She takes a bite of one of the mini scones, careful not to get any clotted cream or strawberry jam on her lipstick-pink lips. The nails of her beautifully manicured thumb and forefinger desperately hold onto the crumbling sweetness.
Inwardly I smile, bite into the scones in my hand, and lick the mixture of jam and cream from my lips, then my fingers. I absolutely love my friend, but we are totally the opposite of each other. I’m the one walking barefoot whenever I can, while she always parades around in heels. She’s forever following diets to improve her looks, and I’m just happy with the way I look, even though I do have a bit of a belly and my bottom can do with a couple of pounds less. This thought crosses my mind, but I shrug and reach for the next pastry.
One thing we do have in common is our interest in sex. Both of us love it, and we love to talk about it. My sex life is much kinkier than hers, and she always hangs on my lips when I tell her of one of my erotic encounters. To be honest, I’m getting more than she does, and I’m getting what she desperately wants. She’s kinky to the core, but in a moderate marriage with a prude for a husband. He’s literally the kind to get in top, fuck her, roll off, roll over and go to sleep. I know, because she told me. Despite her kinky nature, she’s okay with it, because she loves him. Deeply. He is the one for her. I respect that, and I don’t mind one bit that she lives her kinky life through my experiences.
This afternoon — we’ve booked ourselves a ‘high tea’ — is no different. Our first cup of tea is still steamy and hot when she asks: “Did you meet that man?”
I know who she means. The last time we saw each other, I told her about this man I was chatting to, and that he had promised me a massage.
“Yes,” I say, “I certainly did, and it was… well… amazing… hot… sexy… just… yummy!”
I let the words hang in the air while I look at her face. There’s anticipation in her eyes, and a blush on her cheeks. It’s happened many times in the past, that I tell her stories about my sex life, and I just know she’s wet and horny when she leaves. I bet those are the days her husband wonders what has gotten into his wife. He knows we are friends, but he has no idea what kind of life I live.
“Do tell,” she says, her eagerness written all over her face; her squirming evident of her building lust.
“Well…” I start, stir a teaspoon of sugar in my tea, take a bite of a chocolate croissant, chew, swallow, and then continue: “he booked us a hotel room, but we only went up after a light dinner and some drinks. During dinner he told me what he had planned, and it turned out to be not just a massage, but a tantric massage.”
I take another bite of my croissant and watch the confusion in her eyes, remembering my own confusion when I heard those words ‘tantric massage’. I swallow and laugh.
“I see you are puzzled, and I was too when he said ‘tantric massage’. I had no idea what it was, even though I had heard about it before. So, I just pretended to know, nodded and said I was totally up for it.”
She laughs too, and leans closer. I love this. She’s a beautiful woman, one I want in my bed, but she’s my friend, meaning she’s off limits. My decision, not hers. Also, she will never do it, even if I want to, because of her husband. She’s as faithful as they come. But I love that she hangs on my lips. That she wants to know my stories. That I can tell her about my sex life. That’s as close as I will ever get to having sex with her. I take a sip of my tea, allowing myself a couple of moments more to watch her beautiful face.
“When he told me to get naked,” I continue, “I was okay with it. A naked massage is always better, and since he was easy on the eyes and charming, I was okay if sex was on the menu too. Stupidly, at that moment I thought ‘tantric massage’ only was a different way of saying I had to be totally naked and uncovered for him to massage me.”
I laugh, then continue.
“He started on my back, and that was so good, and even better when he worked down towards my legs, and then came back to my buttocks and firmly massage them too. So different than we’re used to!”
Now I’m the one watching her take a bite of one of the many pastries. She licks her lips this time, instead of using the napkin. Lust makes her forget her carefully learned manners.
“Then he asked me to turn over.”
I let that hang in the air, because I want her to think about it. She knows those massages at the wellness resorts. She has had many in past, and she knows buttocks and breasts are always avoided, not to speak of the groin. But, I have just told her my bottom was touched. Her eyes change as she understands. She leans back in her seat, squirms a bit, and crosses her legs. Then she uncrosses them and leans closer again.
“After the back massage, I was relaxed. More relaxed than any spa massage has ever left me. I wasn’t that surprised when he massaged my breasts, but when he moved to my groin, and touched my pussy, I tensed up. He told me to relax, to just let it happen.”
I pick up my tea cup, take a sip, and put it down again. Her eyes are fixed on my face. She has totally forgotten about her own tea; too interested in my tantric massage tale.
“It took a couple of minutes, but then I just let go. There was no way I couldn’t. His hands were so skilled. I think he took just as long massaging my labia than he did my back, which was probably why I could let go, and just enjoy it. But, I tensed up again when I felt my orgasm building. He noticed this, and told me to just let my body do what it needed to do.”
My friend is not the only one squirming now. Telling her about that massage, has me reliving every moment. I remember his hands on me, not so much the rest of my body, but definitely when he massaged my pussy. I swallow, remembering what followed.
“He slipped two fingers inside me, and his thumb… I think it was his thumb… massaged my clit. I was almost to the point of an orgasm, when he pulled out his fingers and massaged my labia again. Every time I was to the point of orgasm, he moved his hands. My orgasm built, subsided, built some more, and then a bit more, and more… and…”
I look around me at the other people on the terrace, then lean closer to the table. She does too. I lower my voice to a whisper.
“… seriously… it was the last I expected, and I still wonder if that was really part of the massage, or just something he wanted to do. Maybe like a personal trick or something.”
I drag out the moment to tell her, suddenly feeling a bit shy. Embarrassed even. But in a good way.
“What did he do?” she asks, her voice husky with lust.
“He had his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clitoris. Then he pulled his fingers out; massaged my labia. I wanted that orgasm so bad, but even though I was frustrated, I was still relaxed. My orgasm got closer and closer. Every time he stopped fingering me and massaged my labia, I moved closer to the edge. I tipped over when he pushed his fingers in deep and hard. Into my other hole.”
My friend looks at me, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her breathing loud. She whimpers, pushes her chair back, mumbles something and disappears inside, tiptoeing awkwardly on her high heels. Many minutes later, more than is required for a normal bathroom break, she returns to our table, a bit calmer, much more composed. The thought of her masturbating in the restrooms now has me squirming in my seat.
Serves me right for getting her all worked up, even though I know, next time I will do it all over again! Pure mischief, I know, but I can’t help myself!
© Rebel’s Notes
Image from Pixabay