That's How Stella Is

When we met, Raina was screaming at a neighbor whose Pomeranian had bitten his son on the ankle; the man wore a bewildered frown and stood in the driveway as she lectured him. The kid had long since returned to playing with the dog, not having bothered with a bandage, but she was out there for at least half an hour, yelling and stumbling drunk, as was her habit. I lived across the street.

The man had gone inside by the time I finally went out to her, but she was still screaming after him, though she didn't resist as I dragged her back into her house, an older home I moved into once we were official. I'd wanted a new place, something we picked out together, but even in those days we both understood that I wouldn't be choosing anything that Raina would have to look at regularly, much less live in.

I felt lucky that she didn't tell me to fuck off as I maneuvered her inebriated body into her garage; that's how pathetic I was. She was such a fixture that nobody passing bothered to stop and look anymore, let alone say anything. Didn't even turn their heads as the door rolled silently downward in its smooth track and a woman was dragged inside. Their acceptance should have given me pause, stopped me from getting involved with her. Nothing that came afterward could have been a surprise to anyone paying attention. If you're inclined to be charitable you could describe me as naïve, but the truth is that each shock was precious to me, proof I possessed the innocence I'd always longed for, that I was someone who could be scandalized and hurt, whose virtue could be corrupted.

"Sam?"

She's shorter than me. Stocky and broad-shouldered, like a shot-putter, with pixie-cut blonde hair and a flawless (read: expensive) shadow root that she maintains even with her insane work schedule. There's always been something good-natured about how she looks, something wholesome that puts people at ease.

"Yeah?" My sports bra snaps against my skin as I adjust it. "What?"

"I asked you a question."

"What?"

"The party." I wish she sounded more annoyed, wish she cared that I hadn't been listening to her, but there's no trace of attitude, like I'm some employee manning a busy drive-through who's apologized and asked her to repeat her order. "Do you have a costume yet?"

"I have a lot of costumes."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"I'm the Grinch?" She hands me the windbreaker I'm reaching for and I slip it on. "You're gonna be Martha Mae?"

I want to tell her that Martha Mae Whovier isn't even a character in the original story, that they only added her to the film to be a love interest for Jim Carrey, but I know it's pointless. Raina doesn't care about the original story, she just wants me to look hot at the party, and I'm not gonna pass up a chance to wear a sheer dead-husband-robe. Years ago she would have prodded me about it, demanded to know what I really thought of the costume, made me reassure her that it was a great idea, that whatever she wanted suited me fine. But we don't bother with such things anymore.

"I'll figure it out. And I need to get my hair done," I tell her. "Drop me at Stella's on the way in?"

No answer comes over her shoulder as I follow her to the car, but after thirteen years I don't need one. She'll take me to the salon and head on into the station and finish up the ridiculous Sexy Halloween Party decorations, inflatable cocks and all. If they don't get any calls she'll fuck off until the party starts, trading firefighter stories and porn clips with Dave Nelson, who she knows I can't stand.

We used to hold hands while she drove. She would tell me about fires, mostly structure fires in warehouses, sometimes a house fire, if nobody had died. I didn't like to hear about those. She liked wildfires best, though, liked how out of control they were, how dangerous. The devastation they could cause. That she could prevent, if she was smart and quick and strategic, which is always was.

Is.

"Want me to drop you around back?" She squints through the windshield; the light rain is picking up. "Doesn't look like she's open yet."

The parking lot of Stella's is small, but freshly paved and painted with nine spaces, one handicapped. The open sign is off, but I can see light inside. A shadow.

"She's there." I reach for the door handle. "I'll get out here."

"Sam?"

"What."

"What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" I let my hand fall into my lap and look at her. "Are you serious? I'm doing what you want."

She licks her lip. "You know what I mean."

It's quick, the swipe of her tongue over her top lip. Unconscious on her part; a tic she's had ever since I can remember, since before she got sober, even. She's not even looking at me, instead focusing her tired gaze on the windshield. Despite this - despite everything - my clit reacts to it. It's not a big reaction, but sexual responses to Raina make me angry of late. Just one more lever of mine she can pull at will.

"We already discussed it." I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. "It's been decided, remember?"

"Jesus Christ, Sam."

"What?"

"It's been almost a year. I thought you were over it."

"Over it."

"Yes."

"Over it?"

"Yes!"

"You were in a coma, Raina. I'll never be over it."

She rolls her eyes. "It was only for a day - "

"Fuck you."

"People have been through worse - "

"You really don't fucking get it, do you?"

"You need to get some perspective. You overreact to things. It's a little ridiculous."

She shrugs. Licks her lip again.

The self-congratulatory gloss on the tale of the relationship destroyed by one party's desire for heroism always made me disbelieve it. It was something I'd mostly heard from movies, from memoirs, from women on the campaign trail who needed to explain away Dear John letters they'd sent in their youth. People who had narrative goals. Always the same -

I couldn't bear to see him rush into danger again and again

or

I didn't have the stomach for the worry

or

I couldn't handle the stress.

Hearing it so many times turned it into a shibboleth for ones doing the leaving, the promise-breaking. I had contempt for them, sensed something false about these declarations, even though they were largely true. Or so I've come to believe.

When you're young and death is for old people and drunk drivers, when life is full of foolish accidents and injuries that are grave and painful and hard to look at but that never seem to kill anyone that matters, a marriage to heroism seems like a dream. When I was growing up, any woman who didn't appreciate how lucky she was to have snagged a soldier or a cop (or a firefighter) wasn't a good woman, wasn't deserving. If there were issues, well, they paled in comparison to the joy of basking in glow of the hero standing next to her, didn't they? She was lucky, and stupid if she didn't understand that.

"Stella's waiting." I open the door and jump down onto the wet pavement. "I'll see you at the party."

Raina leaves as soon as the door is shut, but she doesn't swerve or drive angry, just pulls smoothly out of the lot and turns onto the road. Like she's not even angry or bothered. Like she's just dropped off a whiny kid at day care who's upset now, but will eventually be fine after a cup of juice, and maybe a nap.

*

I actually should have let Raina take me around back, because Stella doesn't hear me knocking for a while. I'm drenched when she finally opens the door.

"Fuck, Samantha," she said, holding it open. "I didn't hear!"

I do my best to keep my dripping to the hard floor while Stella peels my jacket off and disappears to the back with it. Before long she returns with a plush towel and leads me toward the hair sinks.

"Thanks for doing this on such short notice," I tell her. "You didn't have to."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," she says. "What color are we doing again?"

Raina wants platinum blonde, but it looks like shit with my undertones. I point out a deep red shade and Stella grabs the bottle and starts mixing. The towel is warm against my arms and chest and the seat under me is so comfortable it hardly feels like a chair at all and feels more like a cocoon. When she's done mixing she snaps my bra strap.

"You keeping this on? The dye'll fuck up the yellow, and I'm not paying for damages."

Stella is in her fifties - a round, fuzzy-haired, no-nonsense woman. A retired cop. Raina hadn't liked my brown hair so she insisted I visit Stella, a friend of hers. In the early days I hardly said a word and let Raina tell her what I was having done, but after a while Raina lost interest in my beauty decisions and there was room for me to develop my own relationship with Stella. If asked, I would call her a friend, but in reality she's more: she's someone who's known Raina longer than I have and sees her more clearly than interviewers doing puff pieces and bosses who worship her. She's how I know I'm not crazy.

"No, you're right." I slip the towel off my shoulders. "Raina would bitch about it."

Even in this sink room the walls are covered with mirrors, many at strategic angles. Stella leans with her elbow on the counter and regards me with a smirk and a nod.

"That she would."

The sports bra has a criss-cross back and scoops low in the front. It's longline, a style I prefer, and as I peel up the lower band over my breasts and they pop out of the cups Stella chuckles, turning on the water behind my head.

"You need to size up," she says. "That little thing can't hold you in."

"Used to," I mutter. "Gained some weight."

"Can't say I mind where it ended up."

The water is still running, but Stella's staring at my tits in the mirror. I arch my back, just a little.

"Fat doesn't just go to your tits, Stella." I stretch my arms over my head; my nipples stiffen in the cool air. "If it did nobody would need implants."

She moves from behind me and walks around front, I guess wanting a better view than the mirror provided. She stares down at me, and though she's only five feet tall she might as well be a hundred for the way she makes me feel. My clit, still throbbing from the car, swells inside my workout shorts, the middle seam pressing against it.

"Oh yeah?" She takes a step back. "Where else?"

This is how it was with Raina in the beginning: her standing over me, asking casual questions about my body while I sat helplessly with my ever-moistening cunt, desperate to answer. This isn't the first time Stella's done this, and it occurs to me suddenly that Raina may have told her about it, that they might have been here, in this very salon, talking about the things that made me come.

"Hips, mostly." I shift in my seat; my breasts sway. "Thighs."

"Can't really see it," she says.

I sigh and lay back against the cutout in the sink where my neck is meant to go. Finger my waistband for a minute or two before peeling it down over my chubby waist, around my hips, my thighs. They're almost to my knees when I realize that I can't reach any farther, and then Stella's hands move mine out of the way and tug them the rest of the way down and off my feet. She stays on her knees and spreads my thighs a bit, raking her eyes over me.

"I see what you mean." He hands are spread wide across my thighs and in the mirror I watch her study my pussy, her face just close enough for me to feel her breath. "Your cunt's a little fat, too."

I let out a low moan and try to squeeze my legs closed, but Stella holds them in place and laughs.

"Not yet."

She gets to her feet and turns down the intensity of the running water. "Stay just like that," she says.

When the warm water touches my scalp I moan again. My hands find their way to my breasts and I grope them, stroke them gently. I think about pinching my nipples, but I know if that happens I won't be able to keep my fingers off my clit, out of my cunt. I reach down and stroke my inner thighs at the thought of it, and the sight of myself in the mirror is so intense that I have to close my eyes.

"I'm impressed," she says proudly. "You're so slick I thought you'd have come hard just from sitting here."

She's scrubbing my scalp vigorously, stopping and rinsing before starting again. I try to fight it but my legs slide closed and I clench my thighs together against my clit, and it's almost enough.

The water turns ice cold on my head.

"Fuck!"

Stella laughs, loud and booming, and cuts the faucet.

"All done," she says.

"Go to hell." The cold water scared my orgasm off, but only a few seconds later that throbbing ache is back. "I really needed that."

"Don't tell me Raina and you have stopped fucking."

I reach for the towel on the floor but Stella gets their first, throwing it into a hamper. "I mean...I do her. But I myself haven't been much in the mood lately."

She's looking curiously at me. "What?"

"The fire." Raina has made me feel so stupid about it I don't even like to bring it up. "The one in Santa Clarita."

"What about it?"

My hair is dripping cold water onto my shoulders. "She almost died."

"She fights fires, they almost die all the time."

"I know she's a hero or whatever, but...I don't know if I can do this anymore."

Stella shrugs, pulls me up by the hand. Leads me to one of the back rooms. "My wife said the same thing. It's why we got divorced. Took me another five years to see the wisdom and quit the force."

The room she leads me to has several closets in it, but most of the space is taken up by salon chairs. I drop into one; she watches my tits bounce and reaches of the dryer with the comb on it.

"You don't think I'm being selfish?"

"Of course, but you have to sometimes, you know? Gotta look out for yourself."

Stella starts at the back and for a while we don't speak over the noise of the dryer. I stare at my reflection. The dye she used is only a tint; my hair is more strawberry blonde than true red, but it looks good. The peachiness goes good with my skin and it's still blonde enough to satisfy Raina. But that's how Stella is. Always looking out for me, even when I don't ask.

When she's done blow drying she reaches for the curling iron but I stop her.

"It wasn't super flat in the movie," I explain. "Let me see the robe with it like this?"

Stella opens one of the closets and pulls it out. It's perfect - a sheer robe in a deep, emerald green with feathered sleeves. I saw it in a client photo Stella had on the back wall, asked her where the woman got it. Stella had ordered it from some boutique shop. I had planned on surprising Raina with it on Christmas.

"There's floor length mirrors back here," she says, walking out. "Come on."

I whistle when the doors open. It's not just the carpet - the room itself is plush, with floor to ceiling windows on one side and mirrors on the other. There are three super-wide massage tables with some fancy mattresses atop them; the lighting is soft and welcoming and makes me want to fall asleep.

The robe looks incredible on me. I'm a bit vain about my appearance - always have been - but today it's really warranted. I resolve immediately to wear more green; the color is delicious against my skin. Though the deep red would have been even more striking, the strawberry blonde looks less-femme-fatale and is all the sexier for it. The robe conceals nothing; my entire naked body is on full display. All of a sudden I need to come again, thinking of Raina seeing me in this, of all the Sexy Nurses and Sexy Witches and Sexy Bettlejuices stopping to stare when I walk in.

"How long has it been, honey?"

I'm not expecting the question and I have to fumble for the words, distracted as I am by my own reflection.

"I don't know..." But I do know. I'm very, very aware of exactly how long it's been. "Three months?"

She scoffs, walks up to me.

"Want to add some real pizzazz to this costume?"

She steps forward, not waiting for an answer, and caresses my hips through the sheer material. I lean back against her and she takes her time feeling me up, teasing my nipples, untying the robe and cupping my crotch, squeezing gently, stopping when I bend and start to moan.

"Over there," she says. Her breathing is rough and her gaze is steely in the mirror. "Middle table."

I lay down on my belly and she motions for me to lift up, placing a cylindrical pillow under my hips before settling me back down.

It's late - almost ten at night - and nobody is looking in through the windows. I know this. But when Stella slips the sheer fabric of the robe up over my waist and exposes my bare ass to the open glass I rock my hips against the pillow. She roughly kneads the cheeks of my ass in response and I thrust back against her, wet and open.

"That's right," she says. She cups my pussy again, and as I press as hard as I can against her palm she shifts away, leaving me fucking the air. "Just like that, baby."

"Stella..." I hardly recognize that breathy whine as my own. "Stella please..."

"Let an old lady have some fun." Her tone is cruel and playful. "Don't have too many clients like you."

I feel her warmth leave me but don't have time to complain before she's back, pouring warm oil on me. I grip the sides of the table for dear life.

"Stella," I pant. "I..."

She laughs again and pinches my thigh hard. I hear the plastic bottle thud on the carpet. Then she's on the table behind me and I think she's gonna fuck me like a man would but then I feel her broad, khaki-covered thigh between my legs. She standing up on her knees back there with that leg millimeters from my swollen clit, and when she pulls me against her I can't form any words - all I can do is thrust.

The texture of her pants is overwhelming. I'm humping her leg like a horny dog and she's holding me by the waist as I rock back and forth against her. The rough-hewn material drags against my pussy lips and my clit.

"Oh, god..."

"That's it, there you go..."

I'm a whining, panting, desperate animal. She's moving her hips, too, not in desperation like me but to make it just a little harder for me to make contact, at little harder for me to come, no matter how much I deserve it.

"Stella..."

She reaches under me and twists one of my nipples and a strangled cry that must come from me fills the room. My ass rises and falls violently against Stella's leg as the orgasm that's been building all night explodes thorough me. I can't see. My cunt spasms so hard it's painful; the darkness behind my eyes is bright with light I can't describe. I'm gushing onto her pants - I can feel it squirting from me. She pants and chuckles behind me, kneading my ass and stroking my waist by turns.

*

The next thing I know I'm waking up.

I'm still on the massage table and Stella is on the floor, doing stretches and massaging her knees.

"Love it when they squirt," she says. "You made quite a mess, Samantha."

Unbelievably, my clit gives a little twinge.

"Jesus." I'm still a bit out of breath as I raise up onto my elbows. "What the fuck was that?"

"Costume enhancement," she says, nodding at the mirrored wall. "Take a look."

I get off the table and haven't taken three steps when I see what she means. Being freshly fucked has brought incredible dimension to my Martha Mae. I don't even have any makeup on, but my cheeks are flushed, my lips are swollen and my hair, though not wild, looks fresh in a way that would be difficult to replicate with styling tools.

"Holy shit."

"Holy shit is right." She groans as she gets to her feet. "Now get to that party and knock them dead."

*