It is one of those bars on the Strip, not exactly a gay bar, but one to which a certain sort of woman who wants to meet another woman goes. Banquettes down one side, tables in the middle for couples or fours, a bar with stools for solo drinking, cool jazz playing, but not obtrusively, and the service that was efficient, not pushy or curious. I notices a woman at the bar. She is taken by her looks. Sun bleached hair, a lovely figure, athletic but not overdeveloped, almost olive skin and an elegant bosom which she is almost showing off.
I sit at a table that affords a view of this lady. The waitress comes over to me and asks what I'll have to drink.
"Gin martini, two olives, please", I says, and I returns to my thoughts, my failures in love, my business, a specialist PR agency, and my effort to control an almost constant randiness that sometimes forces me to change my panties part way through the day. It's called the hunger, and I am in her grip and looking at that woman at the bar is not helping! I exhales, to steady myself, to relax into the vibe of the bar, sip my martini and eat the olives. Calm descends on me.
The waitress appears again unbidden and with another martini.
"I didn't order another," I say. "Must be some mistake."
"I know you didn't, but the woman over there," she gestures toward to lovely creature at the bar, "wondered if you might like it," she says with a knowing smile. Then she adds, "I think she might want to meet you."
I was taken aback. Who wouldn't be? I blushed (I excel at blushing), my nipples hardened (and I hoped they weren't showing), I say the first thing I could think of... "Um...er..that would nice, sure."
She smiles and goes over to the woman at the bar. Her back is now to me, and she inclines her head toward the waitress as she relays my message with a grin on her face. And then the woman turns around and looks at me and smiles the loveliest of smiles, gets up and walks towards me. I gulp.
I am not sure what to do, stay seated or stand. When she gets to me she says: "Let's get a banquette."
"Sure," I say as I get up.
She chooses one with no neighbours and it was also the smallest, a tight four seater. We sit down and I feel like a girl on her first date. I'm 38 have have been around this track so often but this feels different. She looks at me and held my gaze for a couple of beats longer than people normally do. I read the signal immediately, the one that says I love having sex with women. My out-of-control nipples get harder.
"My name is Shana, what's yours," she says.
"I'm Jeanne," I say pronouncing it in a faux French way.
"Your French?"
"No, I'm not, but my mother was in love with Jeanne Moreau, the French actress and she named me after her."
"What about Shana?"
"It's a Tamil name. It means beautiful."
"Well, you were very well named. Are you Indian?"
"Thank you," she said, smiling at me and holding my gaze again. "No I'm born and bred here. I have distant relations there, probably."
We chatted about girly sorts of things but it felt I was being turned on a wheel and inspected, as a potter might inspect a vase. I didn't mind it. I liked Shana inspecting me, and I wanted to inspect her, and then she said:
"Look, we could stay here and chat or you could come back to place. We could have a swim, you're about my size, I'd have something for you, unless you prefer to swim...." she didn't complete the thought.
"I would really like that," I say. What am I doing?
"Good. Do you have a car, you could follow me, or if not come in mine."
"I walked here, I'll come with you."
She drives a BMW convertible, 5 series. Cream leather seats. I love the smell of leather. Intoxicating. She put her foot down and I am forced back in the seat. I looked over at her, her skirt was cut up the side to the hip. I had a full view of her beautiful legs. I've always like sculpted quads and hers are magnificent. I am invested.
Shana has a lovely house, spacious and airy. The back gave way to a large swimming pool and beyond that the sea, yet it is secluded. She isn't over-looked by any neighbours. I feel tingly. She shocks me with her boldness. With an economy of movements she has taken off all her clothes and dives into the pool. It seems like ages before she surfaces. Treading water, she asks if I want to join her.
"Oh, yes," I say and, without my usual reserve, I strip in front of her, to her evident approval, and take the plunge.
I surface and there she is placing her arms around me. We kiss. No real preliminaries. Our tits rubbing together, her nipples on mine, her tongue in my mouth. Had I died and gone to lesbian heaven? What am I encountering? This woman is of the water. She doesn't seem to need to breathe. She disappears and then her lips were around my nipple, or her tongue licking my swollen vulva. It is disconcerting; it is incredibly erotic.
And then we are out of the water, drying ourselves. I am aware of my nakedness and I can't take my eyes off her. She comes to me and takes my hand.
"Let's move inside."
She leaves me in the middle of her sitting room as she extracts a cork from a bottle of Meursault and hands me a glass of its delicious honey hewed nectar. I take a deep draft of the wine. I like this woman's taste.
She sits opposite me, still naked, sitting in a way my mother told me a lady should never sit, knees apart. I could see she was bare and her vulva, like mine, engorged. I try to hold her gaze. I too open my legs a little to show her my waxed mound. She touches herself. So do I. We masturbate, looking at each other's eyes, not at our hands, both of us smiling slightly and looking lustfully at the other. Neither of us cums.
Shana has made all the moves til now. I'm no Mistress worshiping submissive, so I say to her.
"Why don't we repair to your bed?"
