4 comments/ 53199 views/ 3 favorites Turning the Tables Ch. 02 By: Sam Cornell I lift myself weakly up on my elbows from my recumbent position, and looking down between my splayed legs I see Ellie standing submissively at the bottom of the massage couch. Ellie. My new lover. Formerly my masseuse, nineteen, hot, and just a few minutes ago her skilful hands were straying to places most of us can only dream of when we're on the couch. Now as I look at her I can see that her face is still honey-slick from lapping me to a beautiful orgasm. Normally I am slow to recover, like a volcano that has erupted with such power that only a little flame still burns in the core. Normally. But then sometimes the circumstance and the experience combine alchemically and my orgasm simply transports me to another place, and I am transformed into an almost wholly sexual being, every whim and desire transfigured into an all-consuming need. Alchemy is dangerous. People get burned. My eyes rest on Ellie. She is so sweet, five foot something with her chocolate-brown hair tied neatly back in a professional ponytail. "Come here," I say softly, and she pads around to the side of the couch. "Thank you." "My pleasure, miss," she says. I reach my hand out lazily, to stroke behind her knee and then up, under the hem of her skirt. How many times have I lain here under the expert attention of a skilful masseuse and dreamed of reaching out like this? Even when they haven't been as hot as Ellie – and in truth none of them have – the combination of skin on skin and the way any massage steers teasingly close to intimate contact has always made the possibility of something more come into my mind. "You're a bad girl, Ellie." My hand strays further up the back of her thigh. "Yes, miss." "But oh so good, too." I pause just where I would begin to feel her bottom. "Thank you, miss." "Seems only fair I should return the compliment, one way or another." I give Ellie's buttock the briefest of brushes over the cotton of her panties. "Would you like that, Ellie?" "Yes, miss. Thank you, miss." "Why don't you show me those lovely boobs of yours?" I ask softly, my hand lightly cupping her ass cheek. Ellie fiddles with the buttons of her top. She is nervous, clearly, and it occurs to me that maybe I am her first woman. It would be indelicate to ask about this now, I realise, but it is another intoxicating element to the cocktail. She slides the top off and stands before me in her bra, a fetching white lace number that is more decorative than I was expecting for someone who has a relatively physical job. Below the full curves of her breasts Ellie's stomach is flat and lightly tanned. "Take off your bra," I say. "I want to see your beautiful breasts, Ellie." She fumbles with the catch for what seems ages, and once again I get the thrill of believing that her nerves are down to inexperience. She even mutters a little apology before she has done it, but then her breasts are free and exposed. She is beautiful. Something of the fullness, the creaminess, the proud pertness of Ellie's still-teenage breasts takes my breath away. "God you're beautiful," I say, and reach my hand up, scarcely able to believe that Ellie is offering me her breasts to see, let alone touch. She stands there, awaiting my caress, and as I brush my fingers across the smooth milky skin she closes her eyes and I wonder how many times she has fantasized about being touched by another woman. I gently move my fingers across the fullness of her breasts, repeatedly teasing over her nipples, feeling them engorge and fill under my touch. Ellie's eyes are still closed as she stands there bare-chested, luxuriating in my caresses. While still fondling her breasts – how could I stop? – I slide a hand back under her skirt to softly squeeze her buttocks through her panties. It occurs to me that for both of us, by maintaining the basic positions of a massage – me lying on the couch, Ellie standing beside me – we are fulfilling the same fantasy, but each from our own perspective. Perhaps it was by this couch, as Ellie's hands ranged skilfully across the soft bodies of her female clients, that she had slowly discovered an erotic interest in her own sex. How many times had she stood here, her fingers straying dangerously close to a client's most intimate areas, and dreamed of keeping on going? And had she longed to feel the touch of a client in just the way I was touching her now? I imagined Ellie, perhaps still learning the art of massage, her emotions in turmoil as she feels the moisture flooding into her panties in such an unprofessional way. And lying in her bed at night, her fingers busy between her legs as she tortures herself with wicked thoughts. I massage Ellie's breasts and bum for a while, and her still-closed eyes give an impression of quiet rapture. I move my hand around from her bottom to the inside of her thigh, and I can see now that she is anticipating the ultimate contact. "Take your skirt off," I say. Ellie's eyes open, she smiles, and with none of her earlier hesitation or awkwardness her skirt drops to the floor. My young masseuse is now naked but for a pair of pure white cotton panties. I continue to tease around her thighs for a little while but I know that she is hungry for proper contact. I brush across her mound, and feel the spring of a thin strip of pubic hair beneath the material. Ellie's eyes are closed again now as she gives in to my gentle attention. I always like to talk, and I consider asking Ellie what she wants now, but as I look at her face I can see that she is lost in the delicious reality of what up until now has only been fantasy. I slide my fingers across her panties again, further down this time, and the material is soaked through with her honey. I see Ellie smile and I know that I was right, she has been wet like this so many times before, but now her wicked secret is quite deliciously exposed. I brush across her panties just a couple more times but my need is great too and I can tease no more. I slip my fingers inside Ellie's panties and feel the swollen wetness of her pussy lips. She moans, and trembles a little. My finger runs lightly up and down her slit, and she rocks a little in rhythm with me. I am keeping a respectful little distance from her clit, wanting that to be the final moment of blissful discovery for her. My finger teases just a little further inside her pussy, but I am not really interested in penetration. There will, I believe, be so much time for that, but for now all I want is to bring this young woman to the most delicate orgasm of her life. I picture how the two of us must look. It is the sweetest perversion of a massage imaginable. I am naked, my nipples bared and stiff with excitement, my legs splayed, my cunt wantonly exposed. Beside me my young masseuse is virtually naked, her full breasts swaying softly to the tune I am playing between her legs, my fingers interfering rudely under the cotton of her panties. It is time. Still gently caressing Ellie's breasts, and with my fingers teasing the entrance to her cunt, I slip my thumb up to her clit. She shudders and groans, the little spot which so often has given her pleasure with her own hands finally receiving the exquisite touch of another woman. My thumb traces gently round and around, and Ellie's breathing gets higher and tighter. I look at her young face, and her expression is almost enough to make me cum myself. Even as she approaches her climax she is smiling, utterly fulfilled in the manner that her secret desires have finally been made real. I circle and I tease and I fuck Ellie's sweet cunt with my fingertips and it is all too much for her and she starts thrusting herself down on my hand as she explodes in her orgasm, wave after wave pushing her down and down on my eager searching fingers. As I finally slow my touching she is resting half-buckled against the side of the couch, her breasts close to my face, her chest flushed from her cum and her nipples raw from the explosion that has charged through her body. She rests like that for some moments, utterly satisfied it seems. Then slowly she stands upright again. "Thank you, miss." She looks so sweet, and vulnerable, standing there in her white panties. My thoughts are both tender, and base. "Ellie, at your school did you wear a uniform?" Turning the Tables Ch. 02 The following story is fictitious, of an explicit and adult nature. Like everything else on Literotica, this story is not meant to be viewed by anyone under the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18, offended by adult material or such material is barred by the standards of your community, please leave this page now. * The remainder of that September day passed in virtual silence. After the events of the morning, Mike spent a couple of solemn hours in his room. His casement windows cranked ajar, the crisp autumn air lightly scented with sweet-leafy decay filled his lungs. Mike's spinning mind was a ramshackle of a thousand thoughts and no thoughts at all, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. Downstairs, Patty was gripped with remorseful euphoria. Her body propelled by adrenaline, she placed the now spotless bakelite ashtray on the coffee table, returned to the kitchen and sorted the wilting groceries, making sure that they found their rightful place in the avocado colored fridge. Her mind ran frantic with questions of lasting effects and potential scenarios. Whether her envisioned inventions were prophecy or paranoia, she could not tell. At four thirty, Mike came downstairs to leave for his Wednesday evening European History class at Charter Oak College. He wanted to stay, so many questions raced through his consciousness, but when he glanced at the living room and saw that his mother was nowhere to be found, he was relieved. His chest loosened. Mike opened the front door, strode down the tarblack driveway to the white Chevy Laguna with the chocolate vinyl roof, tossed his books on the shotgun seat, turned the key and let her roll. Mike's father returned home from work at a quarter to six. Patty had his dinner ready and waiting. Throughout dinner, she kept wondering if some telltale sign would give her away, if the mark of Cain was emblazoned on her forehead. But by the time that the last morsel of pilaf was hefted from plate to mouth, nothing gave her secret away. And she smiled to herself. The sleepy gold and rust colored suburban hamlet was as silent as Pinelawn when the Chevy Laguna slowly rolled to a halt, the red tail lights extinguished, making the night as tarblack as the driveway. When Mike entered the house, the only illumination was the frosty azure glow of the television radiating from the living room where his mother and father sat on the couch watching Quincy, M.E. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with Patty's. But he strode up the stairs to his room, aware of the futility of the moment. Thursday was new. Mike's father dressed in the cobalt glow of the newborn day, unknowing and happy. Patty stirred beneath the covers, and did not emerge from her chamber until the salmongold rays of the new sun roused her to consciousness. Ensconced in chenille, Patty plodded down the stairs, crossed through the living room and entered the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When the doors swung open, she noticed mike drinking orange juice over the sink, wearing nothing but his boxers. "You're up early," Patty croaked, her first words of the day. "Oh, hi!" Mike spun around, startled. "Look, Mike, about yester ..." "No, no ... it's OK. You were right. I was wrong to take your property without permission ... you were ..." "I know you're sorry. I know it won't happen again." Patty reached out and gently cupped his cheek with her palm. She brewed a pot of coffee and poured two cups. They sat silently at the kitchen table. Patty gazed at her reflection in the blackness of her cup and smirked. "I was pretty angry yesterday." "Yeah." Mike chuckled. "But I want you to know that I'm not angry anymore. Mike, I want you to be honest with me ... I know that we crossed a line yesterday ... How do you feel about ... what happened?" Mike looked down at his coffee cup, not quite sure of what to say. "Well, I don't know," Mike chuckled. "At first I was embarrassed, then I just felt kinda wierded out, you know?" "Yes," Patty grinned. "I know exactly what you mean. And I also know that it might be hard for you, living here with us. Men need something to get the blood flowing, so to speak. That's why your father took those pictures in the first place. So, I understand why you were using them ... like you did." After an awkward pause, Patty continued. "Mike, I also don't want you to feel inhibited ... I don't want to feel inhibited ... do you follow, Mike?" "I'm not sure ..." "No hang-ups ... you can masturbate anywhere in the house you want, any time you want, as long as your father's not home." "Are you sure?" "No, I'm not sure. But I thought about it ... I thought about it a lot, and I just think it's more honest like this. It's more open." "I dig." The rest of Thursday passed without incident. Friday morning came, and when Mike descended the stairs he sensed a funkysweet smell in the air, the aroma of feminine muskiness. He glanced over to the couch, and there was Patty. She was laying on the couch, one thick-thighed leg up on the back cushion, her other foot on the floor. Her head was back, her lips pursed. She rubbed herself furiously with her right hand, only intermittently interrupting herself to lick her fingers. Mike's first instinct was to turn away ... run before she can open her eyes and see him ... but then he remembered their conversation the day before. No hang-ups. Mike walked into the living room. Sensing his presence, Patty opened her eyes. "Oh, hey ... you're up," she murmured dreamily as her son came into focus. "There's plenty of room on the couch, and you can watch what you like on TV." He sat down on the last sofa cushion, his mother's foot about two inches from his head. Television be damned, he couldn't take his gaze off of his mother's self-pleasure. He noticed something that he didn't originally see when he came down the stairs, a cucumber half swallowed by his mother's pussy. Mike was transfixed. He noted that the dark green Kirby was thick and bumpy. He focused on how the silky flesh of her lips enveloped it. Her face and breasts were sweaty scarlet. "As long as you're sitting there," Patty said breathlessly, "can you help me a little?" "Help?" Mike mumbled, confused. "Yesssss ... take the cucumber and slide it in and out." "I ... I don ... " "Pleeeeeeease, Mike! Pleeeeease," Patty implored. Nervously, Mike got up from the couch and positioned himself so that he could grip the exposed end of the Kirby. It slid in and out with ease, and within a few seconds Patty barked a loud scream. Her eyes rolled back as her trembling body seized. Breathless, she placed her hand on his, as a signal to stop sliding the cucumber. She lay there drenched in sweat, panting. "Wow," Mike almost whispered. Patty smiled," Yes, it feels really good to be filled up like that. Thank you for helping me out." Patty removed the cucumber and let it drop to the floor. Mike had never seen a woman masturbate like that before, and the experience hit his subconscious like a freight train. He removed his boxers and, as he did so, his hard cock slapped against his mother's bare thigh, and she chuckled. He sat down on the couch, leaned back, and began to stroke. He moved slowly, up and down. Patty now sat erect. "Honey, if you keep doing that with no lubrication, you're going to rub the skin right off of it. Hold on, I'll be back in a second." With that Patty sprung up from the couch and ran out of the living room. She returned a few moments later with a jar of cold cream. She placed the jar on the coffee table, and sat down next to him. Then she took a large dollop of cold cream in her palm. "OK, Honey. Just take your hands away for a sec..." "Bu ..." "Shhhhh!" Patty prohibitively hissed. "Just let it feel good." Patty took Mike's erect penis in her hands and slathered it with the cold cream. She pressed her left hand flat against his chest and began stroking him very slowly and lightly with her right. Mike's penis grew in size and hardness. His masculine scent inspired Patty to quicken her pace and increase her grip in slight increments. She could feel him breathe, each breath becoming shallow. His head lolled back. She could feel his balls tightening with her pinky. And his body seized. Warm spurts of her son's semen coated her hand, mixing with lathered cold cream. Mike took deep breaths. "Thank you," Mike whispered. # # #