Cherry Cordial

A story

Lauren awoke in a flush. She had only been asleep for perhaps half an hour. The clock read 11:43 pm. Her face felt warm as she put her fingers to her cheek, trying to re-orient herself, for she had woken with a start. If she couldn't sleep when her husband was away and the children were asleep, when could she?

And she had felt relatively at peace going to bed; however, now she was bolt awake and in those first few moments could not understand why. She had jogged in the morning, eaten a fine dinner of sautéed tofu and broccoli, and had ever cleared up a little question that had occurred to her for the Journal of Radiology submission she was working on. Miles had been gone three days and the household was running with Swiss efficiency, which she sense her children realized, somewhat ruefully. 'I do yank them about sometimes,' she thought, and smiled, and decided that tomorrow would be a stay-at-home day.

Her mouth was dry and she rolled over to get her glass of water and as she rubbed her left leg over her right, she felt her sexe was swollen. The pressure felt awfully good, and there was an ache, and then a coolness on the back of her thigh, touching the cotton of her pajama bottom. 'Could I really be that wet to have run down and soaked my underwear?,' she thought, incredulous. For this had happened once or twice before, but not for a long time.

'Why would I. . .' and as she rolled her hips to see just how she did feel, the first fragment of the dream came back to her, vivid and shocking. She blushed. She was thankful the lights were out and she was safe in perfect privacy, and then daring she focused on the fragment and reached back into her subconscious for more. She remembered the connection. She closed her eyes and relaxed her shoulders and involuntarily slid her left hand between her legs, over her pajamas, and she pressed down and a wave of feeling coursed up her spine and down through her legs. The images, the whole flowstream of the dream, came tumbling forth into her conscious mind.

****

You see, she had been poolside at a grand resort. Somewhere hot, in the tropics, but the pool had the giant central fountain she remembered from the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. The poolside was full of guests and nearly as many waitresses and waiters, the women all tied into blue string bikinis. The men were barefoot and wearing blue golfing slacks of the sheerest possible material, and they fluttered in the light breeze as the men walked. The pants zipped on the side, and as a man moved forward Lauren saw the light cloth hug the curves of his body, including wrapping around the long barrel of his cock, which lay hard against his left thigh, pressed to his body.

He looked at her and she had been staring, and he sidled up and said, "It's a leather strap I use to tie it there. Management says we gotta keep those cowboys tied down, so everyone's got to wear it. Part of the job." And he turned and left.

'Management must pick 'em for length too,' Lauren thought, recalling the odd sign outside of the HR office – how had she seen it? – that said "YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO PROCEED," and stood next to a thin statue of a Hindu goddess, hands over her head, that stood generously better than half a foot tall.

****

Lauren rolled over onto her back in her bedroom. 'How the heck does my brain think this stuff up?' she mused, surprised and somewhat annoyed at the vividness of the dream, the glaring sensuality, intruding on her well-oiled plans. But her lower lip trembled and she thought 'Well-oiled, indeed!' and she cast back into her memory again

****

"Would you like some grapes?" the woman asked, bending over, her breasts straining against the thin strings of her bikini top.

"Yes."

"No, put your hands down," said the woman, "Management says that we have to feed them to you one at a time."

Lauren was beginning to like Management. She opened her mouth, ready to taste a cool red grape, but the woman said, "No, I am not allowed to use my hands, either." And she placed a grape in between her breasts and leaned forward, cupping her pendulous bosom with her hands.

'This is too much,' thought Lauren, and then she recalled that she was anonymous here, and she was to focus on feeling, and besides the woman smelled good. She had a bodyspray of honeysuckle and citrus that was quite appetizing and Lauren reached her neck up and felt the smooth, cool skin on either cheek as she pressed forward between those swelling breasts and found purchase on the grape with her lips. It burst fresh and cool between her teeth, popping in her mouth and she let out an "Ahhhh…" afterwards.

Lauren looked up into the woman's olive eyes and said, "How to the men serve these?"

"They don't," the woman said. "No grapes or olives, but they do serve California rolls and cherry cordials."

'Cherry cordials,' Lauren thought. "OK. Cherry cordials."

And the woman said, "There, that was my last grape, and I have to help the men – they can be unreliable and need a fourth hand. Terrence? Terrence. Two cherry cordials."

It was the man Lauren had seen before and he walked over and said, "Two cherry cordials." The waitress sat beside Lauren and Terrence produced a small chilled tray from the cooler he was carrying. Lauren selected a dark chocolate orb.

The woman unzipped his pant leg and Lauren saw that the zipper went down to the knee. His neatly groomed package was in full view, but the waistband stayed fastened, so the triangle of cloth fell free in front while his trousers stayed up. She saw the restraint was satin, not leather as he had said, tied around his full penis just behind the head. She could barely believe her eyes; it was shocking and she blushed, but it was all so clean and the scent was fresh, oriental and spicy. From the corners of her eyes she saw other woman bending over other guests, spilling out of their bikini tops, asses wriggling alluringly in the warm sun.

The woman grasped the restraint and, holding his cock perfectly level, placed two cherry cordials on the broad beam of flesh, where they say expectantly.

"Eh, voila!" she said. Then the unnamed waitress leaned forward and took one in her mouth, planting a gentle kiss as she pulled it up into her mouth. She bit down and a tiny dribble of cherry sauce ran down the corner of her mouth. She ran her finger over it, then sucked on her finger, languorously and in obvious pleasure.

Lauren then leaned forward gingerly and took the chocolate in her teeth and she saw the blood pumping in the veins to Terrence's quickened heartbeat. She bit the chocolate to pick it up but it broke open and she caught the cherry and chocolate but some had run down her lips and over Terrence's shaft.

Lauren paused, and looked, and licked. There was somehow something more innocuous about this part of the penis, the long smooth drive from base to head, and something about kissing it from the side that made it less vulgar, less bold, and really quite refined. She licked then lapped, then closed her mouth about the pulsing bar, from the side, sucking the sweet cherry from him.

She sat back, breathless, and he zipped up and moved on. "Your card, please," said the woman. But Lauren had no card.

"Then you shall have to see the Management," she said, grasping Lauren's wrist, gently, with a raise of her eyebrows.

****

Back in her room, Lauren writhed. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled a big smile, rolling her eyes up and letting out an "Oohhh" as she raised her left hand from where it had been clasped, firmly, over her sexe. She scissored her legs, savoring the feel of the pressure in her groin and the quickening friction of her long legs rubbing one another.

Why was she so riled up? The dream had had no sex, no ravishing, even of others. Indeed, it was, with the exception of one fabulous serving tray for the chocolates, the kind of thing one could see at any four-star resort pool. Or was it? Somehow the tease, the promise tendered but unfulfilled, had her mind working. And her body working, too.

What if she hadn't sat back, gasping, from cleaning that delicious sweet cherry cordial? What if she had run her tongue up the long, long span of pulsing skin, over the navy blue satin ribbon, and up over the smooth full ridge of the cock crown and along the last short run of that softer, smoother flesh to the very tip, and placed her tongue at the opening, and looked up into Terrence's eyes? It was her same mouth on his same warm cock, but somehow the power of coming at it head on, and looking up, changed the whole power and structure of the relationship. She would transform from the one provided with a service into the servicer.

But why were her thoughts running this way? She wasn't an orgy girl; she had little taste for pornographic movies. But somehow this intrigued her, she was ensnared. She missed her flesh and blood lover. And Oh, when they got going, really going, she could be on fire. She liked none of the coarse words used to describe what they did and how they did it. 'But, let's face it, sometimes I can't resist," she thought.

That waitress, that mysterious olive-eyed and olive-skinned woman with the raven-black hair flowing in looping curls over her shoulders, what of her? Lauren's tastes ran to men, or rather man, but the vividness of the sensation of those breasts against her cheeks, and the honeysuckle citrus scent, what if she had paused, and kissed, and placed a hand over the woman to steady her bosom? What if, as she had just fantasized with Terrence, she ran her tongue from the light, smooth side of the breast down, down as the skin firmed, straining to carry the weight of those wondrous large breasts, down across the blue bikini and out onto the tip of the nipple? She had the same delicious shudder.

Somehow, though, kissing the breasts wasn't the peak of it. She wondered, devilishly, what just what would it feel like if the waitress had removed her bikini top, and Lauren hers, and they compared the unequal spans of their chests, cupping their hands beneath, and placing their breasts nipple to nipple. How would it feel to press together? To sense the electricity and to know that the woman felt it too, the mirror, the breast opposing, receiver and received. She was moved. She would have leaned forward and kissed this woman of her dream.

And just then her infant son mewed from the far room and she half-sat and thought 'Back to sleep, please go back to sleep.' And it was quiet, and she lay down and then bounced up to tip-toe in to check. Sprawling, but asleep. She tip-toed back and lay down.

'That was a lot of hot and bothered!' she thought. 'Oh Hell, I better get on with it, or I'll be up half the night." And so saying she shimmied out of her pajama bottoms and ran her right hand down between her legs.

Wow. So wet. So silky smooth. Oh! She arched her hips and back and then kicked off the covers and spread her legs wide, knees kinked, and felt the cool air on her vulva, a mint breath on her glistening flesh.

She inserted two fingers into herself. It was so hot and smooth inside, and the ripple of the penetration caused her mouth to dry and she ran her fingers back up to her clit and pressed down, side to side. Electric, pulsing in waves, waves forming larger and larger, adding and expanding, adding and then cresting and soon a peak would form, and then it did and it held its shape, perfectly formed with a tiny windspray along the top, unbalanced but not collapsing, not yet, and then rising to its full height it crescendoed. Down, tumbling foaming crashing, it collapsed into a violent froth that boiled and spread and spread, reducing and dissipating, running at last as a thin wavelet surging onto the beach where it reached its furthest reach, paused, and returned to the sea.

Lauren lay on the soaked sheets, spent. She had thought to hoist her hips over to Miles' side of the bed. There was that, too, and she smiled.

God she missed Miles. God she missed that cock. She could say that word now. Cock. Funny, it was, after a crashing orgasm like that, her vocabulary opened up, no longer constrained, Victorian, blushing. She was at the height of her sexual power and confidence after a good orgasm. God her pussy felt wonderful, smooth and strong (thank you, Mr. Kagle) and, well… empty.

'It was a fine piece of work, though' she thought, her mind casting back to her dream. 'Oh Hell, why not.' Vegas and pleasure and feeling, the liberation of that anonymous poolside, it was all so freeing, and she breathed a deep breath and reached over to her bedside table and withdrew a small wooden box. She unclasped the hinge and lifted out a bottle of Astroglide, and the felt again and her fingers clasped about the barrel of the smooth round cylinder. She removed it and ran some glide over her hand and then smirked a little "Look Ma – No hands!" smile, and plunged it inside. She sighed, a deep lungful of air escaping as she felt the penetration, smooth and straight and cool, not at all like a real cock, but just what the doctor ordered right now.

If Miles could go wild with a blow job or hand job or even doing it to himself, surely she could find some pleasure in variety, too. But that scene reverberated, the vibrator felt fine, slender, and silky smooth, but . . . well, and she reached up and felt and clasped her hand on that hefty toy which, when Miles first brought it home, she had so protested. "I'll need an epidural!" she had said. But men! Always the penis envy, the measuring tape! If he was nervous, why buy a gargantuan dildo for your wife to fuck herself with? Wouldn't it just let her know what she was missing? Yes, she would have said that, to play on his fears, if she'd thought he could laugh it off. Somehow she hadn't. But now, just now, ravished by dream then hand, a fine rhythm to the tool working her cunt – yes even she could think that word now – even now, she lifted the John Holmes Lifesize Cock from the case and brought it to her mouth.

She paused and fumbled for the cherry Motion Lotion. She lapped then licked then wrapped her mouth around the side of the silicone smooth replica. It didn't pulse or have that skinsweet taste, but in her imagination it was alive. She slid it back and forth, back and forth, the friction funny against the side of her mouth, and then she slid it all the way up, up, tongue riding up over the faux cock-crown and she pointed it at her and said, "Eh voila!"

She plunged it deep, penetrating her mouth, forcing open her jaw so that it soon ached and all the while fucking her herself below with the vibrator. Then she moved her hand up and her clit felt renewed and she knew a second wave was brewing. Her head was abuzz with the odd feel of this massive thing in her mouth and the spectre of the dream, Terrence's cherry cock and the waitress' olive bosom. She removed old John Holmes and thought better of trying to fuck him – that show could wait for Miles and half a bottle of Midol – and with both hands, well, she'd been graphic enough, no?

It was the ease and pleasure of slipping into a warm pool after lying in the sun, submerging and kicking along and along, lungs beginning to burn, but on you swim, pressing, lungs training until the moment of bursting when you break from the water. She gasped as she came, arching her back, then collapsing down.

She scootched back to her side of the bed and slipped on her shorts. She grabbed a nightshirt and padded it between her legs. And smiled. And slept.