“Yeah, but it is warming me all the way to my toes.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I thought that was supposed to be my job.”
“Well, if you’d like to give it another try…”
Her wide smile drew my mouth into a grin. She bent and kissed me. “I think I’ve never enjoyed a business trip quite so much.”
I tugged her hair, bringing her closer. “And I never saw this one listed in the travel brochures. But I think I like it.”
Her glance slid away, and her head tilted. “You know…I have this room reserved at a little hotel, not far from the Opera House…”
“Hmmm…That’s right on my itinerary,” I murmured, knowing where this was headed.
“I’ll show you the sights after I finish with my business.”
“I’m seeing them just fine,” I drawled, and reached to cup her breast, playing with her nipple until it lengthened.
Maybe this wasn’t exactly how I thought I’d spend my week in Austria, but then again, I’d packed light, wanting to be free to linger where I chose.
I chose Annegret.
These days, award-winning novelist Delilah Devlin is missing the wide-open skies and starry nights of South Texas but loving her dark forest in Central Arkansas, with its eccentric characters and isolation—the better to feed her hungry muse! Her personal journey has taken her through one war and many countries, cultures, jobs, and relationships to bring her to where she is now—writing sexy adventures that share a common thread of self-discovery and transformation. For more about Delilah, check out: www.DelilahDevlin.com.
The Private Room
Allison Hobbs
Astra and Lanie, my girls since high school, invited me out to celebrate my divorce.
Celebrate! Yeah, right. Getting untangled from my marital mishap wasn’t easy and it most certainly wasn’t cheap. I get nauseous just thinking about all the money I had to spend. So, when Astra and Lanie came up with the divorce celebration idea, I felt more like puking than raising a glass in cheer. But I decided to grin and bear it, pretending that a failed marriage and the high cost of being free had not taken a terrific toll.
We bar-hopped on South Street and I really got my drink on, throwing down Cosmopolitans like I was guzzling fruit juice. Hell, I deserve to get pissy drunk, I grumbled to myself. My divorce settlement sucked. What kind of backwards society would demand that a woman pay spousal support to a big, strapping man? Why should I be penalized just because I work hard for a living and he chooses to loaf around? What a fool I’d been. But you know how the saying goes. Love makes you…No, scratch that—good dick makes you do foolish things.
After Astra and Lanie were sufficiently inebriated, the three of us—dignified (when sober), wage-earning, home-owning, churchgoing women—boldly sauntered inside one of those sleazy, adult novelty shops on the South Street strip. Emitting drunken giggles, we shook boxes of penis-shaped pasta, fondled feather ticklers, squeezed the pumps of nipple suckers, and ogled pussy pound cake and other naughty novelties.
Tipsy and having a good time, I actually forgot my troubles for a little while. But in the midst of laughter and frivolity, while watching Astra try to squeeze into an extremely small, satin-padded corset, I was hit with a sudden feeling of being utterly alone. No longer happy and carefree, it was obvious that the liquor was wearing off. A lump in my throat took form when I caught sight of an attractive couple holding hands as they browsed, stopping ever so often to express their love with an open-mouthed, fervent kiss.
Viewing this passionate pair pierced my heart so deeply, my knees practically buckled from the pain. Envious and close to tears, I was unable to continue my happy-to-be-free routine. I turned from the couple and briskly walked away.
“Where are you going?” Lanie tilted her head to the side.
Looking over my shoulder while walking quickly, I mouthed, “Restroom.” In my haste to get away from my friend and be alone, I mistakenly wandered into a deserted aisle that showcased hardcore sex paraphernalia. My mouth dropped open at the startling sight of vibrators, life-like dildos of varying sizes, Jock-Strap harnesses equipped with realistic penises and scrotums attached. A thigh harness with a protrusive phallus made me gasp out loud. I squinted at the advertising on the package that boasted that it was great for lap dancing.
Sobered by the jolting sight of dicks and dangling balls, my lips parted to call my friends over to share the shock of the scandalous display. But before I spoke a word, I heard someone murmur, “Mmm. Nice ass.”
Just because it appeared that I was appraising the strap-on dildos, didn’t make me fair game for some horny bastard. With my face set in mean mode, and feeling justified in expressing my indignation, I jerked my head upward. But my hateful expression swiftly changed to a look of bafflement when I discovered the person who crudely assessed my body was not a lecherous man, after all.
The voice belonged to a young woman. Early twenties. Muscular and lean. She was a lesbian, no doubt about it, but not the feminine, curvy, girls-gone-wild, come join me in a ménage-a-tois, porno-flick chick. She was a rough and rugged type of dyke. It took a few seconds to mentally shift gears. But I got it together because this thugged-out, hussy needed to know, I’m not the one! Dramatically, I scanned the aisle, turning my head back and forth, looking around me as if to say, ‘I know, you’re not talking to me!’
She ignored my theatrics and nudged her chin toward the fake dicks. “Which one do you like?”
Too appalled to speak, I twisted my features into a severe scowl.
No she didn’t! I wanted to chastise her, but being alone in the aisle with this brazen she-male, I didn’t dare antagonize her. God forbid if she developed an attitude and got all up in my face. I’ve heard that those people are easy to anger and prone to violence. Unwilling to risk a physical confrontation, I held my scolding tongue. I pictured myself wind-milling her wildly and it wasn’t an attractive sight. Even worse, was the image of the muscle-bound dyke using one hard-ass, well-aimed punch to knock me the hell out.
Still, despite my fear of her brute strength, I had to let her know that I felt offended. With carefully chosen words, I spoke ever so politely, gesturing with my hands to make my point. “Your behavior is crude.” I took a deep, huffy breath. “Now, my motto is to live and let live, but I don’t appreciate being hit on by a woman.” I gave a huge sigh, and then added smugly, “For your information, I’m not gay.”
“For real?” She took on a feigned expression of innocence.