The night is hot and humid. The hotel bar is depressingly quiet, except for the sound of rain hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows. The other bar patrons and I should be enjoying the view of the city lights from this run-down Marriott not too far from Atlanta Hartfield airport. Instead I’m looking out at the same gray clouds that have followed me from Chicago. And I thought the South would be a little more picturesque.
As I work on my second lemon martini, the bartender is mixing an ice cream drink in a blender. The blender’s whirr fills the large, nearly empty room. The noise is rhythmic, almost musical. The bartender pours in Galliano and crème de cacao. The latter is labeled “white,” although it is clear, and I smile at the non sequitur. I think this drink is called a Golden Cadillac.
With the last sip of my lemon martini, I glance over at the idle jukebox. I shake my purse, and hear quarters. I decide that it’s time to liven this place up a little.
I notice her as I make my way to the jukebox, sitting alone in the corner booth. She’s too cute to be believed, a tiny blonde with a sweetheart face and wide blue eyes. Surrounded by Egyptian-blue eyeliner and pale baby-blue eyeshadow, the sky-blue hue of her eyes is impossible to miss. Curves spill out of all sides of her green-and-white checked dress with the antique-white lace details at the bust and hemline. She wears this delicate confection over cowboy boots, adorned with a single, simple gold chain around her wrist. She looks thoughtful, her dark-cherry lips drawn up in anticipation.
I can guess what curves like that mean: she somebody’s Mama. More than one somebody, I bet. I bet she has boys, and I bet they’re a handful. But they aren’t here in the bar. This is Mama’s night out, and she’s going to enjoy it.
Thank God for Mama’s nights out. They’re the reason God invented jukeboxes, in fact. The jukebox is the perfect lure. As I insert my quarters, I try to imagine the perfect bait. I push the left-pointing arrow until I arrive at the beginning of the plastic racks of album track listings. What will get Mama out of her corner booth and moving those beautiful curves?
In the middle of the plastic racks, there is a CD called 1990s Hip-Hop. I scan its contents. Hm, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back?” Baby sure do got some back, but will 1990s Hip-Hop make her shake it?
Then I see another compilation album: Women of Country. Trisha Yearwood, “She’s in Love With the Boy?” Not exactly the message I’m trying to convey. Gretchen Wilson, “Redneck Woman?” I steal a glance at Mama, who receives her Golden Cadillac from the bartender and attacks the thick drink with a red-and-white striped straw. Perfect.
I follow the jukebox’s instructions, punching in the album number (36) and track number (01), pick three others songs for my dollar, and stroll back to my stool. The sounds of excited redneck women, followed by guitar chords and drums, emanate from the jukebox. They are quickly followed by a squeal of glee from Mama’s booth. By the time I’ve turned my bar stool around to face the scuffed parquet dance floor, which is approximately the size of a large shower, Mama is dancing.
She is in step. She has rhythm. She knows all of the words, and is singing them at the top of her voice in a decidedly Southern accent. Yee-haws and all. Hell yeah.
A minute into the song, the barstool to my right is suddenly occupied. The dark-haired guy who takes the seat wears jeans so obviously new, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a tag or two that he forgot to pull off. He’s more comfortable in a nice suit, I’m sure. The jeans, his short-sleeved button-down worn over a white undershirt, and his brown leather sandals said “vacation.” He looks more than relaxed as he settles onto the stool, elbows on the bar, watching Mama swing. He’s a good-looking guy; in his forties, maybe, with dark eyes, slightly arched eyebrows, and a straight, thin nose. He might have been my first choice if I hadn’t seen Mama first. Still, when he utters a quiet, “Mm, mm,” in Mama’s direction, I get a little jealous. It’s time for me to make my move.
Heels clicking, I step out onto the parquet, eyes glued to Mama’s gyrating form. I begin rocking my hips in time to hers. Her dark-cherry mouth giggles as she reaches out and grabs my hand. We are dancing side-by-side, two country sisters having our own private hoedown. I let her show me all the moves. By the end of the song, we are both laughing helplessly, falling over one another. As the bar goes quiet again, we have nothing to say to one another. I slink back to my stool. She retreats to her corner booth.
“Another one?” the bartender asks me.
“Bud Light,” I say. The guy next to me smiles. It’s what he’s drinking, straight from the bottle. When the bartender offers me a mug, I decline it.
To my surprise, Mama comes over with her half-melted Cadillac. She sets her drink down on the bar in between the guy and me. “Preston honey, scoot over, baby,” she says. Ah, so this is the game we’re playing; Mama brought Papa along with her. Still, Mama did fit both a “honey” and a “baby” into one sentence, and I can’t get these Southern belle fantasies out of my head. I decide I want them both, and play on.
“So,” Mama says to me, “you’re a redneck woman, too, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I say, in the most blatantly Midwestern accent I can muster. “I’m a bit of a country music fan, is all.”
She laughs loudly. “I love that song,” she says. “And you know what? I do leave my Christmas lights on my front porch all year long.” She finishes off her Golden Cadillac. The slurps echo in the quiet bar. “Will y’all excuse me for just a moment? I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Papa Preston laughs softly as he and I both watch his woman walk away.
“Your wife has some great tits,” I tell him. “Wanna share?”
“Are you serious?” he says, displaying a fine Deep South (Texas?) accent. It’s hard to tell if he’s flattered or offended. If I were a guy, I’d be ducking right about now.
Instead, I take a sip of Bud and nod. “I like girls, but I’ll take a guy if he comes as part of the package. I sure would like to see her out of that dress, though.”
He whistles. “You’re really serious, aren’t you? I mean, Agatha and I talked about it before, but . . .” He looks me up and down. I’ve got all the right things in all the right places, so I pass the inspection. As he sits there, cheeks turning red, looking as if he might start drooling on the bar, Mama Agatha walks back into the room. She looks refreshed. She takes her seat on the barstool next to mine.
“So you’re Agatha,” I say sweetly. “That’s a pretty name.” It is, in a rural kind of way.
“Yep,” she says, smiling so that her cheeks dimple. “Preston here wasn’t making an ass out of himself and hittin’ on you while I was gone, was he?” She adds a delicious little wink.
“No, ma’am,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Preston’s face as he sets his empty on the bar. He looks like a kid at Christmas. “Matter of fact, we were just having a nice conversation about you.”
Agatha’s blonde eyebrows go up. “What was he telling you?”
“Actually, hon, this young lady here was just telling me that you’ve got some great tits, and she’d love to see you out of that dress,” Preston says, most helpfully. “She’ll come upstairs with us, if you want her to.”
The sound of Agatha’s hearty laugh fills the bar, startling the bartender. I lean back on my stool, sensing rejection, until I see the burning look in Agatha’s blue eyes. She looks me over, then looks back at Preston. From his glazed eyes and tight-lipped smile, I can see that he’s already picturing Agatha and me naked and climbing all over each other. He’s got a good-sized circus tent going on in those brand-new vacation jeans.
“Well, don’t just sit there, hon,” Agatha tells Preston. “Pay for the lady’s drink.” As Preston pulls his wallet from his back pocket, I tell Agatha that my name is Vanessa and that I’m from Chicago. She tells me that she and Preston are from Galveston, and have left their four boys, ages seven to two-and-a-half, with Preston’s mother for the four-day weekend. “You look like just the kind of adventure a girl needs when she gets to feeling as run-down as I feel,” she says. I make a mental note to tell her again and again how sexy she is.
In the elevator up to their room, Preston backs me up against the wall. Our eyes meet, briefly, before I tilt my head back and kiss him. His tongue is in my mouth instantly. I grab him by the belt and pull his body in closer. He looks over his shoulder at Agatha. She smiles and grabs my free hand. When the elevator stops, and an elderly couple gets in, Preston and I separate. Agatha is still holding my hand. Her nipples perk up under that checked dress, and not because it’s cold in the elevator.
Inside their room, Preston takes a seat in the green leather chair in the corner and lights a cigarette. Agatha wastes no time, pulling me toward her as she takes a seat on the bed. She crosses her legs at the ankles, very lady-like. “Vanessa,” she says, “I’ve always had this fantasy about having another woman strip for me. I mean, for me and Preston.”
Now, I’ve been a stripper, so I take it from there. First I throw my jacket onto the floor. Then I lean in, take Agatha’s face in my hands, and give her the most passionate kiss she’s ever had. Preston coughs and shifts in his chair.
Stepping back, I turn my back to them and unzip my skirt. It falls to the floor, and I step out of it dramatically. I give them a moment to admire the curve of my skinny butt before I bend over and slap it. Then I turn to face them, unbuttoning my blouse slowly. I throw it to the floor as Preston puts out the butt of his cigarette. He makes himself more comfortable, untucking his t-shirt and taking off his belt.
“Vanessa, you’re beautiful,” Agatha says, breathless.
I come to her, and she helps me unhook my bra. My breasts are in her face now. She looks up at me, shy at first, and then caresses my breast with her cheek. Her gentle touch becomes a gentle kiss. Soon she takes my nipple into her mouth. I hear a zip from Preston’s chair and turn my head toward him. I grab Agatha’s tits while she sucks mine, and Preston’s hand is on his cock. I watch the rhythmic movement of his hand up and down his shaft as I kneel on the bed.
“Take your dress off,” I tell Agatha.
It takes her a moment to pull her dark cherry lips away from my tit. When she does, she stands and pulls her lacy dress over her head. Her bra is straining to keep her tits up. Her rounded belly looks soft and inviting. Her hips are a work of art, and her thighs make me want to bury my face between them. I’ve never had somebody’s mama before, and Agatha shows me what I’ve been missing. She isn’t wearing any panties.
“Your body is beautiful,” I whisper in Agatha’s ear.
“Aw, stop it,” she said. “You’re the sexy one. You look like one of them Victoria’s Secret gals.”
I run my fingers through her short, straw-colored hair. Out of the corner of her eyes, she’s looking at Preston. He knows it.
“She’s right, baby,” Preston tells her. “You’re all sexy and curvy. Vanessa, no offense, but you are a little bit bony.”
I look Agatha in the eyes as I nod my head. She smiles. Then I kiss her again. I slide my hand down her belly and lightly play with the blonde curls of her pubic hair.
“Hold on,” Agatha says, grabbing my wrist. “You’ve still got your panties on. No fair that you can see my coochie and I can’t see yours.” She giggles; she’s a little nervous. I bet she’s never talked to another girl like this before.
I lift myself off the bed, standing where Agatha and Preston both have a good view of me, my back toward them. I peel off my sheer white panties slowly, just the way I peeled off my skirt, giving them time to appreciate the view. Behind Agatha’s head, Preston gives me a wink of appreciation. Naked except for my high heels, I stride over to the bed. Inches from Agatha’s face, I bend over and show her the good stuff.
“Like that?” I ask her, licking my lips.
“Yeah,” she says. Her hands are shaking slightly as she reaches out to touch me. Her hands capture my hips, and she holds tightly. Slowly she brings her lips to my pussy. Her kisses are gentle, exploring. I wonder if I’ll taste good to her, but soon I realize that I don’t need to worry. Agatha’s lips and tongue are all over my soft, squishy parts. She hums as her tongue bathes me. The sensation makes my nipples hard, so I finger them. I am bent so that I can look at Agatha’s face. When I turn my head slightly, I see Preston. His eyes are fixed on us, his stare intense. I think he’s about to come.
“My turn,” I say, stepping just out of Agatha’s reach. She beams and lies back on the bed, spreading her legs for me. I walk around to Preston’s side of the bed and kneel. I do for Agatha exactly as she did for me, mixing my saliva with her salty wetness.
I can’t see Preston at all now. I don’t have to see him to know that he’s lost it. Agatha is the next to go. I struggle to hold onto her slippery little butt as her lips buck wildly in my mouth. I hang on and draw her orgasm out until she’s pushing me away, begging me to stop. As I back off, she laughs furiously, curling herself up near the pillows.
“Oh my God, Preston,” she says, still laughing. “That’s what I thought it would be like with another girl . . . almost. I didn’t think it would be quite that good.”
I look over at Preston, who cocks his head to the side. “But you had all the fun, Agatha,” he says. The expression on his face says he’s pleased, and incredibly turned on, by Agatha’s performance. But his fingers are sticky, and he’s wondering how he’s going to get cleaned up.
“Let me do that,” I say, kneeling in front of Preston’s chair. He smiles. I take his hand and lick his fingers. The taste of his come mixes with the taste of Agatha’s snatch in my mouth, and the combo is delicious. I progress from a simple licking to sucking, taking each of his fingers in my mouth in turn. I start with the one with the wedding ring. I glance back, and Agatha’s fingers gravitate toward her clit. She begins to play with herself, though gingerly, still extra sensitive. She watches, waiting to see what I’ll do next. Preston likes the hand job, but he’s wondering what I’ll do next, too.
So I take his hand and put it back on his cock. It’s not hard again yet, but it will be soon. I lick his fingers a moment longer. Then he pulls his hand away, and I’m licking his cock. It jumps to life under my tongue. He leans forward, reaching out to feel my breasts with both hands. My pussy gushes as he strokes my nipples to hardness.
When I have him fully erect, I say, “Come to bed with us, Preston.” Leaning in very close, I whisper directly into his ear, “I’ve got a tight little cunt.” He blushes bright red, and I hope Agatha didn’t hear me. Wouldn’t want her to take that as an insult to her cunt, which I’m sure Preston adores.
I walk back to the bed, where Agatha has made a spot for me beside her. We lay side by side, and I kiss her.
“Mm,” she says, tasting Preston’s cock on my lips. She runs her fingers across my breasts lightly, then down my belly. I part my legs slightly. She rubs my clit, gently, teasing me. I guide her fingers into my dripping-wet pussy. She sighs appreciatively, plunging her fingers into the wet. She pulls her index finger out and puts it in her mouth. Her face lights up with pleasure. Quickly she sticks her finger back inside me, deeper this time. I rock back and forth. She gets the hint, driving her finger in and out of me.
Soon Preston is pressed against the back of me, naked and ready. As Agatha and I kiss, and she fucks me with her little index finger, Preston’s much-fatter finger slips inside me from behind. They giggle, fingers touching inside my cunt. I rock my hips, hungry for the sensation.
At the same time, Preston’s mouth touches my ear. He kisses me, then takes my earlobe in his mouth. “I want to put my dick in you,” he says in my ear. After another kiss, he adds, “Agatha, baby, I’ve got to get some pussy now.” He pulls his finger out of me and rubs my moisture on his dick.
I pull my lips away from Agatha’s mouth long enough to say, “One rule: I get to be on top.”
Preston looks at Agatha for her approval. She nods slightly, and Preston rolls onto his back. I give Agatha one last desperately passionate kiss before I turn my attentions to Preston. I straddle his hips, sliding my cunt down over his cock slowly.
Agatha snuggles in close, kissing Preston’s lips as I start to ride him. She watches our fucking with a smile on her pretty dark-cherry lips. I reach down and caress her thigh. I can tell that she won’t be satisfied with just watching, though.
“Preston,” I whisper, “can you do two at once?”
He bites his lip. “Hell yeah,” he manages to say. Poor guy; he’s trying so hard to hold back.
“Come on, my pretty little Agatha,” I say. “Sit on Preston’s face.”
She looks as excited as a trailer park girl who’s won the lottery. In a moment she’s facing me. Our lips lock; my small breasts press against her full ones. I reach behind her and unhook her bra, letting my hands wander all over her womanly D-cups. I feel her excitement rising, and I taste her moans. She makes me want to moan and scream. In fact, I think I’m about to come . . .
A breath later, a deliciously sneaky orgasm starts in my cunt and rises to envelope my whole body. From somewhere under Agatha, Preston grunts. I ride through the pleasure, and soon he’s coming inside me. His hands grip my thighs hard. Agatha’s fingers dig into my shoulders, and I know she’s joining the party, too.
When all three of us pull apart, Preston is a wet, sticky, sweaty mess, and heads straight for the shower. Agatha and I lay on the bed, face-to-face, gently fondling each other’s breasts. Preston comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. He has great abs; I make a mental note to feel them up later.
“Y’all getting in the shower, or what?” he asks us.
Agatha stretches and says, “Not me. I feel fine right here, just like I am. I’m going to lie here and enjoy the aftershocks.” I snuggle in close, my head resting on her breasts. They feel softer than silk and incredibly comforting.
“Suit yourself,” Preston says. As he lies beside Agatha, I smell his clean, soapy scent.
I don’t get much sleep, but when I wake up, Agatha and I are alone. She is naked, and strokes my hip.
“Oh God,” I tell her. “Did I make things weird between you and Preston? Did he leave?”
“He’s doing laps in the pool,” she says. “How about some breakfast?”
She spreads her legs, and I realize she’s not talking about waffles and bacon.
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