Coming Together: Special Hurricane Relief Edition (14 page)

Even with
her head thrown back and eyes closed, Stormy knew the very moment
Bruce entered Shelly from the rear. Shelly's primal groan
reverberated through Stormy's sex, stoking the smoldering embers of
her earlier climax. Rocking with each thrust, Shelly's mouth traveled
from Stormy's opening to her clit, punctuated by a low grunt that,
against her swollen clit, felt much like a vibrator.

As Bruce
pulled back for the next drive, Shelly sucked Stormy's clit, as if
trying to hold herself in place with just her mouth, before releasing
it to begin the cycle anew. Stormy felt another climax rapidly
building, and she lay back, freeing her hands to relieve the ache in
her own breasts.

Shelly
shuddered and whipped her head from side to side, losing the rhythm
as her orgasm blasted through her. The shift in motion was all it
took to detonate Stormy again and her limbs shook uncontrollably with
each exquisite shock wave. Hard on the heels of her climax, and with
Shelly's cunt still contracting around his cock, Bruce let out a roar
and exploded himself.

The rain
stopped, almost on cue and as suddenly as it had started, leaving the
trio lying spent against the bank like toppled dominoes, resting on
one another. Bruce disengaged first and climbed out of the water.
Shelly went next, pausing to give Stormy a slippery kiss in closing.
It was every bit as titillating as the first, only this time Stormy
could taste herself on Shelly's incredible tongue.

Bruce
extended his hand to help Stormy rise. She carefully tested her still
quivering legs—not quite sure they were yet ready to bear her
weight. They finished dressing just as Rob and Max returned and,
without a word, all began the rigorous climb back to the van where
their guides waited.

* * * *

After a
brief rest, Stormy enjoyed souvenir shopping throughout the quiet
town with Shelly and two other women from their hotel. The sun shone
most of the afternoon, interrupted only once by a very brief downpour
which they passed in a coffee shop, fidgeting. The conversation
centered on, of course, the delightfully erotic effects of the rain.
Each shared plenty of amazement, but no regrets. Stormy grew
convinced that the rain would have to be the primary focus of her ad
campaign. Finding a reason to visit Costa Rica
in spite of
the
rain became instead a quest to attract tourism
because of
it.

In the early
evening, their group set out for the
Baldi Termae
hot springs for a buffet dinner and postprandial dip. A deep tissue
massage was also part of the package. Their aches and pains provided
a wonderful reminder of the morning's activities, but relief would be
most welcomed—especially since the rain would soon fall again
and those muscles would have even more demands placed upon them.

They found
the dinner light but delicious and the succulent array of fresh
fruits for dessert quite refreshing. Afterward, pleasantly sated but
not stuffed, Stormy and the others made their way to the changing
rooms to don their swimsuits. Each was given a small waterproof pager
that would light and vibrate when the time came for their massage.
Clipping hers to the strap of her suit, Stormy headed for the
relaxation of the therapeutic waters.

Winding path
framed by lush foliage connected the secluded pools. Stormy started
at the lowermost, supposedly coolest, pool and eased herself into the
water. While quite comfortable, she preferred hotter. Feeling a
little bit like Goldilocks, she wound her way to the uppermost pool
and discovered its waters just a bit too hot.

Descending
one level, Stormy found a pool that suited her. At first glance, it
appeared to be empty, but then she noticed Rob and Max off in a
darkened corner. Not wanting to disturb them, she climbed into the
opposite end and sat on a stone ledge, immersed to the neck. It felt
fantastic, and her sore legs relaxed almost instantly. She recalled
the grueling hike back to the van on legs exhausted from the descent
and further weakened by the enthusiastic activities in the rain.

The
encounter at
la catarata
would
undoubtedly remain an ever-stimulating memory. Stormy still marveled
at her wanton abandon, for while she fantasized about such things
quite frequently, she'd not had much opportunity to put thought into
practice. She suspected the same was true for Shelly and Bruce.
Although now that their ménage cherry had been popped, perhaps
they'd become regular swingers. Only time would tell.

As night
fell, so again did the rain. Stormy welcomed the expected rush of
sensations that accompanied each rainfall. Leaning her head back
against the lip of the pool, she let the rain bathe her face and set
her mind free to explore her wildest fantasies.

Before long,
she realized that the guttural sounds of sex were not only a product
of her imagination, but also emanated from the corner of the pool
occupied by Rob and Max. She could barely see them through the rain
and the shadows, but she could hear them quite clearly. The auditory
voyeurism only served to heighten her arousal. Their passion was
tender, yet driven. Loving, yet undeniably intense.

As she
pictured, based upon the sounds, what transpired in the far corner,
Stormy's fingers pinched here and teased there. She found it all
quite pleasant but soon reached the conclusion that the needs evoked
by the rain were so purely interactive that self stimulation was just
not going to cut it. Stormy knew her body quite well, and she knew
with absolute certainty that another's touch would be required for
satisfaction.

Stormy
seriously considered inviting herself to join Max and Rob, even
though they'd given no indication that they desired—or would
even tolerate—her company. As she took the first steps in their
direction, her pager went off. Desperate to slake her overwhelming
thirst for touch, she rushed back to the area indicated earlier. A
beautiful dark skinned man with incredibly long eyelashes awaited
her. He held in his hands a soft white towel and a selection of
scented oils from which he asked Stormy to choose.

After she
selected the cinnamon massage oil, he led her to a small, secluded
patio lit by four tiki torches. A padded table stood in the center.
At its end sat a small basket containing smooth flat stones from
which steam rose as the rain struck it. The attendant instructed
Stormy to remove her swimsuit, lie face down on the table, and drape
the towel over her backside. He then emptied the small bottle of oil
over the stones, filling the air with its pungent aroma, and
disappeared without another word.

Alone,
Stormy quickly complied with his instructions and stretched out on
the table. It felt cool against her breasts and somewhat slippery.
The rain itself delivered its own percussive massage against her bare
back—a multitude of pulsing, wet fingertips. Her hands,
stretched above her head, hung over the edge of the table, as did her
feet at the ankles. As she lay there, eagerly awaiting the massage,
she fantasized that she was blindfolded and bound by silk scarves—at
the mercy of a mysterious lover.

The rain
baptized Stormy, fueling her fire rather than extinguishing it. It
took a monumental effort not to writhe as her towel became soaked and
rivulets of rain ran between her slightly parted legs, diluting her
own plentiful fluids. If she moved, Stormy now believed, she would
break the magnificently tormenting spell and her lover would not
appear.

With her
eyes closed, the swish of soft fabric provided the first indication
of someone's arrival. She then became aware of a presence, moving
slowly around the table like a predatory cat studying its prey.
Stormy wanted to scream, "Touch me!" but she was completely
immobilized by her own fantasy, unable to even open her eyes. Her
nectar anointed the table between her legs.

A
finger lightly traced the channel of her spine. A tongue teased the
back of each thigh. Hands hovered, millimeters from her skin. She
could feel their divine pressure, their heat. A single soft kiss on
the nape of her neck left chills in its wake. Mystical. Magical.

Stormy
fought to remain still, every second magnifying her ardor. She
envisioned her dream lover: the one ever intent on their mutual
satiety—attentive, sensual, exciting—the one who somehow
knew her every unspoken desire. "Please, come to me," she
whispered in prayer. "Take me."

"
Estoy
aquí
,
" whispered a
familiar voice very close to her ear.

Stormy's
entire body shuddered involuntarily. Fingertips brushed her lips,
which parted of their own will—yielding. There was no possible
way she could resist.

"
Sí
,"
the voice urged. "
Entrégate
."

Released
from her self-imposed restraints by the imperative, Stormy turned
onto her side and melted into Mia's silky kiss. It was simultaneously
fresh and familiar, novel and known—a mesmerizing dichotomy.
Unlike the playful romp with Shelly and Bruce, this was the
fulfillment of a deep yearning that had possessed Stormy for the past
several years: to know and be known with a depth of understanding
that only another woman could possibly reach.

Mia untied
her sarong and let it fall to the ground as she stretched out
alongside Stormy on the table. The ambrosial contact—skin to
skin—made Stormy's head spin. They fit together like a soft
puzzle, bodies entwined. For just a few moments, they savored the
sanctity of the stillness. It was the calm before their storm, when
their passions coalesced into a force with the awesome potential to
obliterate everything in its path.

With
ritualistic care, Mia rose and stood alongside the table, nudging
Stormy onto her back. Taking Stormy's hands in her own, she raised
them above Stormy's head and bound them there with nothing more than
a kiss upon each wrist. The winds picked up speed, rustling the
fronds, as Mia's hands journeyed down Stormy's supine body. She knew
precisely when to linger, when to move on, and when to
return—prolonging the pleasure, postponing the release.

Mia spread
Stormy's legs, similarly securing them at opposite edges of the table
by a kiss to each knee. As she knelt on the table between Stormy's
legs, Mia retrieved a stone from the basket. They had cooled only
slightly. Spreading Stormy's lips, Mia placed the hot, oily stone
against her clit, eliciting a throaty groan. She slowly inserted two
fingers into Stormy and used her thumb to hold the stone in place,
freeing her other hand for Stormy's breasts.

Stormy
floated somewhere inside herself—lost in the fiercely
pleasurable experience. She danced on the edge of rapture; her desire
sweeping away ridiculous barriers. Mia quickened her pace, predicting
that the power of Stormy's passion would soon overcome her invisible
bonds.

The
combination of winds and rain extinguished the tiki torches just as
Stormy broke free. She leapt off the table, sweeping the basket of
stones to the ground. Taking Mia by the shoulders, Stormy pushed her,
gently but firmly, onto her back. She mounted the table, her knees on
either side of Mia's head, and immediately lowered her mouth to Mia's
sex.

Her first
taste of any woman, other than herself, swept away the last tendrils
of doubt. To make love to another woman was truly to love one's self.
She marveled at the purity of the act; the divinity. Stormy devoured
Mia, at first greedily and then with more finesse. Mia lifted her
head in an attempt to reciprocate, but Stormy held herself just out
of reach. Mia's hands instead delivered the attention her tongue
could not, rimming Stormy's anus and flicking her clit. Neither woman
noticed the torrential rain.

Stormy was
sexually reborn—free of the ties that bound her to just one
gender. Relevance rested solely in the connection, on whatever
level—from casual to committed. Infidelity was now only
possible when failing to be true to her own self, and it ceased to be
a strictly sexual concept.

Mia thrashed
beneath Stormy's cherry tongue. On her elbows, Stormy reached beneath
to hang onto Mia's ass lest she be thrown from the altar of their
passion. Sensing Mia's imminent orgasm, Stormy lowered her sex to
Mia's face, meeting her hungry mouth and hot tongue. Within seconds,
both shuddered as powerful waves of ecstasy coursed through them;
their shouts sucked away by the gale-force winds.

They lay
together, as they had at the beginning, entwined in reverent
stillness. The rain ceased, and the winds calmed. Stormy must have
dozed, because when she next became away of her surroundings, Mia was
gone. She picked up the scattered stones, returning them to their
basket, pausing to inhale the cinnamon that she would forever
associate with this night.

Stormy put
her swimsuit back on, retrieved her clothes from the locker, and went
in search of her group, noticing for the first time the havoc wreaked
by the storm. Chair legs poked from the shrubbery. One of the little
sheds had lost a thatched roof. Debris littered the path. A small
triage, set up near the bar, treated the minor injuries of a handful
of patrons and staff.

The others
huddled near the entrance: wet, of course, but apparently unscathed.
They piled into the van and, without speaking, returned to their
hotel. Their first full day in Costa Rica had been quite an eventful
one, and they each wondered what the remaining days would bring.