six

Rachel was so wrapped in her thoughts that she did not register the familiar baritone rumble of the bike until it was right beside her. She jumped at the startling clatter of its disengaged clutch as Syn guided it to a halt: sharply angular, pillar-box red fairings like armour on an insectile steed.

The social nuances of greeting were beyond Rachel, so she contented herself with an ambiguous smile while Syn dismounted. The beautiful biker was an acquaintance of only one day, but that day had included several hours of boisterous sex. So what was she, a friend? Hardly. A lover? Perhaps physically but Rachel’s heart was elsewhere.

With Susan. Mysterious, beautiful Susan; a woman whose bizarre, hyper-sexual world had fully claimed and fully changed Rachel; whose surprises just kept coming, knocking Rachel around on an orgasmic pinball table. So much so that Rachel had had to escape, almost running from the house at Susan’s gentle suggestion of a walk.

Had she actually meant a walk together? Rachel’s smile became more of a grin as she recalled her precipitous exit, and Susan’s air of resigned amusement when Rachel’s interpretation became clear. Perhaps Rachel had managed to wrong-foot her lover in return; although not for the first time.

Syn had removed her helmet and was looking at Rachel from over the bike. Her blonde crew-cut had the effect of emphasising her powerful neck and shoulders, which combined with the hang of substantial breasts under her loose white t-shirt to create a highly charged androgyny. Rachel could not help but recall caressing those extravagant curves, both in fantasy and shortly afterward, in reality.

‘Hi,’ said Rachel, unable and unwilling to engage in a staring contest. Why was everyone determined to discompose her?

Syn moved around the bike, trailing her hand over the front fairing, her eyes not leaving Rachel’s. She stepped up onto the narrow sidewalk and stopped, then looked away, into the distance.

‘It’s hot for walking,’ she observed. Rachel wondered which of the many trickles of sweat on her body had prompted the comment. She had borrowed a strappy top to go with her own hot pants (now dried) and as usual her curves were not quite fully contained by Susan’s things, an effect which Susan claimed to find erotic but Rachel accepted only for the expedience.

‘It sure is,’ Rachel quipped back, only tempering a mocking accent as the words left her. She remembered once seeing that Syn’s detached butch attitude might be only skin-deep, and despite her annoyance, she thought better of outright provocation.

Syn looked back to the bike, as to a friend for support. ‘Are you okay?’ she murmured.

Rachel’s foot, which had been rising impatiently onto its toe, now planted firmly back onto the pavement. Off balance in body and mind, she reflexively tried to hide her retreating step by turning slightly and smiling. ‘Yeah,’ she said weakly. Then, automatically, ‘You?’

Syn gave her a penetrating look, wholly ignoring the insincerity. Rachel could see that she was determined to overcome the awkwardness of the moment, but unsure how — and once again Rachel felt an unexpected empathy with this older woman, so outwardly different to her.

She took a deliberate step forward. ‘Would you like to walk with me?’ she said, surprised to find the sentiment quite honest.

Once again, a small smile broke through Syn’s defences. ‘Thanks,’ she said, but then glanced down, and Rachel grinned.

‘You’re worse off than me,’ she pointed out, looking at Syn’s leather trousers.

‘No,’ Syn countered, waving away Rachel’s presumption. ‘I have to get back to work. Look,’ she went on precipitously, ‘I’m glad I found you. I need to, uh, warn you. About Susan.’

Rachel retreated again, feeling her heart harden.

Syn made to step towards her, then turned to the bike instead and rested her hand on the gas tank. ‘You’re probably head over heels.’ She paused, addressed the ground. ‘Like I was, once.’

Rachel wanted to run. Now she knew that simple snippet of information, she could foresee everything Syn was going to say. But she didn’t want to hear it.

‘I am,’ she croaked. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me this yesterday,’ — her voice rose — ’when you were fucking me?’

Syn looked at her, her expression steely. Then her eyes slid into the distance once more, and she seemed to reach a decision. She turned away and strode back around the bike, then grasped her helmet, flipped it over, and twisted the straps out of the way. ‘Neither did she,’ she observed neutrally and pulled it on.

Rachel found that she had her mouth open as the bike barked into life. She snapped it shut, and her shoulder tensed as if her own hand were about to rebel and grasp Syn’s arm, plead with her to stay, to tell her story. But pride was the stronger, and she could only watch as Syn’s visor turned to her. ‘Look out for yourself,’ she said, her voice raised over the racket of the clutch, but her tone gentle.

The bike growled, then shrieked like an expression of suppressed hurt as Syn disappeared into the heat haze over the road.

Rachel stared, then exploded, ‘Fuck!’ and stamped her foot.

‘How am I supposed to look after myself?’ she wondered out loud. Her world was upside-down. Syn’s remark was like saying ‘hang on’ while everything Rachel knew fell into the sky, leaving only…

Susan. Her touch; the warmth of her body. But as Rachel turned to look back the way she had come, she was suddenly unsure of the turnings she had taken coming here. Syn’s simple words were right there, like crows, circling, distracting. Rachel watched her own emotions spilling over again, and knew she must act, or fall.

She walked, clenching and unclenching her fists. Susan loved her. She repeated it to herself. She, Rachel, was the first girl Susan had loved. The first, and the only. Syn may have once had a crush on her, been so besotted that she would try to spoil any that came after — may have confused sex, with love.

But. Above the crows; the thunderclouds. Had Susan ever really shown her love, except in sex? So much sex! Was it possible to completely dissociate orgasm from affection? Could Susan really grind her cunt hard against Kim’s, and not feel a thing?

Rachel’s pace increased. She had definitely found one turning correctly, here again, the villas; and over the rise, the tall pines that partly hid the lawns of a golf course, stars and stripes over the clubhouse on the hill. Had she joined the road here? Yes: she remembered seeing the pines ahead of her. She lurched into the road looking the wrong way, staggered back as a sports utility thundered past, horn blaring.

She could feel the skies falling, falling, her mind cowering beneath. She came onto her toes, fell into a run. Where next? Susan’s street was on the left, she was sure. But which one? Were Syn’s scars a delusion, or were they real? ‘Warn you — head over heels — like I was.’ Had Susan been in love with Syn? Was Susan lying to her?

She was in the wrong street — they all looked the same! She spun around, stumbled, fell.

When she came to her feet she felt, then saw, that her palm was weeping blood. It stabilised her a little. She sucked at it while striding back to the main road, stood there for a moment, clung to the physical hurt like a hand-rail in a storm.

She tried another street, the correct one this time. Just to see Susan’s drive again was like a tonic; she even chuckled forcefully to herself as she walked up it, past the house, ignoring the front door. She pictured the moment, Susan would laugh at the brevity of Rachel’s ‘walk’; Rachel would bat her eyelids, say that she had wanted a different kind of exercise; Susan would kiss her. They would be united again in their virginity of love.

So for a moment, there was overlap. In her mind’s eye, Rachel saw only this pure love, but she was also hearing the gasping cries of something far more visceral. But then the one faded, while the other tore into her consciousness like a buzzsaw. She stopped; her heart stuttered; one hand clutched reflexively at the tight sweat-streaked cloth over her chest.

It was one voice, rising reflexively again and again, each breath cut off with a single grace note of ecstasy. Rachel paused, dazed. She had forgotten Kim and Kristen once before: could they still be here? How desperately she wished they were not!

She edged round the corner of the house, pressed herself onto the cool wall; slid towards the open French doors. Her fingers traced slowly down the frame’s edge as she leaned to see.

Inside: the wooden floor of Susan’s long studio room, its minimal furnishings stark white against shadows. Susan, sitting on the floor, thighs almost parallel to body as she leaned forward, her head cocked a little so that her dark hair flowed down the right side of her naked back. On either side of her: freckled legs; in front of her face: a lean torso sitting back on the end of the glass coffee table.

It was Kristen, her body so exquisitely long with its almost absent breasts, her arms braced down, hands grasping the long sides of the table. She was convulsing back and forth on the skin of her bottom, her face frozen in a mask of astonishment as she gazed at Susan’s head between her legs. Susan was staring back, tongue reaching, two fingers of her left hand tucked into the very base of Kristen’s vaginal opening.

Susan was barely moving at all, only the slightest flicker of her tongue and tensing of her shoulder revealing that she was ever-so-efficiently reinforcing Kristen’s rhythm. A memory surged upward in Rachel: of that same vulva jumping away from her own mouth, of her awkward attempts to brute-force Kristen into staying still, attempts that now seemed so clumsy, so incompetent. But most of all, while she could not see Susan’s face directly, she knew that besides fingers and tongue, it was the eyes that made the deepest contact: the link that made Kristen gasp with desire and push down with such fervour, again and again. Rachel knew this, because she had felt it herself.

She watched, her body responding, her mind a protective blank. Kristen seemed balanced on a plateau: neither rising nor falling. Her gasps were becoming more desperate. Her head lolled back, and immediately her rhythm failed, the link lost. Rachel could see Susan’s fingers and tongue push forward in compensation; but also, her body twisted as her other hand reached under the table.

Susan said something that Rachel did not catch. Kristen’s head snapped back up, eyes wide. There was a clink of glass on glass as Susan straightened, her own head rising. She was now square on and Rachel could not see what she was doing, but by the position of her arms, she seemed to be offering something up to Kristen’s vulva.

Slowly, slowly, their rhythm returned. The movement was now more symmetrical; Susan was driving it. Her unoccupied right hand slid over Kristen’s leg, upwards and around her hip, finding leverage. Now Rachel could see her left hand, clasped around something that glinted as it moved slickly in and out of Kristen.

Arousal flooded Rachel. She had never seen penetration like this, never known it for herself. And the sight of Susan fucking Kristen harder and harder was the most exquisite torture.

Kristen’s arms were folding, unable to support her. Elbow by elbow she lowered herself onto the coffee table, though her back remained sharply arched. One hand strayed to hold Susan’s head, the other braced under the edge of the table by her hips. She had regained the plateau, but now she was rising, rising inexorably, her cries building, no longer with desperation but with deep satiation.

‘She’s a master,’ said a voice disinterestedly right beside Rachel; she jumped, saw Kim standing beside her, naked and dripping wet from the pool: youthful erotic perfection.

‘She can make any woman come, any time,’ Kim observed further, stepping closer into Rachel’s personal space. ‘I’ve never seen her fail. Not even with me.’

Rachel cowered, unable to respond.

‘She knows every trick.’ Kim lifted a hand, touched Rachel’s jaw with one finger, idly traced it to the tip of her chin, watching it. ‘I bet she plays you like a fiddle.’

She shrugged, moved to stand in the doorway, legs apart, arms crossed.

‘She told me she loved me once. I didn’t believe her. But I had the biggest fucking orgasm.’

Kristen screamed. Thunder rolled. Rachel fled.

~~~

seven

Rachel slowed to a stop, unable to follow the sharply tuxedoed maître-d’ while her mind was coming to terms with the incredible place into which she was being led.

The restaurant was dimly lit, but each chandelier and candle seemed to sparkle as though the scene were dusted with glitter. The décor was mostly browns and blacks with hints of opulent cream, and the furnishings elegantly tasteful, bringing to mind a Parisian hotel, or perhaps, a palace.

The other diners were mostly hidden in booths or in high-backed chairs around the few free-standing tables, but here and there Rachel could see the shine of silk, the glimmer of sequins, or the softness of skin as bodies moved in carefree sociability. A string quartet gently moulded and encouraged the murmur of conversation and laughter, overlaid with the clink of glass.

Rachel looked down at herself; burned with embarrassment at her strappy top and hot pants, still damp from the storm. She half-turned to retreat; but there behind her was Susan. She wore a long white dress that followed her athletic shape from her ankles to her long neck, beautifully showcased in a stiff vertical collar bordered with lace.

She smiled, and one of her bare arms lifted to encompass Rachel. ‘No-one minds,’ she said gently. ‘Come on.’

Rachel gaped, tried to protest. But no words came, and besides, she no longer knew the way out. Susan took her hand in a way that brooked no argument and led her on.

As she passed the tables Rachel glanced with awe at the diners, each exquisitely dressed and adorned at their necks and ears with diamonds or pearls; yet all acutely, even painfully feminine. The flash of a black-lined eye, the turn of a delicate wrist, the soft curve of a tightly constrained breast, all added to Rachel’s humiliation. But Susan’s hand in her own was more powerful still, and Rachel padded meekly past.

Ahead, the restaurant seemed to continue to infinity, though curiously distorted like a wide-angle photograph. But then Rachel caught sight of her own bedraggled self and realised she was looking at a huge mirror that spanned floor and ceiling and curved away to either side behind the tables the booths.

Now the maître-d’ had stopped and was pulling out a chair from under a small round table right beside the mirror. It was lit from overhead by a glass chandelier of greater diameter than the table itself, and the shards of its light danced on Susan’s dress.

‘Your waiter will be right along,’ assured the maître-d’ as she seated Susan and darted around to also offer Rachel her chair. ‘Will you have champagne?’

Susan inclined her head. The woman muttered, ‘very good,’ as she proffered their menus, leather-bound and traced with silver. Rachel could feel the wetness of her clothes soaking the velour of the chair, touches of cold where the cloth had been loose. She shivered, but now that she was seated she felt better hidden from disapproving eyes.

Susan smiled ambiguously, but then dropped her eyes to open her menu. Rachel gazed around, mesmerised by the shimmering highlights that seemed to unify everything she saw, as though the restaurant and its patrons together made up a single living being of darkness and crystal.

Some guests were sipping from glasses, all were talking and laughing. None seemed to be eating. At a table nearby, two beautiful women were kissing, elegantly and discretely but with obvious passion. Rachel watched them, forgetting herself, allowing their heat to warm her.

‘Have a read,’ said Susan suddenly, reaching over with a wry smile to tap the menu that lay unopened in front of Rachel. ‘We’re not here just to gawp.’

Rachel felt herself blushing as she lifted the menu. Beside it, a champagne flute had magically appeared; and Susan was raising hers, so Rachel took it in her other hand to meet Susan’s under the chandelier.

‘To the good things in life,’ said Susan huskily as the glasses clinked together, her eyes somehow darkly shadowed but piercing. Rachel began to automatically murmur ‘good things,’ but Susan finished over her, ‘especially the sex.’

She did not elaborate further, but her eyes draped lazily over Rachel's face and neck and bosom. Rachel felt a discord catch flame inside her because the flattery of Susan’s gaze seemed hollow. But the fire could not escape through her own timidity, and the only release was to put down her glass and focus her attention on the menu in her other hand.

She opened it. Inside was a single sheet of yellowish paper tucked in leather pockets at two corners, with carefully arranged text of such lavish calligraphy that it was almost impossible to read. For a moment, Rachel just stared at it unfocussed, trying to compose herself, to slow the pattering of her heart and the rush of her blood. All around, indistinct voices; and here and there a sigh or gasp, as if more of the patrons were now flirting or petting.

Rachel shook her head fractionally to chase away her imagination, and tried to read. But the words made no sense. Lightly dressed freckled celt?

Then Susan’s fingers were tugging the menu away. ‘I’ll choose for you,’ she said categorically, then turned to the waitress who had appeared beside them.

Rachel froze. The waitress was completely naked, except for a thin black tie that hung between her breasts as she leaned in to listen. She was small but exquisite, her professional make-up and tight plait complimenting the bare skin that she seemed to wear more fittingly than any uniform.

‘We’ll start with you,’ said Susan formally; but then she winked at Rachel. ‘The house hors d’oeuvre is enough to share, don’t you think? For main,’ she continued, deadpan, ‘I’ll have the rousse fougueuse; nu I think, to save me the effort. For my guest,’ — she ran her finger down the page thoughtfully — ‘hmm. Perhaps something rich. The local special.’

Rachel had not moved her attention from the waitress. Start with you? But then the meaning, made so incongruous by the setting, was made viscerally tangible as the waitress leaned a little further to receive Susan’s lips.

Rachel was paralysed. Cymbals of shock and arousal clashed in her mind, drowning out the tasteful strings of the quartet. Her eyes rested inevitably on the waitress’s perfect breasts hanging pointed around her tie, the nearer lifted and widened by Susan’s palm, her thumb gently pushing against the nipple: back and forth, back and forth.

The waitress turned a little, her bottom coming dangerously close to Rachel, her thigh indented as it pressed against the table. Rachel found her own arm lifting, her hand holding the rounded shape it found. She shivered with dissonance, for while a part of her screamed, another could not help but lean forward to taste the top of the waitress’s hip.

Her skin was silky and fragrant against Rachel’s lips, her flesh a thin softness over bone. Rachel tugged at it with her lips; it was a little too taut for her to hold it, so she tried again with her teeth.

Hunger consumed her, ached in her stomach, and loins. She let go, licked the indentations of her teeth, moved her mouth further around, bit again. The waitress was murmuring with pleasure, whether from Susan’s or Rachel’s attention, Rachel could not tell. But Rachel was only following her own suddenly ravenous desire.

Her arm bent tighter; her fingers slipped over the fissure they found, tucking only slightly into the warm depth, then edged slowly downward. Her other hand was holding the top of the waitress’s thigh above the table, and so she was cradling thick muscle with her palms but all of her fingers were reaching towards softness. She moaned through her teeth.

Her own bottom slipped off the chair, and then she was kneeling, embracing the waitress’s knee with her elbows. The changing angle of her hands meant that they could not help but slip deeper, and the warmth they found combined with cool from her damp top pressed between her body and the waitress’s leg.

The appalled voice inside her was protesting louder than ever, but at the same time the waitress was turning towards her, and so Rachel’s mouth and tongue worked further around to the crease that marked the top of the waitress’s leg, and then, slowly, inexorably, down.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw the shine of Susan’s dress beside her; suddenly it collapsed to the ground, empty. Rachel looked hungrily at Susan’s tall, lean, naked frame as it stepped closer until her neat pubic hair was inches from her face. She knew the two beautiful women were holding and caressing each other above; she moved her hand from its ambiguous position beside her face to tuck it between Susan’s long legs, to hold her bottom with splayed fingers.

She could see the waitress’s labia so close to her mouth, so inviting, their seal ready to be teased apart by her tongue. But the voice was screaming again, making her head throb with emotional pain.

The balance was tipping. Her arousal was failing, disgust was rising. This was not love, the love she needed, had always needed. Her head sagged to the side against the waitress’s thigh.

With little strength, she pulled herself to her feet. Found that she was surrounded by beautiful naked women: a fiery redhead and a staggering blonde, adorned like a queen of the Nile with blinding diamonds.

Susan interposed into her sight. ‘Are you ready?’ she said. ‘Are you ready for dessert?’

Beneath the mirror behind her, a darkness was rising. Rachel watched it, fascinated. Hands were trailing over her, but she did not heed them; her own hands also seemed to be out of her control, she could feel them touching skin, holding flesh, fingers tucking into warmth.

The darkness resolved the mirror was lifting into the ceiling. Beneath, a huge silken red bed, spotlit and bedecked with scattered cushions and nubile nymphs, legs spread, beckoning.

Someone’s face was close beside her. Its voice seemed out of place; husky, but gentle, calling to her. ‘No!’ she cried in return, suddenly angry. ‘No more!’

Her eyes opened.

Syn was watching her, concern on her sculpted features.

Rachel felt a hand on her hair. ‘Dreams like that won’t help,’ said Syn softly.

Rachel blinked, fought off the sleep as though it were a predator. She was on a threadbare sofa, in a threadbare room: wooden floor, peeling plaster, dimly lit with the dusk. Nearby, an electric fan barely stirred the clinging air.

She remembered. The storm. Water, everywhere. Falling on her like the draining of the sea, hammering onto the pavement, gushing around her feet. In fear she had tried to find Syn’s house, had failed; had lost hope, and sat down on the concrete sidewalk, hugging her knees, shivering. The truck, that at first she did not recognise. Syn.

She coughed. Syn fussed a little with the blanket that covered her. Syn’s sapphire blue eyes were piercing, and Rachel wondered what to say to her. She had tried to warn Rachel about Susan, but Rachel had refused to listen, and now, she had sought her out and taken her in; given her shelter. Syn’s cool and distant facade just seemed to make her deep humanity that much more striking.

‘Thank you,’ said Rachel eventually. It did not sound like enough.

Syn’s eyes dropped a little, then hardened. She seemed pained.

‘Susan’s outside,’ she said coolly. ‘She phoned right about when you fell asleep.’

Rachel felt herself shrink into the blanket. ‘Don’t let her in,’ she said reflexively, brokenly.

Syn’s eyes returned to hers. ‘Okay,’ she agreed. Then she pushed down on her raised knee and came to her feet. ‘I need to join a call. Shout if you need anything.’

Rachel nodded dumbly, watched Syn padding away, wondered what she did for a living when not rescuing love-stricken English damsels from hurricanes. The image made her smile a little, and she loosened the blanket. It was warm in the room, and her body had begun to prickle with sweat. Underneath the blanket was a towel, wrapped closely around her. Nearby, her clothes still lay in a sodden heap where they had fallen from her fingers.

The silence and the warmth suggested that the storm was over. Rachel pictured Susan, standing outside. Did Susan know that Rachel had seen her, with Kristen? Did she know that Kim had unknowingly exposed her declarations of love as manipulative lies?

Rachel frowned and bucked herself into a more comfortable position. Susan could go to hell. Rachel had four more days of holiday, and then she’d be back with the airline and putting thousands of miles between her body and Susan’s devious games.

But. She squirmed, felt the vestiges of the dream’s excitement between her legs. Recalled the hours they had spent in each other’s arms. The orgasms. Oh, the orgasms. Rachel was a wholly different person now: a butterfly emerging long-overdue from its cocoon. Susan had done that. And the thought was slow to form: if Susan was only pretending to love her, to make her pant and scream and come; what was she doing here?

Absentmindedly Rachel had placed a palm onto her pubic mound, resting a finger below to assure herself she was not dripping. After Susan had made her gush spectacularly only this morning, she was a little less trusting of her own body; and now the gentle pressure of the roots of her fingers reminded her of the incredible explorations of these last days. Of responses and abilities she never knew she had.

She glanced towards the door; smirked to herself when she remembered the last time she had touched herself at this house, checking nervously for the onlookers; onlookers who really were there, watching her. She remembered Syn. How her breasts had moved under her T-shirt.

She sighed, slid her hand reluctantly onto her stomach. She would not allow the perversions of Susan’s world to consume her. Sex was the consummation of love, and there was no love to be found here. Could she not lie on a couch for five minutes without feeling herself? Even her dreams had been polluted!

She rocked onto her side, frowning peevishly. The ‘restaurant’ was there, in front of her eyes. Out loud, she muttered ‘brothel’, trying to taint the image. But it refused to be ashamed, refused to fade. It was a fantasy, and not Susan’s fantasy, but Rachel’s. Her own mind had created it. The women there were reflections of herself, representations of the urges that had really followed her for years, only waiting for Susan to give them shape.

Of its own accord, her upper leg had bent and lifted to accommodate her returning fingers. Was the restaurant a message? Could she do what Susan did: make sex a game, skillfully played, elaborately performed; meaningless, but exquisite?

The blush of her loins was not to be denied. She was back among the waitress, the redhead, the bejewelled blonde, and Susan. They pressed closer until she could not tell apart the touches of their bodies. Their hands were exploring her, everywhere, pushing between her breasts and theirs, over her back and shoulders and arms, over the weight that seemed to hang beneath her abdomen. They were all the women she had ever distractedly admired, suddenly close, suddenly attainable.

She slipped one finger inside, wondering if she could replicate the incredible sensation of Susan’s finger against the wall of her vagina — but that left her clitoris unattended, so she tucked the fingertips of her other hand under her palm. Her breasts were warm against her upper arms as she tried to build a rhythm.

She was kissing someone, caressing the flesh of someone else, pressing her body onto another. The images were broken, incoherent. She gritted her teeth, curled her fingers, gripped herself harder. Her arms were tense with the effort of vibrating her hands.

But she would not give up. She called up Syn, and Kim, French kissing before her eyes. Kristen, her vulva wet against Rachel’s mouth. Susan.

Oh, Susan. Elegant, graceful, beautiful Susan. The superb definition of her shoulders, of her neck. The way her breasts hung uncreased against her chest. The champagne flute shapes of her stomach, and oh, her vulva, so soft, its perfect details warm against the tip of Rachel’s tongue.

Rachel was driving hard at her clitoris now; just as Susan had needed, so long ago in the pool. She was fucking, and it was a raw and powerful thing. There was no real love in this room, only sex, and fantasy love to give it life.

She faltered as the insight stole her attention, then rallied, her breath coming in desperate gasps as her back arched away from the couch. She was fucking Susan, fucking her pitilessly.

Even when her loins took on a rhythm of their own, she did not stop. The orgasm rose and fell almost beneath her attention. Susan would not have come so soon. She ignored the burgeoning sensitivity, the crumbling of her fantasy. She would have Susan’s orgasm; and now only her own sweating, dirty, masturbating body was there to make it happen.

The second orgasm was weaker than the first, the third barely a faltering contraction. Soreness and exhaustion made her slow her aching fingers.

For what it was worth, she knew the answer now.