bit forward of me?"

"Well, maybe, I don't . . ."

"Then forgive me, Audrey. I don't like to beat around the bush. If I have frightened you, by all means, please leave. I apologize. But if you'd like to stay, please just close the door, and lock it."

I turned, confused, excited--after all, I was the one who'd not worn anything under her dress, who'd hoped for something like this, but like this, really? She seemed way out of my league in every way. She must have been twenty years older, at least forty. She was clearly sophisticated, probably wealthy, well-traveled. I was a sexual beginner, a hick from a small town. But I was hot. Oh dear god was I ever hot! My whole body felt like a giant clit, twitching, eager, dying to be touched. My back was to her, and I could feel her eyes on me. I walked to the door, pressed it until it closed with a click, then turned the deadbolt. Klunk. Put the chain in the slide. Slunk. Turned to face her, quickly, letting my hem fly up, revealing my state of, my state of . . . preparation. Clearly, in that moment we knew what each of us wanted, me with the power of imagination; her, I guessed, from much experience.

"Let me speak, Diane," Laura began again. I am woman who knows her likes, her needs. I am also a woman who likes to teach. Do you have any lesbian experience?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"One lover."

"Was she a student like you, a woman near your age?"

"Yes."

"I would like to be your lover this afternoon. To show you what pleases me; to have you ask me for what might please you. Anything. Even things you've never had the courage to express. Would you like that?"

I was shaking. Eager. Frightened. Thinking I didn't know this woman at all, and she could be some kind of kook who would, like, murder me or something! But the fire in my cunt was so hot, I couldn't leave. I couldn't say no. I didn't want to. When she spoke I looked at her, nearly naked, but sitting there so comfortable with her nakedness. Her mouth was lovely when she spoke, her lips painted bright red, outlined in nearly black violet. Her body was exquisite. Large breasts, with large, dark nipples. Long legs, made longer by the sexy shoes, the mid-thigh stockings. Somehow, the necklace and the stockings framed her body in a way that said, this is what you've come for, isn't it! And my heart answered an inarticulate, "Yes, yes it is."

She stood up. She walked to me and took my hand again. She pressed her leg between mine, her naked thigh moving beneath my dress, nestling between my own naked thighs as I opened them wide, as she pressed her thigh into my cunt. She kissed me, holding me, pulling my against her naked breasts. She kissed my neck and I saw her nostrils flare, her eyes widen when she took in my woman scent, the scent I'd put there in the elevator. For a beginner, I guess my instincts were pretty good. I found myself sliding against her thigh, the feeling of soft warm skin on my now opening cunt was better than anything! I was fucking her leg and it was wonderful.

Her hands gathered the fabric of my dress, lifting it over my now naked, totally exposed ass. Her hands held my bottom, gently squeezing it apart, exposing me even more as her leg continued to do something magical to my cunt. We kept kissing. Kept rubbing. She nibbled my lips, squeezed my ass harder, pressed against me, rubbing with steady pressure until I thought I would die, but I did not. I was coming to life. I was moaning. Humping her leg in earnest now. I could feel the hair that was trimmed to a triangle above her shaved pussy against my own bare thigh; feel her wet cunt open against my leg as mine had opened against hers. I could see us in the large mirror that covered the closet door. See us, there, so wonderfully wanton and wild, fucking each other's leg, dressed, undressed, in sexual costume with no pretense, only the obvious desire to find pleasure in each other's bodies.

Without speaking another word, we shared our first orgasm together. Standing in her hotel room. Sundress lifted to my waist. Her naked but for stockings, shoes and necklace. Kissing. Rubbing. Breathing faster and faster. Fucking madly. Finally moaning into each other's mouths as the waves rolled over us and we cried out in such incredible pleasure. It was heaven, and I knew I'd only just arrived at the entrance. If this was the Pearly Gate, I wondered, what thrills does heaven yet hold for me, deeper inside?