Desert Oasis Ch. 10: Reminiscences


“Oh, gah, this is hot…” I slumped into my seat. I breathed deep and wiped my hand across my brow. “Fuck!” I hissed.

Bee’s head snapped up. “What?! What’s wrong?” She asked wide-eyed.

“Nothing. But I think I just burned my hand on the damn steering wheel. C’mon, get in, so we can get rolling and so I get the a/c going.” The car’s cabin was a furnace. Bee carefully plopped into the passenger seat while Jillian slipped into the back. We were off.

As we cruised, Bee twisted herself to face Jillian to chat. Her right hand lighted on my thigh; her index finger traced the outline of my cock through my shorts. My breathing quickened as her finger caressed me. My cock thickened, taxing the zipper, lengthening, becoming more uncomfortable as it was forced downward. It wasn’t long before I felt a dribbling of precum run down my thigh. I fretted a wet spot would show, something Bee has caused frequently in the past. I added little to the ladies’ conversation as I strove to focus on the road yet was seductively distracted by the frisson from her touch.

We pulled into the mall, finding a shaded spot in the parking structure. I gathered my composure, laboring to hide my erection’s tent beneath my shirt’s drape, and we made our way to the shops.

We wandered the lanes of the mission style mall, darting frequently into shops to escape the pulverizing heat. (One of the trade offs for great prices is thoroughly inhospitable climes, I suppose.) There wasn’t anything I was specifically shopping for, so I just trailed along. While they went into one of the stores, I bought a limeade slush from a cart and grabbed a seat on a shaded bench. An old song called “I’m A Girl Watcher” came on the mall’s piped-in music service; I heeded its advice. Jillian and Bee emerged, calling me to continue our meandering.

We entered a fashionable boutique, austerely decorated in black, white and chrome. Each of them found items they wanted to try. With us being the sole trio of shoppers, I followed them back to the dressing room. While most of the items never made it out of the cubicle for display, I did get to check some of them out. In most cases, my hesitation echoed their concerns, and with resigned ‘yeah, I thought so toos,’ they returned to change, chatting and giggling behind the closed slatted door. Of the items they tried, only two truly caught my eye: Jillian appeared in a dusty gray, tight fitting knit top with an open bateau neck, layered with an asymmetrical olive green sleeveless net-mesh sweater.

“That looks great on you!” Bee enthused from the fitting room doorway.

Nodding approvingly, “Yeah, that works on you.” Pausing, I added, “That mesh thing reminds me of something I saw in Harrod’s once upon a time.”

“Oh, really?” Bee queried, aiming her gaze at me. “And what was that?”

“Saw a woman wearing a shirt like that, only tighter fitting, in black, with nothing underneath.”

“What do you mean, nothing underneath?”

“I mean, NOTHING underneath.”

“I wanna hear more about that at lunch!” Jillian added acquisitively, looking over her shoulder as she stepped back into the changing room. Within moments, she reappeared, wearing only the mesh.

“Did it look something like this?” Jillian stood in fitting room doorway, hands on her hips, her left leg slightly bent. A strand of the net caught on her left nipple, which looked particularly dark and agonizingly hard in the soft light at the back of the store. I stared unblinkingly, half lost in her body, half lost in the reminiscences of my pre-teen discoveries in London. I croaked an enervated “That’s fucking awesome,” which was all I could muster. She radiated. “Now I definitely have to hear that story!” Jillian chuckled as she returned to her nook. Bee looked at me slyly out of the corner of her eye as she waited outside the dressing room; I stared at my feet impishly.

Jillian exited with her arms full of garments. “All yours!” She beamed at Bee. Jillian rounded the corner out to the front of the store. Bee soon stepped out in her last item: A curve-hugging black cashmere sweater with a white cotton collar and French cuffs. Striking a stance similar to Jillian’s, my mouth dropped. “You. Look. Fantastic.” She lunged and snatched my hand. “Come ‘ere! I wanna show you something!” She said, yanking me into the changing room. She hastily removed the sweater. Her breasts, trapped within her bra, were tantalizingly full. I hungered to kiss her navel. She fumbled at the collar and cuffs. Scrambling, she detached them, then buttoned them around her neck and wrists. “And what would think if I wore only these?” She posed seductively.

“Depends where.” I retorted.

Without skipping a beat, she replied, “In front of you.” She stepped toward me. “On my knees.” Another step. “With your hard cock in my mouth.”

‘Well played,’ I thought, as she rose on her tip-toes and kissed me, the louvered door rattling on impact. She skated her left palm over my stiffening cock as she circled my taut left nipple with her right index finger. Breathless, Escort bayan my cock hard and spilling precum down my thigh, I enwrapped her with my arms, pulling her to me, pressing my thirsting cock into her thigh. We broke, each superheated, gasping for air. I could feel my face tingle, flushed. She withdrew and, gripping the edges of her bra with her hands, poured her breasts out. I stepped to her, cupping her left in my hand, and kissed her again, pinching her nipple as I did. She let out a startled, “Nhhh!” that got caught in our mouths.

“Hey you two!” Jillian called, rapping on the door. We jumped, our lips separating. Before releasing her breast, I lifted it, bent and swabbed my tongue across her rigid nipple. She shuddered, an aroused “Ohhhh” passing her parted lips. I chuckled. “Is your clit just as hard?” I whispered.

“You have no idea,” she declared appetently.

“Like to find out…”

“Later. My undies are soaked!” She kissed me hard one more time, then pushed me to the door, signaling me to leave. I straightened my shirt, cracked the door, and crept out. Jillian stood there, purchase in hand, looking at me from beneath her eyebrows. A devious smile crossed her lips. Standing tall, snapping my head back slightly, I grinned widely in reply. Jillian rolled her eyes.

Bee exited with only the reassembled cashmere sweater in hand, leaving the rest in the dressing room. Making her purchase, we made our way to the center’s main building in the hopes of finding food. On an upper floor, we discovered a charming little Italian bistro appointed in tasteful neon, tall barstools and intimate round tables. As the maître d’ led the ladies to the table, I excused myself to the restroom. “If the waiter comes, order me an Italian soda,” I called.

I entered into the cleanly designed, intimate men’s room and stepped to the urinal. As I drew down my zipper and extracted myself, I was blasted by a hot, heavy cloud of Bee’s spicy, pungent femininity. I closed my eyes and breathed her in fully. My cock was weighty in my hand, plumping as I drained myself. A slippery wetness remained in the crease where my cock and scrotum meet. Replacing my cock, my brought my glazed pinky to my nose and inhaled hungrily again. I washed, and made my way to join the ladies, relieved, revived and slightly aroused.

No sooner had I taken my seat did Jillian lean toward me, “So…tell me about the woman in Harrod’s.”

I swung my body back incredulously in my chair. My “Oh, gah—” was met with a chorus of efflugent, persistent, “Oh, no, no, no. Come on.”

I leaned on the table. “OK. There’s not much to tell, really. I had to be—I don’t know—twelve? Thirteen? And I was in Harrod’s, in the food section, I think.” Bee and Jillian were transfixed. “I was wondering around fascinated by the ‘exotic imports,’ which was a lot of American foods like Tabasco sauce. And coming around a stand of jams, I think, was this tall, skinny woman, wearing a black fishnet shirt with no bra. I could see her pink nipple poking through an opening in the netting. I’m certain I wasn’t too subtle, but I tried to coolly follow her around the store for a bit. As coolly as I could as a dumbfounded twelve-year-old.” The ladies laughed.

“Did she bust you?” Bee asked.

“Nah. I mean, I’m sure she knew I was following her around, but she didn’t seem to be annoyed by it.”

“How’d you know she was French?”

“Ya know, I’m not sure. I think I heard her ask for assistance from a clerk and her accent was French. I also vaguely recall that she didn’t shave her armpits, so I thought, ‘Oh! Well, she must be French!'” Bee and Jillian chuckled. “I have no idea where the hell I got that idea from, but…”

“Did you get hard?” Jillian asked with a candid flirtatiousness that caught me off guard.

“Uh…,” pausing to recall and to compose myself, “Yeah, I probably did.” I smiled warmly in reflection.

“Did you jack off when you got back to your hotel?” She continued. My jaw dropped and my eyes widened at her ferocious candor. “Wait!” She said, catching herself in her solecism. She turned to Bee quizzically, “Do boys even jerk off at twelve? When’s puberty?” Bee was befuddled, speechless.

Energized to engage her, I answered, “I probably did.”

“Did you think about the French woman’s boobs?”

“Probably not. I mean, I’m certain that got me horny, but if I was masturbating at that time—which I probably was—I probably smuggled something out of my dad’s collection for ‘inspiration.'”

Enthralled, Jillian replied, “You did?” Bee listened with confounded intent.

“Yep,” I said with a proud forthrightness. Jillian and Bee looked at me spellbound. “I don’t know if it’s the same trip, but I remember sneaking a pack of Playboy playing cards—the ones that had the playmates’ pictures on them—out of my dad’s office and into my bags for the trip for…’assistance.’ They were classic! The deck had to be from the mid- to late-’60s, so they only showed boobs and butts—no pubes—but there were these women with naked breasts! And Bayan escort I was twelve! So hey! They did the trick.”

“And you did this in your hotel room?” Jillian continued to probe.

“My hotel bathroom, yeah.”

“How’d you do it?”

“Ah…,” I sat back up in my chair and, not wanting to discuss my nascent pubescent technique in the middle of a restaurant, I demurred, somewhat flippantly, “I’ll show ya later,” waving my hand dismissively.

“Promise?” She challenged me.

Deliberating what was being asked for a heartbeat, I cautiously answered, “Yeah. Promise.”

The conversation veered as our food arrived to typically lunchtime fare—family, friends, travel, gossip. My cock relaxed, curling and nestling in the precum soaked fabric of my underwear. It would stir occasionally as Bee shot me deliciously wily glances from the corner of her eye, her lips tightening in a faint, alluring smile.

“So, how do we want to do this?” I asked, as our meal wound down.

“What are our choices?” Jillian asked.

“Well, traffic is going to start to suck in about an hour, so if we leave now we should be safely ahead of it. If you want to keep shopping, that’s cool, but we’ll probably have to stay close to evening to let the traffic die down; otherwise, we’ll rot.”

The ladies looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, then turned to me. “I’m fine either way,” I declared with deflecting neutrality. Turning back to each other and with mutually hesitant, affirmative nods, agreed: “Yeah, we’re good. Let’s go back.”

“All right!” I said, gently slapping the table’s edge with both hands, celebrating the accord. But in doing so, I stopped time: the reality of what may transpire when we returned to the hotel—that I might be masturbating in front of Jillian and Bee—hit me like a delivery van. My stomach surged with butterflies; I felt cold. “I’m just going to hit the restroom before we hit the road,” I remarked.

“Ooh! Good idea!” Jillian concurred brightly.

We all strode to the restrooms. As the women’s appeared to be like the men’s—single occupant—Bee and I each stepped into our respective WCs while Jillian waited outside. I crept in, feeling oddly queasy. Bee’s scent billowed out again as I unzipped. I filled my lungs with her, which embraced me in a calm. Realizing I was lingering, I did myself up, washed and exited. Bee was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, right foot crossed in front of her left, with a wicked grin on her face. “Hey,” she said in a devious deadpan.

“Hey.” I continued to feel better, her smile warming me.

She approached and kissed me deeply. As she did, I felt her right hand in my back pocket. I retracted. “What’s that?”

She moved in by my ear. “My underwear,” she breathed. I felt her tongue flit along my earlobe. My heart raced; my body goosebumped. I could feel my nipples harden and press against my shirt. I chuckled deeply, breathily, as I kissed her collarbone and squeezed the left globe of her ass. The door clicked.

“All right, break it up you two!”

“OK, OK.” I joked, hoping to distract attention from my erection curling along the placket of my shorts. “Let’s go.”

Though under cover, the car was still hot. We drove briefly with the windows down to freshen the air as I primed the a/c. On the freeway, it was apparent the heat and the meal had taken their toll: we rode silently. The only sounds were the rush of the fan and the hum of the engine and the road.

After some distance, I looked in the rear view mirror. “Jillian’s passed out.”

“She is?” Bee remarked excitedly, quickly craning herself to look in the backseat for confirmation. “Good! Now you can make me come,” her voice tinged with desperation. My eyes widened. She leaned forward and reached behind her, unclasping her bra, which she extracted through her left sleeve and dropped on the floor. She then snapped herself back, lifted her pelvis off the seat and undid her jeans. She grabbed my right hand and thrust it under her shirt to her right breast. I collided with her nipple. An awkward angle, I cradled her breast and wiped the side of my index finger across the tip of her tautening bud. Her eyes closed, an attenuated “ohhh” tumbled from her parted lips. Adding my thumb, I tenderly pinched her resistant nipple. A quick “oh!” came out, as she gripped the center console and the door handle, her body coiling.

“You like?” I queried.

“Oh, baby…”

My fingers savored her softness, and feasted on every ever-increasing bump and ridge on her areola. I lightly rolled her nipple. She bit her lower lip, eyes closed. I smiled, straining to divide my attention between the road and her opulent body.

My hand trailed down her soft abdomen and slithered into her jeans. Constricted by the fabric, I opened a space between her radiating thighs with my thumb and pinky. I lowered my index finger, feeling the muggy curls covering her outer left lip. I extended my middle finger down, touching her where her lips join, and dragged the tip of my Escort finger upward, impeded at first by her sticky sweatiness, but her lips soon parted and the tip of my finger sank into her wetness and floated along her entry.

“You’re so wet,” I remarked. My finger caught under the hood of her clit. She drew in a short, sharp breath. “You OK?”

“Yeah,” she answered lightly, slightly startled. “Just really sensitive.” Her voice was laced with an anticipatory tension.

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. She looked back, eyes wide with an almost apologetic desperation.

“This isn’t going to take long,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes glazing. Her answers were short; her voice, tight.

I daubed my index finger in her and brought it up, stopping on the left side of her clit; my middle finger was on the right. I pressed into her, my fingertips pushing into the channels between her lips against her pubic bone, her clit captured between them, and moved my fingers up and down one either side of her glans, moderately, steadily. She dug her fingers into the center console and the dashboard. Her knuckles whitened; her breath became arrhythmic. She lifted her pelvis off the car seat. Her back curled. I glided my fingers down and slid in her just to her muscled entry ring, feeling every plane, every bump, every knot and knoll of her femininity bathed in her honey. I continued to caress her lips and entryway, enjoying her smooth tumescent petals. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly through her mouth. I could feel my steady pace increase the tension within her. Without warning I plunged my fingers into her, my middle and ring fingers fathoming her, my index and pinky settling into the accepting cushion of her outer lips.

“Hha! Oh gah—,” she gasped. I spread my fingers and stroked her cunt’s hot swollen walls. “Oh, I’m gonna come!”

“Really?” I said, a bit surprised.

“Mm hmm!” She answered, biting her lower lip.

“Good. Do it.”

“Ohhhh…” Her eyes closed, her jaw dropped, her cunt spasmed. She pushed on the dashboard, forcing her back into the seat. I continued stroking her within, caressing her through her orgasm. I darted my eyes to the rearview to check our passenger, who was undisturbed. Bee’s thighs, which clamped my hand as she came, relaxed.

Bee loosened her arms and strove to catch her breath. She wiped her hair out of her eyes, her sweat from her brow. My fingers, still within, stroked her tenderly.

“How was that?”

“Oh, fuck, that was good.”

“Good! And you’re right: that was quick.” I was happy for her, happy that I could make her come. “That felt great.”

“Really?” Bee asked with genuine curiosity.

“Yeah,” I intoned. “I love caressing you and making you come. Like I told you, I’d do it all day long if given half the chance.”

“Still surprises me,” she demurred.

My fingers resting, I could feel her nectar running along the gully of my middle and ring fingers, down between them, and clinging to my knuckles. I resumed a come-hither motion, dredging the tips of my index and middle fingers along the front wall of her canal to her g-spot. Her eyes closed; her focus turned into her body again. I accelerated my pace, extending my fingers with a flick before winding them back up, pressing into her molten knurled walls.

With a ravaged giggle, she said, “You’re going to make me come again.”

I spread my fingers, splaying her inflamed walls. Her body froze.

She snapped out of it, reached for my zipper, and fumbled eagerly to draw it down. Succeeding, she paused before slipping her hand in, and asked, “May I?”

“Please do!” I said eagerly.

She dove in, tumbling through the rumpled layers of fabric, ultimately tangling her fingers around the clammy stalk of my cock, letting out an “Uhhhh” as she did, expressing both exhilaration and soothing. She rhythmically squeezed my cock in a milking, tightening her pinky near the base of my cock first, with each finger following in succession. She expelled a bead of precum that dropped and cascaded down my inner left thigh. In response, I tightened my pelvic muscles, making my cock twitch and plump in her grasp.

“Oh, I love it when you do that,” she said breathily. “Do you want to come?”


“Oh, baby, why not?”

“One, if I do, it’ll be harder for me to show sleepyhead back there my technique; and two—more importantly—I’ll probably crash the car.”

“OK. You excited by the idea of coming in front of Jillian?”

“A little, but I’m trying not to think about it.”


“Well, I have to admit, it’s a little weird. I mean, in the past 24 hours, your friend’s showed up, gotten naked with us, slept with us in our bed, heard us fuck, admitted to you that she wants to see me hard, and got me to agree at lunch that I’d show her how I used to make myself come. Just a bit of a whirlwind.” My cock wilted slightly. “Still…,” I drifted off.

“Yes…?” Bee asked, encouragingly, continuing to stroke my cock.

“I am intrigued by the idea, so I’m also trying not to think about ’cause I’ll probably make myself come.” Bee was brushing her precum-glazed thumb across the top of my corona; my cock jerked. “But I’ve got more pressing things on my mind.”

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