Delicious Thoughts

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Dedicated to the Claire in the story. You know who you are. Thank you for the thought. Thank you too to DeliciousThoughts (member id 1263782) for the edits. The title, by the way, is a coincidence.


This is a story of interracial lesbian sex, of domination and control without the paraphernalia that goes with the routine found in most literature of this genre. I hope it meets with expectations.

As a good friend of mine once remarked, the voting system is okay, but a better rating would be number of orgasms provided by a story. If that is the new criterion, I hope you are able to achieve five or more.


Claire was having mixed feelings as she headed out of the office door, finished for the day. On the one hand, she did not want to leave, but stay close to her boss, with whom she was maddeningly, tempestuously, impetuously infatuated. On the other, she was shy and did not know how to do deal with her unrequited lust. After all, she had no idea if her boss, a most amazingly beautiful ebony statuesque lady, even knew she existed. Yet, night after night, Claire would find herself in bed, alone, imagining herself to be at the beck and call of her employer, doing any and everything to please her, and in pleasing her, she would achieve her own orgasm by her own hand.

What disturbed Claire most about these nocturnal fantasies was the fact that these portrayed in her mind what her role was in real life, which was to do what her boss required. Slowly, these fantasies migrated from her role of being her boss’ gofer into being her employer’s pet, doing anything required of her in bed as well as out.

As was usual for Claire for a Friday evening, she headed straight to her gym, hoping to burn away a few calories and perhaps at the same time drive out the little gremlins in her head with an exhausting workout.

She worked out with a vengeance, losing herself in the music as she went for that extra burn. The painful messages sent by her body to her brain managed to crowd her thoughts out of her mind, but did not expunge them totally. As she stretched her overworked muscles, her mind dwelt as usual on the same question — what should she do about Angel, her boss? Should she give up the idea that one day Angel would look at her with favour, crook her finger at Claire and make her hers? That would be admitting defeat, and would take away from her nocturnal pleasures. Claire decided she would one day make an effort to put Angel out of her mind, but not today.

Claire felt the wetness through her leotard, her sweat running in rivulets down her body, collecting in a damp patch at her pubic mound as she pushed herself into overdrive one last time for the day. Could her punishing pace drive out her thoughts? Apparently not, as the pool between her legs only served to remind her of that other pool she manually created every night.

She swam a quick couple of lengths and headed off to the massage table, carrying the obligatory towel that the regulations demanded be used for modesty, even though the massages were all given by women.

On the table, Claire attempted to once again escape from her thoughts, but they remained intrusive and disturbing. She would usually be able to relax under the muscular arms and soothing fingers of the masseuse, but today Claire suddenly focussed on the fact that the woman was black, like Angel, and her thoughts went off on an uninvited tangent.

Today, the deep soothing movements of the fingers on her body did nothing to relax Claire. On the contrary, they began to fan Claire’s passion, already at a high and threatening to boil over at any time. It was as if, for the first time, Claire’s whole body was having a sexual experience, as the masseuse manipulated muscles and sinews with her strong fingers.

Claire was slow to realise that she was becoming aroused, and it came as a surprise to her to find her nipples erecting, her breasts gradually feeling fuller, and that all too familiar tingle of arousal starting.

The masseuse had finished with her legs, her thighs, her back, and was now massaging her bottom under the towel. The hands, soft, yet rubbing and pressing hard on her flesh, turned into a sexual caress in Claire’s mind, and her nipples reacted immediately, hardening to a painful stiffness.

The masseuse was now at her stomach, and Claire had no idea when she had been asked to turn over, or indeed if she had done so by herself. The fingers kneaded at Claire’s body, sometimes strong and powerful, sometimes light, almost caressing.

The delightful stirrings in Claire’s breasts started to wend their way lower, creeping slowly down her stomach, like an arrow aiming for between her legs. She felt the desire, barely held in check during her workout, begin to start deep inside her, and flow outwards, as the build-up of sexual tension in Claire’s mind manifested itself in liquid form and headed out into the open.

Claire had her eyes shut tightly now, trying to banish both thoughts of Angel and the feelings that her mind had so cruelly endowed to the girl manipulating casino siteleri her body. She could not stop thinking, however, and so decided to think about the girl who, at least indirectly and unknowingly, was providing the stimulus that had her figuratively beginning to climb the wall.

She tried to picture Angel in her mind, pretending it was she who was manipulating her body and creating such arousing feelings inside her. However, to her surprise and astonishment, Angel’s face and body were replaced in her mind’s eye by the visage of the masseuse. Well built, strong thighs from regular working out, dark curly hair, ebony skin, very attractive, every part sending neurons of lust into Claire’s brain.

Claire felt yet another surge of dampness. Oh my, she thought to herself, why was she so turned on by this woman? A stranger, whose only claim on her body appeared to be that she was black, like Angel, and was touching her body where Claire wanted Angel to touch.

She thanked the powers that be in her mind that the masseuse could not hear her inner thoughts and feel her hidden feelings. There was no way the masseuse could know of them. It was her little secret, to be kept locked in her mind while the masseuse did her thing on Claire’s body.

Little did Claire know that her secret was not so to the masseuse. The masseuse liked women, very much, liked the feel of their bodies, the touch of their skin, their feminine earthy smell, and she knew their secret ways. Years of experience had taught her how to play with women’s bodies, stringing them taut like a violin bow, manipulating them like a musical instrument, wringing the sweetest of melodies out of their bodies.

She realised she had turned on some undefined switch in Claire’s body. She had struck a chord in Claire’s mind, whom she had admired for a long time, ever since Claire had first come to her for a massage. She had never acted on her desires before now, because a masseuse treads a fine line between the overt and the covert, and to overstep any invisible boundary would mean instant dismissal. Apart from the loss of livelihood, the masseuse needed to keep this job because laying her hands on beautiful women was one of the biggest perks of she had.

From time to time, she could indulge in her desire for her own sex, but she had to be very careful. Mistakes were not affordable, and she had to step carefully. If she misread the signals from her customer and made an overt and unambiguous advance to someone who was not ready for it, she would be out of the door before she could blink. However, whenever she received a strong signal and managed to act on it, it had led to mutual satisfaction for herself and her client, and also led to hefty tips from grateful and gratified customers.

She decided she would try to capitalise on her discovery of Claire’s not so secret pliability. Her manipulations became that much more overtly sexual, piling on the pressure on an already aroused Claire, as the telltale signs of arousal came wafting back to her from the deliciously pliant form prostrate on the table before her.

Claire had novice written all over her. There could be no misunderstandings. That made it all the more dangerous, all the more delicious. It was what the masseuse enjoyed most, the tiptoeing through the minefield.

She poured some more warm oil into her palms, and reached for Claire’s breasts. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and damped down her own flames of passion that were beginning to flicker inside her as her hands reached the magnificent bosom. She moved her hands from Claire’s chest, upwards, holding one breast in each hand and following the hillock to the crest. She brushed her hands fleetingly over the rock hard nipples. Again. And again.

Her eyes strayed to Claire’s pubic area, clean shaven, glistening. Her nostrils breathed deeply of the smell of the aroused woman. She knew, deep down, this girl needed it, but would she take it? Would she give herself over to the manipulations, and let herself fall into the delicious abyss of female lovemaking? It was not a certainty, but there was a definite possibility if she moved slowly. Reining in her own impatience, the masseuse continued her movements on Claire’s breasts, caressing, but with hard strokes, and occasionally managing to flick the nipples on her way to or from the top.

To Claire, the feverish arousal she was experiencing was a result of her own thought processes. She did not realise that, to the experienced masseuse, she had as good as openly shouted out her arousal, her need, nor did she appreciate that it was being enhanced by the experienced hands of the girl working her body.

Her body vibrating with her inner excitement and turmoil, she remained ignorant, blissfully so, of the masseuse’s predilections or intentions. She was thinking only of her own longings, her own need for gratification. Guilt crept in at the thought that she was using an innocent girl for her own needs, but her soaring sexual fantasies kicked that thought into touch the moment it raised its canlı casino head.

In her mind, she could see the muscular body of the masseuse dancing over her own, the anonymous female who was going to be instrument of her completion, who had the freedom of Claire’s body right then. It was a surprise to her that she had never noticed how beautiful and attractive the girl was. Perhaps she was finding that additional beauty because of Angel. Whatever the reason, Claire was soaring in her mind at the masseuse’s manipulations, and her body was following suit.

Her fingers longed to reciprocate, to slide up those sculptured thighs, slip between them, to worship at the altar of feminity lying at their apex. Physically, she dared not make a move, but her mind, secure in the thought that her secret was safe with her, soared free in her fantasies, aided in her flight by the masseuse’s sublime touch.

If the fingers on her body would only slide a little further, delve into her core. In fact, why stop at fingers? Her lust needed more, a tongue, a pair of lips, soft, gentle, caressing instead of demanding, insisting on an explosion of pleasure. Lost in her fantasies, Claire decided to let her mind roam, alone in her private world of pleasure. No commitments, no ties, no relationships, and the beauty of it was that she was alone in her pleasure.

All right, it was unfair of her to use the unfortunate girl like this, take advantage of her position, but it was just as well that the masseuse was ignorant of what was going on in her mind. Unfair? Perhaps even depraved, but to Claire, it was her fantasy, a fantasy in which Angel was having her way with her and she had no say in the matter. If the masseuse unwittingly helped her on her way, why should Claire not allow herself this little pleasure after the weeks of the frustration of her unrequited lust for her boss? Where was the harm?

The masseuse sensed the change in Claire as her fingers did their magic. She gathered that Claire seemed willing to let things go as they were, but would not participate overtly in any sexual activity. If things remained vague, ambiguous in her mind, Clare would be able to justify everything in her own mind. She also sensed that Clare was tightly wound up, needing an orgasm to regain her equilibrium.

The masseuse was disappointed that, having got Claire to this stage, she would be unable to bring her to fruition. Suddenly, she decided to play along with Claire’s game, whatever that might be. She contemplated on how to achieve orgasm for Claire, skirting close to the borderline, on the brink of Claire’s secret places in her mind and on her body, not too close but not too far either. It would be a test of her pleasuring skills, practiced though she was, because she had never tried them on an outwardly uninterested woman.

There would be the danger that she might be overstepping her limits. She would have to be subtle yet forceful, gentle yet firm, prudent yet courageous, drawing Claire to the brink of orgasm, and beyond. Who knew, if that was achieved, what barriers might come down in the aftermath, and perhaps Claire would reciprocate as she was plunging head first in the pursuit of pleasure.

She began the chase by bending her body close to Claire’s, whose eyes were still tightly shut. She smoothed her long black fingers over the full breasts, rubbing the thrusting nipples. Her hands moved to Claire’s armpits, covering her hands in her sweat, sweet and salty. She could feel Claire’s breath on her cheek, warm, inviting, quickening as her desire mounted higher and higher.

The masseuse bit back her own desire to lower her mouth to those delectable nipples, to suck them, suckle them, knowing it was still too early. It took all her self-control to draw back before she blew the game, but draw back she did. She could feel Claire’s heart beating under her hands, fluttering, her lungs heaving, as she let the masseuse’s hand move her libido higher and higher. The masseuse decided to up the ante, and to take things further on the next pass.

The timing had to be just so, as she hovered on the brink of disaster. Gently, almost reverently, she moved her hands up the breasts and worshipped the nipples. She took each nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing firmly and insistently. She knew she was pushing the boundaries here. What sort of massage included pressing the nipples? Only those found in some seedy back street massage parlour, certainly not in a high class gym. She waited for Claire to react, ready with her apology if umbrage was taken.

Claire’s mind was churning, and when she received the twin messages from her nipples mixing in with her pleasure bound senses, the pain felt delicious. No one had done this to her before, and although new, the feeling was very welcome.

She paused in her mental wanderlust to consider if she had somehow revealed her inner longings unwittingly and the amazing Amazon handling her had picked up on her hidden signals and was as much turned on as she was? Her squeezing of the nipples said she had, her immediate kaçak casino letting go said it was an accident.

If she had, and she was, Claire knew she was about to be made love to for the first time in her life by a woman, something she had always wanted. Not only that, she was black, which was to Claire the epitome of her desire. Her latent lust for her boss would be sated, to some extent, by the masseuse, who might turn out to be a very able and capable substitute. Her mind balked. She did not really want this woman, a total stranger, to do this to her, but her body was beyond rationale thought. As her conflict raged within her, she couldn’t decide what to do. In the end, she did nothing, paralysed into inaction by the conflict raging inside her.

In every sense, she had relinquished control, and was in the hands of another woman. That thought alone pushed her ever nearer to the edge, as she realised that being out of control, being controlled by another woman, was yet another of her pressure points which this strong woman was pressing.

For an excruciating moment, the pleasure giving hands left her body, making her think the masseuse had come to her senses and was backing off. She was just bracing herself for the disappointment when they returned, oiled, smelling sweet, back at her thighs.

Clare sighed visibly in relief at the release from the almost disappointment, and her state of arousal scaled new heights. The hands dug firmly into Claire’s thighs, pressing their way to the very top. Once, twice, thrice they journeyed like this, from knee to top and back again, each time maddeningly close to the lips of Claire’s vagina without actually touching them. She teased, enticed, tempted, threatened, then drew away. Again and again the hands continued their sliding action, stronger and stronger with each stroke.

Claire pushed back at the hands, her desire ever increasing. All of a sudden, the masseuse’s hands seemed to slip, overshoot the runway, and for a fleeting instant pushed into the wide open, glistening lips between Claire’s thighs.

Claire shuddered, but made no protest. Whatever protest, if any, in her mind was at the withdrawal of the fingers after the slip. Silently she cried out for the masseuse to continue, to not stop. She shut her eyes even tighter, and her head shook from side to side, as if saying “Don’t stop, don’t stop.” She felt that she had screamed the words out aloud, but in reality they only echoed in her own mind.

When would those hands slip and miss their target again? Miss? It was more of when would they hit the target again? She wanted them to enter her, to invade her, take her, reach inside and pull her orgasm out of her, kicking and screaming.

Her hand twitched, ready to move, to reach between her legs and assuage the burning desire. Yet, she fought back that desire, unwilling to touch herself, to take the masseuse’s fingers and jam them hard inside herself. She was teasing herself, but the relinquishing of control meant she could not move without permission, and masseuse was not to know that was what Claire needed to move.

The masseuse noted the twitch, the return of the hand to its immobile state, and reacted. She leaned in, hard, her hands crushing the thighs on their upward journey once again, and once again, she let her hands go a little further than convention allowed.

The fingers straightened, and for a brief moment, they strayed and stayed at the opening of Claire’s vagina. They rested inside, for a moment, a second, two seconds, then withdrew, excruciatingly slowly, reluctant to leave.

It was enough. As the fingers left, Claire’s bottom lifted, following the fingers, chasing them. Her face tightened, her mouth half opened in a silent scream, her knuckles white from being clenched so hard, her tongue half out of her mouth, waving in the air.

The masseuse saw and felt Claire’s vaginal muscles open and shut beneath her fingers, contracting and relaxing alternately, her thighs falling further apart, relaxing and tensing. There was one last contraction, and then the dam broke. Wetness cascaded out of Claire in a waterfall of liquid feminity and her orgasm broke in waves over her.

The masseuse finally acted like she had been wanting to for the past half hour. She had worked hard for this, and had earned the reward she was about to take. There was no danger now, Claire would not complain or raise a fuss. Her fingers reached between Claire’s trembling thighs and unerringly went deep inside her moist cavern. For long, excruciatingly pleasurable moments, she held on, as if trying to push the orgasm back inside Claire. She rode it, like a conductor orchestrating a symphony to a resounding crescendo, moving her fingers inside Claire like a baton, directing her flow.

Claire felt the fingers inside her, but she was beyond thought, beyond caring, beyond propriety, beyond shame. As she clamped her thighs and merciless crushed the fingers inside her, she sensed the masseuse move. Suddenly, her mouth and nose were covered by a dank dampness as the masseuse moved into position over Claire, lowering her own wet centre in search of Claire’s tongue and lips. As Claire thrashed her head about, her lips made contact with the masseuse’s nubbin, erect and raw, and she instinctively sucked it into her mouth.

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