RIPE FOR THE PICKING
1. Designing Woman
“Nervous?” Lynn inquired as their van slowly cruised the grim streets of the Lower
East Side.
“No.” Leah responded curtly, shaking her dark, fashionably coifed head for
emphasis. “Not a bit.”
In truth, annoyed would have been a more accurate description of her mood. Why was
she, an attractive, ambitious, intelligent, investment banker, only 31 years old and
already comfortably into six figures a year (excluding bonuses), and with any number of
more interesting places to be, doing, driving around with a ‘we are the world’ do-gooder
on a hot, sticky, summer Friday night looking for street prostitutes in need of condoms,
gynecological clinic referrals, and above all (according to her social worker companion)
concern and counseling?
Actually, there was a very simple answer. A month earlier at an alumni affair
she’d been introduced to Mrs. Norman Wylie (Class of ‘49), who was in the process of
establishing a $250 million venture capital fund to be devoted exclusively to searching
out and supporting female entrepreneurs. Even though the notion smacked of the sort of
idealism a hard-eyed Wall Streeter like herself would ordinarily have scoffed at, it was a
golden opportunity to ‘make rain’ for her firm, and she was not about to let it pass.
Presenting her credentials then and there, she’d boldly put in a bid to become
this new fund’s investment advisor. Mrs. Wylie, the charitably inclined widow of a
computer industry magnate, had listened carefully and seemed quite receptive, so Leah had
slyly sought to enhance that receptivity by expressing a desire to get involved herself in
some sort of charitable work.
Clearly pleased by this show of civic-spiritedness, Mrs. Wylie had promised to
send Leah a list of her favorite causes. Sure enough, several days later she received that
promised list, and, on a sort of voyeuristic impulse, had chosen the Magdalene Society, an
‘outreach group’ that worked with prostitutes. The choice had impressed Mrs. Wylie, but
had it really been necessary to make such a gesture? It was, after all, her expertise as
an investment banker that recommended her for the management of a capital fund, she
fretted grumpily as the van turned on to Delancey Street, not her (non-existent) bleeding
heart!
The first few encounters with ‘the girls’ certainly did nothing to improve her
mood. She found them to be without exception unappealing, stupid and vicious, and the
environment in which they plied their trade utterly depressing. She was just beginning to
formulate an escape clause when Lynn pulled the van over to the curb and called out to a
young woman very different, at least in appearance, from any of her predecessors. As the
latter responded to this greeting, approaching the van with a lithe, cat-on-the-prowl
gait, Leah found herself studying this particular girl with both surprise and interest.
She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, and cut an undeniably eye-catching
figure in tight, white satin short shorts and a flimsy lemon-yellow halter top out of
which her full, youthfully buoyant breasts came very close to spilling. Perched on a pair
of rakish, three-inch stilettos and crowned with an artfully teased cloud of auburn hair,
she was a study in constant, unselfconscious motion. Bantering familiarly with Lynn, the
young tart seemed oblivious to Leah’s scrutiny, now tugging those high-riding shorts down
out of the cleft of her ample, prettily rounded bottom, now tossing back that wild tangle
of hair, even at one point raising a plump, dimpled arm to sniff experimentally at its
exposed hollow. At length, however, she fixed Leah with a smoldering, brown-eyed gaze. “So
Lynn? Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, sorry,” Lynn smiled apologetically. “This is Leah Weinfeld, one of our new
volunteers. Leah, this is Lisette Reyes.”
“Professionally, it’s Lisette King,” the girl corrected; then, giving Leah’s
ensemble a shrewdly appraising once-over, she continued; “Nice outfit. Anne Klein, no?”
“Why, yes,” Leah reacted with unfeigned surprise, “yes it is.”
“Thought so.” Then with a sudden, mocking smile, added; “But hey, sweetie, this
ain’t exactly the executive suite, is it? I mean, you ain’t gotta dress up for us.”
“My name,” she responded coldly to this unwelcome display of familiarity, “is
Leah!”
“Well, excuse me!”
“As for my clothing, you’re right. Next time, I’ll wear coveralls and combat
boots.”
“God,” Lisette snickered, “I can hardly wait to see that!”
The end result of this barbed but intriguing exchange was that Leah found herself
committed to continuing her weekly volunteer work with prostitutes. Or more accurately,
weekly volunteer work with one particular prostitute, a tawny skinned, flauntingly
voluptuous twenty-year-old with a quick, street-sharp wit and an engagingly strong,
combative personality. Young Lisette was plainly no typical streetwalker. The girl was
boastfully proud of the fact that all of her ‘dates’ were regulars who came by to pick her
up only by appointment, almost always took her to ‘nice hotels’ and paid her well above
the street rate for her services. (“The guys in my book like the idea of pickin’ up street
hookers, but they don’t want any nasty surprises. So I play the role for ‘em.”). Beyond
that she was obviously bright, with tastes and interests much broader than, for example,
were those of Leah’s secretary Gina, a lower middle class Italian girl from Staten
Island.
Fascinated by her new acquaintance, Leah was soon looking forward to these regular
weekly confrontations and the sparks they invariably struck, with Lisette giving back as
good and often better than she received. Then, on the fifth week, she failed to make
contact with her curiously appealing antagonist during the regular rounds with Lynn, and
felt a surprising mixture of disappointment and concern. But as much as she mocked this
newfound ‘missionary impulse’, the following evening she was cruising the area in her own
car. It was with an almost embarrassing sense of relief that she at length pulled over at
the corner of Orchard and Delancey.
“Jesus, Leah,” Lisette greeted her, regarding her sleek little BMW with an
impressed eye, “this is sure some improvement on Lynn’s old whore-mobile, no? But what
the hell brings you down here on a Saturday night?”
“I didn’t see you last night,” she explained, feeling all at once unaccountably
exposed, “so I . . . I came tonight. To make sure you were OK . . . and everything.”
“Awww,” Lisette flashed a flirtatious smile, “you were worried about me? God, I am
so-o flattered!”
Leah felt her cheeks glowing with unaccustomed warmth. “Um, listen Lisette, I’m
afraid I’m going to have to give up the Friday night rounds. My schedule’s just too
crowded. But that doesn’t mean we have to . . . I mean, if you’d like to stay in touch . .
. .” She broke off, dropping her gaze in confusion. She hadn’t planned to say anything
like this to the girl.
Lisette bent down, and Leah became suddenly and keenly aware of the provocative
odor wafting from the girl’s generously exposed body, a ripe, arrestingly foxy reek that
not even the subtle scent of L’air du Temps could quite mask.
“Why Leah,” a sultry murmur literally caressed her ear, “I didn’t know you
cared.”
“My God, what an ego,” she snipped back. But her voice betrayed a slight
breathlessness, and in the silence that followed Lisette’s bold, insinuating eyes held and
searched hers. “Well,” she resumed, nervously moistening her lips, “why don’t you give me
your number, then, and . . . “
“Actually,” Lisette cut in, “I think it’ll be better if I call you, no?” Then,
quite casually, her mouth enveloped Leah’s in a warm, deeply searching kiss. “Now,
speaking as one professional woman to another, I think you’d better get goin’, OK? I’m
expectin’ a date any minute.”
The encounter left Leah stunned and distracted. She could not banish from her
thoughts the memory of that sweetly disorienting kiss, nor of the tongue that had slipped
between her reflexively parted lips, lingering there briefly but with profoundly
disturbing effect. The episode had been so short-lived it might almost have been a
delusion; yet each time she relived the moment, the deliciously throbbing vividness of the
sensation explicitly confirmed its reality. And for several days thereafter, it was the
subject of repeated flashbacks. At times quite noticeably so. Steve Ross, the guy she was
currently more or less seeing, had laughingly broke in on one such distant-eyed reverie
during dinner the following night. “Hey! Ground control to Major Leah!” And on Monday
afternoon, Gina had teasingly taken note of yet another of these lapses into dreamy
detachment. “Gee, Leah, you look like a woman in love!”
Then on Thursday afternoon, she finally heard from Mrs. Wylie’s assistant. The
fund’s board of directors had voted to name her its principal investment advisor. In the
sheer excitement of having single-handedly landed a client of this magnitude for her firm,
she forgot everything else for the moment. This was the way stars were made on the Street,
she’d explained enthusiastically to Steve as they had a drink at her place early Friday
evening before proceeding to a celebratory dinner at Le Cirque (thanks to a last minute
reservation wangled for her by one of the senior partners at her firm). They were just
about to leave, when the phone rang.
“Leah?” A familiarly girlish voice announced. “‘S me. Lise.”
A sudden rush of warmth suffused her cheeks and her heart began to beat a little
more quickly. “Lisette, hi,” she answered, involuntarily lowering her voice and turning
away from her guest; “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to see if you’d like to get together? Like to talk and stuff?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve already made plans for the evening and . . .”
“No problem,” her excuse was cut brusquely short. “It’s no big deal.”
“Well, uh, what about tomorrow?”
“Nah, no good. I got business to take care of tomorrow.”
“How about Sunday then. We can . . .”
“Nope, Sunday’s out.”
“All right, when is good for you?”
“I dunno, Leah. I never know when I’ll have free time. Especially since I’m
starting summer classes next week.”
“Oh, I see.” A short but furious internal struggle ensued; then the more powerful
of the two contending desires triumphed. “Where are you now?”
“On my corner,” Lisette answered, adding mock grumpily; “My eight o’clock date
cancelled.”
Analyzed rationally, the decision was utterly incomprehensible. Forgoing dinner at
one of the city’s most fabled temples of haute cuisine and (in all probability) seriously
damaging a promising relationship with an attractive and obviously interested guy? For
the company of a teenaged Latina hooker? But if she had any doubts about it en route to
the rendezvous, they vanished as soon as the girl scrambled into her car.
“Hey,” Lisette remarked approvingly, checking out the clingy little navy silk slip
dress Leah had donned for the aborted visit to Le Cirque, “that’s a really hot outfit.
Looks like Beene.”
“It is. From his ready to wear collection,” Leah responded, once again startled by
the girl’s apparently unerring eye for such things. “You really seem to know your
designers.”
“Yeah, I’m into fashion,” Lisette explained, adding with a laughing reference to
her own outfit (a black vinyl miniskirt, an orange bustier and spike-heeled knee boots.
“Even though I might not exactly look like I am, no? Which reminds me, I need to pick up
some magazines. First decent newsstand we pass, pull over, OK?”
The requested stop was duly made on 14th street, and when her passenger returned
to the car she was carrying a half-dozen or so glossy fashion magazines. “Let’s drive over
to the West Side,” she suggested as she leafed through her purchases. “We can park by the
river and talk.”
So it was that over the next two hours Leah learned a great deal about her new
friend, the daughter of a garment worker mother whose father had abandoned the family when
she was still a child. Who had first learned the power of sex, she matter of factly
explained, when at age twelve she was ‘jumped’ by her mother’s boyfriend. “He came home
drunk one hot afternoon and caught me layin’ around wearin’ next to nothin’. He dragged me
into the bedroom but just as he’s about to pop me, we hear my mother’s voice outside in
the street, talkin’ to Mrs. Herrera, the super’s wife. There’d been a fire at the place
she worked and she was home early.
“So I whisper in José’s ear ‘you better give me every fuckin’ dollar in
your wallet, you fuckin’ pig, or I’m gonna start screamin’ for mami. And if she comes in
here and sees what you’re up to, she’ll kill you!’ And she would’ve too. That turned out
to be my first trick. Fifty-four bucks. And the bastard never touched me again, either.”
She had, however, planned her career as a ‘sexual services provider’ (in the
politically correct vocabulary of the Magdalene Society) with rather more care than the
typical practitioner of that ancient profession. At the age of sixteen, with a
‘prime-time’ body and false proof of age, she’d gotten a job as a dancer in one of those
Wall Street area joints catering to testosterone-glutted traders, and within six months
had assembled a ‘book’ of steady, safe, discreet and very well-paying clients. Which she
periodically replenished with word of mouth referrals. That way, she explained to an
utterly fascinated Leah, she got to keep all the money she made and largely avoided the
hassles most working girls, lacking her enterprise, had to deal with on the streets. “I’ve
never been chippied or roughed up by a john, nor picked up by the cops,” she boasted. “And
I can easy make $1,500 a week without killin’ myself. It gives me plenty of free time and
enough money to do what I really wanna do.”
And what she wanted to do was be a fashion designer.” I’ve been takin’ classes at
Parsons and FIT for two years now. Mostly courses in technical areas like sketching,
fabrics, detail work, basic stuff. When it comes to design I got my own approach, so I
keep a low profile. I don’t want anyone stealin’ my ideas, y’ know.” (Leah barely
suppressed a smile at the mixture of arrogance and naiveté this remark expressed)
“The problem is, I’m now at the point where I need someone to work with. And that’s where
you could help me. That is if you really meant what you said the other night. About
wantin’ us to be friends and everything.”
“Of course I meant it, Lisette,” Leah answered, feeling strangely fluttered by the
air of intimacy being established between them. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. But as
far as helping you goes, I’m an investment banker, not a fashion industry professional.”
“So what? You don’t dress from K-Mart. I noticed that the first time I saw you.
And seein’ you tonight in that outfit just clinches it. For the design ideas I have, Leah,
a body like yours is like from heaven. You’re exactly what I’m lookin ‘for.”
“Oh, come on,” Leah disputed this breath-taking assertion with an appropriate
shortness of breath. “What about you? God, I could never show off a neckline the way you
do.”
“The hell you couldn’t. With an underwired push-up, any girl can show enough
cleavage to make a top like this work. No, Leah, with the right underpinnings you’d look
plenty hot enough. On the other hand, if I tried to get into an outfit like that Beene of
yours, worn if I’m not mistaken,” Lisette observed with a playful leer, “with no
underpinnings at all, I’d be wobbling around inside it like Jell-O. That’s assumin’ I
could manage to stay inside it. God!” she blurted out suddenly as she caught sight of the
time on the dashboard read-out; “Jesus Leah, let’s get goin’. I’m sposeta meet a date in
twenty minutes.”
As they drove back across town, Leah allowed herself to be talked into giving
Lisette the desired assistance, even though she tended to regard the girl’s aspirations as
totally unrealistic. But perhaps by establishing a relationship, she could eventually
persuade her new young friend to make more practical use of her obvious intelligence and
ambition. But as the moment of parting drew near, her interest in serving as a ‘role
model’ gradually gave way to a feeling of edgy anticipation. Which was ultimately replaced
by a sharp pang of disappointment when, after pulling over at the corner of Orchard and
Delancey, Lisette simply opened the door and got out.
“Night, Leah. And thanks. I’ll call you.”
So their unlikely friendship was established. From the outset it was Lisette who
dictated all the arrangements, however, calling Leah (often at the last moment) to come by
and pick her up on the usual corner. They would then drive uptown to an old factory loft
building on Seventh Avenue where the girl rented a small studio. Once there, Lisette would
seat her on a stool under an overhead light and begin sketching, drinking malt liquor and
dismissing Leah’s efforts to engage her in conversation with curt monosyllables. Far from
encouraging the warm rapport she had envisioned in agreeing to Lisette’s proposal, these
interludes were almost completely lacking in intimacy. Repeatedly she tried to revive that
sharp give and take that had made their earlier meetings so exhilarating, but without much
success. Indeed, with each encounter, Lisette seemed to become more intent upon
establishing control of the situation.
She would make petty demands, then relentlessly press them until Leah simply
yielded in order to obtain peace. Learning, for example, that Leah had a mink coat,
Lisette declared that she wanted to borrow it to wear on a “date”. Naturally, Leah
demurred; but the girl kept at it until she was browbeaten into acquiescing in the demand.
Try as she might to rationalize such displays of weakness as a means of gaining Lisette’s
trust and ultimately having a positive impact on the girl’s life, with each surrender she
felt a growing sense of disgust with herself. The explosion finally came one Sunday night
when, under the merciless lash of Lisette’s haste to meet a date, she refused to run a red
light at her companion’s insistence.
“Damn you!” She erupted in a tremulous, high-pitched voice. “Do you honestly think
I keep meeting you because I enjoy being patronized, badgered and serving as your
combination dressmaker’s dummy and chauffeur? While you sit there sketching away at God
knows what, I certainly don’t, and trying to intimidate me? That my sole purpose in life
is to give in to any demand you may see fit to make? No questions asked?”
“Actually, Leah, I never thought about it,” Lisette reacted calmly, then cleverly
turned the question back on its original poser. “Why do you think you keep meetin’ me?”
The coolness of this response contrasted so markedly with her own turbulent
emotions that Leah grew even more heated. “Why you . . . you ignorant, conniving little
tramp! I’m trying to help you. I . . . I want . . .” she stammered out in sudden
helpless confusion.
“Bullshit!” Lisette interjected emphatically, silencing her with an icy glare.
“The problem is you don’t know what the fuck you want, Leah.” She opened the door and
swung her legs out onto the curbstone, while looking sullenly back over her shoulder to
offer a parting shot. “I wonder how someone smart as you could be so totally dumb!”
The car’s door slammed shut with a solid, Teutonic thud of finality, leaving Leah
slumped numbly behind the wheel, struggling to catch her breath in an enervating miasma of
heat, humidity and that disturbingly feral scent which, like a vixen in heat, Lisette
invariably left lingering in her wake. It was several minutes before she was able to shake
off this leaden lethargy and complete the drive home.
The following Monday through Thursday, she was on the road, visiting clients in
Dallas, Denver and Los Angeles. As an achingly hollow feeling steadily took possession of
her, she found herself battling furiously against an urge to break off the trip and fly
back to New York. In the end she managed to stave off this mad impulse, but not without
paying a heavy price. By the time her plane touched down at JFK on Thursday night, she
felt as if she were teetering on the verge of a nervous collapse. Retrieving her car from
long-term parking, she headed straight for the Lower East Side. As she neared that
familiar corner, she literally began to squirm with anxiety.
“Change, damn you!” she muttered hoarsely, fingers beating with frantic impatience
against the steering wheel while waiting out the seeming eternity of a red light, then
(four nights too late) easing on through the intersection without the sanction of a change
to green. “Be there. For God’s sake, please be there!”
Her prayers were duly answered. There on the usual corner she spotted the figure
she was looking for, leaning down and talking to the occupant of a sleek black Lexus.
Pulling in behind that vehicle, she laid heavily on the horn, her only thought being to
stop Lisette from getting into it. Startled, the girl jerked bolt upright, and after a
long, hard look in Leah’s direction, once again bent down to speak to the driver. After
several moments, she stepped back and the Lexus drove off. Leah pulled up into the
vacated spot and leaned across the empty passenger seat to gaze imploringly up at the
figure standing in the harsh glare of the street lamps.
Wearing a pair of denim cut-offs that exposed more of her lushly rounded rump than
they covered, an undersized white tank top through the cheesy fabric of which her dark,
emphatically jutting nipples seemed about to burst and a pair of brazenly tarty
ankle-strap spikes, her wildly teased dark hair cascading down around her bare, honey-hued
shoulders, the girl exuded an allure that Leah found utterly breath-stopping.
“Lisette?” Her mouth was parched, her voice hoarse with desperation. “I need to
talk to you.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Lisette fixed her with a defiant glare. “And, just what have
you got to say to a, what was it, an ignorant little tramp, like me?”
“Please?” She murmured beseechingly, quailing before those burning eyes and
lowering her own in a display of abject submission. “Oh, God, please?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” The door opened and Lisette settled into the passenger
side seat. “So talk. I’m listenin’.”
Leah stared at her hands, tightly gripping the steering wheel, and labored to
catch her breath. “Come on, you fuckin’, pain in the ass yuppie cunt!” the girl snarled as
the silence lengthened; “What the fuck do you want?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she finally managed in a half-strangled tone; then sagging
forward, pillowed her head on her crossed arms and burst helplessly into tears.
“Jesus, Leah,” Lisette sighed theatrically, “stop blubberin’, will you?”
“So-orry.” She obediently struggled to control her sobbing. “I’m just so-o
confu-used. I don’t know how I even got through the last few days.”
“Well, you did get through ‘em, didn’t you?” Lisette observed. “So now what?” Once
again her relentlessly probing brown eyes met Leah’s, but this time Leah was unable to
look away. And equally unable to answer. After another longish interval of silence, the
girl tossed her head impatiently. “Oh, all right. Let’s go.”
“Go?” Leah murmured weakly. “Go where?”
“Where I tell you to go, dum-dum!” Lisette fired back. “Shit, here I am sittin’
next to Ms. Hot Shot Executive and still I gotta make all the decisions!”
Following her passenger’s directions, Leah drove down town. They were in the
deserted bowels of lower Manhattan, in that warren of narrow, twisting cobblestone streets
that make up the city’s financial district, when she was instructed to pull over. Having
done so, she turned her eyes appealingly to her companion. An electrically crackling
atmosphere now enveloped them both. Leah tried to moisten her paper-dry lips, but flannel
seemed not only to coat her tongue but to be upholstering throat as well. Lisette’s
enticing, pungently yeasty scent teased her nostrils and the sultry set of those warm,
pouting lips fascinated her eye, reducing her to a state of tense, tremulous
anticipation.
“On the streets,” Lisette confided, “a girl learns real quick how to pick out the
fruit that’s ripe for the pickin’. And ever since the night you came lookin’ for me, I’ve
known that’s just what you were. I even let you know I know, remember?” She leaned close,
her lips teasing Leah’s in a pulse-quickening evocation of that defining moment. “So,
Leah, why has it taken you so long to admit what it is you really want from me, huh?”
Once more, Leah found herself in a state of paralysis, unable to speak.
Deliberately Lisette drew the moment out, stretching it like a body on a rack while Leah
waited, her flesh quivering, her eyes mutely pleading for an end to this fevered agony.
“You want me, don’t you, Leah?”
Not trusting her voice, Leah barely nodded. To which admission Lisette reacted
with a series of wiggles and contortions that left her, when she had completed them,
completely (as opposed to merely three-quarters) naked.
“Well,” the little siren purred seductively, adjusting her seat into a reclining
position, spreading her thighs and extending her open arms, “come and get me!”
“But I . . . ,” Leah writhed in tormented uncertainty, “I don’t . . . .”
“Stop thinkin’, Leah. Just do it!”
With this crudely explicit summons, the dam finally burst and yielding to pure,
mindless instinct, Leah flung herself at Lisette’s invitingly lush body. Her mouth
fastened greedily on those succulent, chocolate brown nipples, she burrowed her nose into
those moist, tangily acrid armpits, sounded with her tongue the depths of the navel,
before finally burying her in the inviting triangle of coarse, dark moss between those
firm, honey-hued thighs. It seemed to her that she had scarcely begun indulging these
newly discovered and shockingly corrupt appetites when Lisette’s hands roughly entangled
themselves in her hair, and the girl began to pump her pubic mound into Leah’s face with
near suffocating urgency. A moment more and her partner’s entire body went rigid, then
began to undulate with slow, rippling, almost spastic shudders.
“Ohhh, ma-mi! Uh-huh! Yeah, oh yeah! Oh, Jesus! Ah . . . ah . . . aaahhhh!”
Lisette exploded with liquid enthusiasm. “Yeah! Oh, ba-ay-ay-beee! Uhhhnnngh!”
Her partner having at last fallen back into a spent, sweaty, satisfied heap, a
still frantically aroused Leah was now left to her own devices. The most immediately
obvious of which was masturbation. Settling back in her own seat, she hiked up the skirt
of her prim Lady Brooks suit and slipped a hand inside the waistband of her panty hose.
Her vaginal canal was dilated and startlingly wet. Could this be the same organ that
usually required lavish applications of expensive prescription lubricants because of a
chronic ‘dryness problem’? She gently fingered her ripely budding, almost unbearably
sensitive clitoris. Her companion’s ecstatic moans still echoed in her ears, while in her
mouth the mingled tastes of love, salty, bitter, faintly rancid, collected by a
shamelessly depraved tongue from the most intimate crevices of Lisette’s body kept the
thrill of these explorations alive and tingling deep in the pit of her belly. She closed
her eyes and with a hiss of pleasure began to concentrate on getting herself off.
“Yo, Leah, that was amazin’, no?” Lisette abruptly roused herself, disrupting
these intensely self-absorbed ministrations. “Did you learn to use your tongue like that
from sealin’ envelopes?” A bare foot playfully jostled her, completely breaking the spell.
“Or are you just nasty by nature?” Then adjusting her seat back up into the upright
position and gathering her few articles of clothing, she continued, “c’mon, we better get
goin’.”
Despite an urgent need for release, Leah acknowledged the wisdom of this advice by
following it; but she was also keenly aware that the deep and insistent hunger Lisette had
roused in her would not be fully satisfied if she had to satisfy it on her own. “Let’s go
back to my place,” she gently importuned as they drove back up town. “Just for a little
while. We’ve hardly been together all.”
“Can’t Leah,” Lisette casually vetoed the idea, “I got business to take care of.”
“But Lisette . . .”
“Leah, I said no, OK?”
But as she was preparing to exit the car, Leah reached out and caught her by the
hand. “Lisette,” she entreated, “aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”
“Kiss you?” Lisette reacted in mock horror. “After you just had that licker of
yours up my butt-hole?”
But she bent forward and tenderly cradled Leah’s chin in the palm of her hand.
Leah’s eyes closed and her lips parted expectantly. She felt Lisette’s warm, moist breath
mingling with her own, then the pressure of the girl’s mouth against hers. It was the
first such contact since that brief kiss that had sealed her fate a little over a month
earlier. But Lisette made it more than worth the wait. The girl’s sinuous tongue advanced
deeply, retreated, then surged forward anew, playing out a kind of oral copulation that
was not only rapturously arousing but built, steadily and inexorably, to a climax. At
which point a flood of hot, honey-thick saliva poured into Leah’s mouth. With a soft moan
of pleasure, she swallowed this “ejaculation”, clinging to Lisette in an effort to prolong
the sweetness of the moment. But the girl wriggled free, laughing.
“Hey, Leah, that’s enough for one night, OK? Now go on home an’ take care of that
itch. I’ll call you.”
| 
