The clay is cool where you touch it to my skin, soothing against my flushed cheeks. Whether it’s the margaritas, the fire crackling behind the grate, or the fact that we’re alone at your parents’ place, I’m feeling intensely warm. I brace my palms against the rough fibers of the carpet, trying to hold still for you. You apply the facemask methodically, layering it in careful sweeps beneath my eyes, spreading the loamy balm down to my jawline. I breathe in deeply, savoring the pungent earthen aromas. A pleasant shiver runs down my spine as you gently place a few stray hairs before anointing my forehead. What was meant simply as a self-care treatment now somehow feels more like a ritual — a secret pact, even.
I watch you work, relishing this rare glimpse of you lost in focus — your endearingly furrowed brow, the way your eyes shimmer as they narrow. You contour my mouth with sweeps as delicately precise as brush strokes; I hold my breath, taken aback at how palpably sensual this feels — the light tracing of your fingertips just at the edges of my lips — and I’m sure I’m not alone in being suddenly conscious of this intimacy, or acutely aware of the pressure of your thigh against mine. Outside, the cool summer evening fades to twilight.
“Don’t move or it’ll crack,” you caution, leaning back to assess your handiwork. I can’t help but to smirk at your admonishment — you always take yourself so seriously — but as my mouth twitches I feel the micro-tugs of the already hardening clay. I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, breathing deeply to quell my sniggers… when you kiss me. The delicate pressure of your lips on mine is so slight it takes me an instant to understand what’s happening, but I daren’t open my eyes for fear of ruining the moment. It lasts less than an instant, but it fills my senses — a graze as soft as silk, a whiff of coconut sunscreen, a taste of margarita salt, a low, quiet sigh… or is that last one in my head? “Don’t move,” you repeat, a whisper in my ear as you pull away.
I open my eyes. You’re busying yourself with the clay, wiping excess clumps from your fingers, deliberately avoiding my gaze. “Hey,” I breathe through stiff lips. You look up, uncharacteristically shy for one so self-assured.
“Sorry,” you mumble bashfully, “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t help it — ”
“Oh! No,” I manage to mutter, “tsokay.” It comes out awkwardly, a strange hiss through my teeth, and we both break into relieved giggles. The mask crackles up my cheeks, but I can’t be bothered to maintain a straight face.
“Oh dear,” you chuckle, examining the fissured lattice of my mask, “I guess it was probably dry enough. Let’s go wash it off.” You take my hand and help me up off the floor, then guide me to the sink, your fingers clinging loosely and playfully to mine. Most of your shyness seems to have evaporated, and we’re back on familiar ground — just great friends, as we’ve always been.
“You’ll probably get mud all over that white tank, though,” you note matter-of-factly as you rinse your hands. As I reach down to pull off my top, you move to help me, peeling it slowly up from my sides with still-dripping fingers, guiding it carefully over my head so as not to stain it. Your gaze darts to my black bralette before you clear your throat and announce, “I’ll get us refills.” Okay — so maybe not just great friends…
I rinse the mask off quickly, not even caring that my skin actually does feel quite refreshed. In my fantasies, I’ve brushed up against the idea of… exploring… with you, but it never got very far. It’s not like I really even know what to picture. We’ve both been with a few guys — we certainly dissect the subject enough — but we’ve always sort of awkwardly avoided the possibility of women… not that the topic was taboo, but — well. Maybe it was because I was dimly aware that I did have a bit of a thing for you… and perhaps I wasn’t alone.
I join you again on the floor by the fire. I haven’t put my shirt back on — I don’t know what you’ve done with it. Your eyes glint mischievously as you hand me my drink, its icy condensation a stark contrast to the heat emanating from the flames. Beside you, I notice a bottle of coconut oil that wasn’t there before. “I was thinking we could continue our spa night with massages…” you venture, and I can tell you’re watching me carefully for any sign of discomfort. But I’m instantly intrigued by the idea.
“Sure — your turn to be pampered,” I tease.
You shift your position to face away from me, your bronze shoulders gleaming in the firelight. I pour a few drops of oil into my palm and rub my hands together, taking a deep breath before placing them at the base of your long neck. We’ve given each other massages before, but somehow this time feels different. I drag my thumbs up and along your spine, applying pressure steadily. I rub in mirrored circles, slipping my hands under the straps of your tank top, and wonder whether I can get away with sliding them down your shoulders… Your muscles are stiff beneath my fingers, and though I expect you to relax into my touch, I feel you tensing up.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, but — ” you hesitate, “I mean, would you mind if I lie down? I think I could loosen up a little more — ”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” I blurt out too quickly, but you don’t seem to notice: you’re already stretching out on your stomach, your pajama shorts hiking up to reveal the lower curves of your ass. I clear my throat and go to work, kneeling awkwardly at your side. “Feel free to sit on me if it’s easier,” you suggest, your casual tone only slightly forced. I lift a leg over your body and lower myself, resting my thighs lightly against your hips. It is easier, of course — I dig the heels of my palms into your lats, spreading through the knots and kneading along your shoulder blades. You hum appreciatively, your muscles giving way under my touch… but the straps of your tank are annoying as hell. When I finally make to pull them off your shoulders, you surprise me by rising up on your elbows:
“Do you want to just… take it off?” you propose. Your voice is like satin, smooth and enticing.
“Okay…” I murmur. I slip my fingers under the hem of your tank and pull it up slowly, exposing your gorgeous back. I feel the stretchy fabric catch and give as it frees your ample breasts, the plump sides of which swell delectably as you rest your torso back down. I add some oil to my palms and resume my massage, working my way up, delighting in the firmness of your lower back, the feeling of your narrow waist in my hands, the soft flesh of your breasts at the edges of my fingertips as I knead along your spine with my thumbs… Your hums seem to intensify, sounding more and more like moans. I suddenly realize you’ve slowly been pressing your ass up into my spread thighs, and I notice how good it feels between my legs. Following your lead, I carefully start to bear down.
“You’re very good at this,” you gasp as I grind into you, innocent pretenses dissolving by the second… and then you’re shifting around underneath me, turning onto your back to bare your phenomenal tits, smiling wickedly at the fervent expression on my face. “Do my front?” I hesitate only for a moment, then place my hands at the base of your ribcage and slide them up slowly, pausing just below your breasts to cradle their plump fullness. You arch your back in anticipation, your nipples already stiff with excitement. Seized with a sudden craving, I lean forward and take one of those perfect tawny nubs between my lips. You whimper as I lick and suck at first one, then the other nipple, leaving them damp and glimmering in the flickering light.
I reach for the coconut oil and dribble a minute trail down between your breasts, then proceed to rub it in, cupping and massaging your sumptuous mounds, relishing the firm weight of them in my hands. I coat them with oil, spreading the balm until they shine, all the while feeling your body writhe beneath me, tantalizing my already burning cunt. You sit up and pull me into a kiss, as deep and insistent as your first was delicate and shy. My heart is pounding in my chest, my body shaking slightly at the fervor of our obvious hunger for one another.
You slip your hands up my thighs and into my shorts, squeezing my ass as you flip me onto my back. “I want to taste you,” you croon, your moist breath in my ear sending a thrill down my spine. I don’t even have time to protest — not that I want to — you’re already pulling down my shorts and panties. I’m pulsing with anticipation, my cunt tightening pleasurably as I watch you lower your mouth to my slit. I’m stunned, and more than a little thrilled, to find that the embarrassment I normally feel at this form of intimacy is utterly drowned out by desire.
When you press your tongue into my clit, it sends shockwaves through my whole body. Your licks are light and slow at first, but they build quickly into vigorous strokes as you ease into me. “My god — you taste delicious!” you exclaim, propping yourself up slightly to meet my fiery gaze.
I reply, “Like what?” before I can stop myself, blushing slightly at the bold naïveté of the question.
You smile. “It’s… hard to describe. Like, a bit spicy? But also, somehow, earthy…” I can’t help but to think of the rich natural aromas of the clay mask, pleased that we’ve somehow come full circle — it’s like a sign, hailing the rightness of it all.
I’m surprised at the sudden intensity of my yearning to taste you in turn; in my fantasies this was never something I had imagined wanting to try, but now I’m overcome with curiosity, practically salivating at the thought of your wetness. I sit up to kiss you, savoring my own juices on your lips. “My turn,” I entreat, moving to swap places, but you press me back down — “I’m not finished.”
“That isn’t fair!” I moan as you dip back in. You stop and consider me for a moment, then reach down to pull off your shorts before crawling up alongside me.
I’m struck dumb as you move into a reverse position, carefully placing one knee on either side of my head, opening up before me. Your vagina is exquisite — labia the color of dusky coral, one slightly longer than the other, tapering in dainty folds to swaddle the glossy pink pearl of your clit. The smell of you is already driving me wild — somehow reminding me of fresh sourdough. A milky dewdrop purls between your velvety petals, and I cannot imagine a more appealing delicacy. I tilt my head forward and collect it on the tip of my tongue, relishing its sharp tang as you cry out.
We take our time exploring one another, tasting and touching, gasping and marveling. Neither of us come. But when the fire has burnt down to glowing embers and we lie in each other’s arms, utterly exhausted from the waves of pleasure and wonder, I feel exhilarated at the thought that there’s still so much more to discover with you.
