The Adult Story Hub

They napped soundly. When they awoke, their stomachs growling in a duet of hunger, they discovered that they'd slept through dinner. It was now dark outside and, as Wendy stumbled in the dark to the bathroom to pee, she noticed that the fire in the woodstove was nearly out. The room was chilly and she had goosebumps coursing up and down her body.

The stove, set upon a pink granite slab sat in front of what was once the fireplace. Greg's trusty digital watch sat on top of its marble mantle. Wendy reached for it as she made her way to the bathroom, thumbing the bar that turned the face bright green as she walked. 8:40. They had slept for more than four hours. She made her way to the toilet and thought about this place and about Greg as she peed.

It felt good here. It felt right being here with Greg. She pondered these two feelings, especially the latter on her way to the bathroom. What was it, though, about the guy that turned her on so much? She'd never dreamed she'd ever shave her pussy, much less masturbate in a car on an interstate highway. With him, she could do anything and say anything sexual and it was not only welcomed, it was desired.

The only downside she could think of was the 9 pounds she'd put on since they met the result of his incredible cooking. Greg was definitely like no one she'd ever met. He was at once passionate, creative, supportive and cuddly. He was also more than a little perverse in bed. "What would it be like to live in a place like this?" She wondered. Then she expanded that thought to, "What would it be like to live in a place like this with Greg?"

"Hon," Greg started, appearing suddenly and startling her out of her reverie, "what do you think it would be like running a B&B like this together, you and me; away from the hustle and bustle. Just the two of us." She sat there open mouthed, saying nothing as she continued to pee.

"You okay?"

For reasons she could not then explain, she squelched the temptation to tell him that she'd at just that moment had the exact same thought. It scared her a little. No, she admitted to herself. It scared her a lot. She looked at him.

He saw her expression changed and stammered, "Hey, look, it's not a proposal or anything. Well, I guess it is kind of a proposal but not a marriage proposal. Kind of a business proposal but more than that. Am I making any sense?"

She wiped, flushed and, as she was washing her hands, looking at him all naked and eager looking at her lovingly at her from behind, she answered. "It's an interesting idea, but first things first. I can't think right on an empty stomach. What's the plan?"

"Well, how's this? I think there's a little bit of the mushroom souffl‚ and the duck still in the cooler. If we could manage to rustle up a few plates from the kitchen and then start up that woodstove again, I bet we could warm it up on top of the stove. I bet that cider we picked up on the way up is nice and cold from sitting in the car. Take your choice, build the fire, fetch the food or listen to our bellies growl all night."

"I'll take option number two, thank you. Building a fire is a guy thing and belly growling is definitely not in the cards."

He took his turn peeing and heard her pull on her ubiquitous sweatsuit and leave for the car.

It was bitingly cold and crystal clear. The air was redolent with pine forest and a hint of salt from the ocean that was more than ten miles to the east. She could see her breath as it's moist warmth contacted the frigid air and she could feel her nipples harden beneath her sweatshirt. The walk to the parking lot was further than she thought.

Her nipples were so tight and hard that they ached. Through the fleece fabric, she rubbed them, recalling earlier in the day when she'd put on her exhibition in the car for Greg. Man, they'd ached then, too. What she wouldn't have given for Greg to suck on them, to lick them with his warm lips, mouth and tongue. She knew what dessert would be.

Wendy opened the trunk of the car and pulled out the cooler and the plastic gallon jug of cider. The cold air had kept it nice and chilled. She locked the car and started back to the inn. Although the moon was only half full, she could see her surroundings with little eyestrain. The door to the inn opened. In the light of the moon, she saw the innkeeper briefly backlit by the lights inside. She wore a bulky white fisherman's sweater and white tights.

Wendy flashed back to their handshake this afternoon. A chill shivered its way crookedly up her spine. Only once in her life had she been so turned on by another woman. That was what? Eight years ago? Back in college. As she walked toward the figure in the door, she remembered.

Her roommate's younger sister Lindy had come to visit and spent the weekend. Bitch that her roommate Connie was, she went out on a date and left her visiting sister with Wendy. She was between relationships at the time and Wendy had resigned herself to a weekend of homework and television. Lindy, who was a senior in high school, suggested that they get out, so they went to a movie, had coffee afterward, window-shopped and came back to the room.

To this day, Wendy had no idea how it happened, but no sooner had they closed the door to the dorm room than they were in each other's arms hugging and then kissing. These were open-mouthed, wet, tongueful kisses. They stroked each other's hair and fondled each other's asses. Then the doorknob turned and bitchy big sister entered, more than a little drunk. And that was that.

During the night, though, Lindy lay on the floor in her sleeping bag between the two beds. During the night, they held hands and each masturbated out of frustration. Both came quickly and in frustrating silence. They didn't dare do more.

The next day, Wendy woke up to find both women gone. She found a note on her dresser from her new lover. Nothing like that had ever happened to Wendy. Nor, according to the letter, to Lindy either. "Please, please call me. We have to finish what we started." She had left an address and a phone number.

Out of fear or shame, Wendy never used either, but for a long time, when she masturbated, she'd think about that night and about what almost was. And now, today, that touch. This woman. She was almost angry that these feelings of raw eroticism were now taking center stage, keeping her from the equally erotic events she'd had planned for her and Greg.

"Good evening. You missed a great dinner. Beef Wellington, lobster bisque, whipped garlic and sage potato pie..." Mrs. Lattimer was standing in the doorway.

"I, uh, know," Wendy stuttered. "We were tired. Overslept. I was just getting some food from the car."

"I know. I saw you leave. I haven't slept well at night since ... Well, since I've been alone."

Suddenly Wendy realized that this woman had to have seen her massage her nipples as she walked in the cold to the car. She blushed. As if reading her mind, the innkeeper continued, "cold, huh?" Yup. She'd seen her all right. Wendy shivered, though not from the cold. "I have some leftovers if you like. You don't have to wolf down sandwiches."

"Uh. Not sandwiches. Greg is a, uh, chef. He manages this French restaurant in the city but he's a uh trained chef. We have some good stuff here, too," she smiled, a little too brightly. "Why don't you ask him if he'd like to have a pot luck. I can open up the kitchen and, to tell you the truth, I really didn't eat much tonight and I always like to sample other people's cooking. But of course, if you have other plans..."

Suddenly, Wendy remembered those other plans. Nonetheless, they'd need to get into the kitchen and get the dishes anyway. What the hell? "I'll go ask Greg," she offered.

"You do that. I'll turn on the oven," the innkeeper offered. "Damn," Wendy thought to herself, "this woman is either sure of herself or lonely or..."

She opened the door to the room. Already the fire in the woodstove was blazing. Greg was standing nude in front of the bay window, looking out at the stars and moonlight reflected into the lake. She just loved that ass of his. He'd heard her enter. "You've got to see this," he stated excitedly. She put the jug of cider and the cooler down, went to him and put her arms around his chest, pressing her breasts into his back, resting her face on the side of his shoulder. She sighed. "It's beautiful. And you are gorgeous."

"I've never seen so many stars."

"I know."

"And look. There's a halo around the moon. Know what that means?"

"Good luck?"

"No, woman. It means it's probably going to rain."

"You mean all those beautiful leaves are going to be gone?"

"Well, maybe, if it's a nor'easter, but it's going to be a real comfy, cozy weekend and we won't even feel like leaving our bed for anything but food."

"Speaking of which..." and she told him about Emily's offer.

"Mmmm. I love Beef Wellington. Is that what you want to do? I mean we could be real comfy in here and zee chef 'as nevair let you down, no?"

"I'm okay either way," she said in an air of seeming nonchalance.

"Well," he said, "if we're going to be cooped up here for the weekend, we might as well see what kind of fare we have in store for us."

"That's kind of what I was thinking."

The dining room was designed with family-style eating in mind. Its centerpiece was a long, mahogany table that could seat about ten. Three place settings were already set at one end of the table.

Their hostess had not only begun to cook; she'd changed from her previous attire to a much more casual chenille robe. She'd also loosened her hair from its braid and let it hang down in a ponytail. "Had she worked this fast or had she planned ahead?" Wendy wondered. The smell of good food was already in the air when they arrived.

"Greg, let me show you where everything is so you can warm your food. I can hardly wait. Wendy tells me you are a chef. "

Greg smiled. "Not usually. Usually I manage the restaurant, but we have this cook..." and here he went on to tell the story of his frustration with JeanPierre. She showed him into the kitchen and gave him a tour, noting no stain in the crotch of his navy sweats, but a decided bulge indicating a lack of undergarments and a nice-sized cock. This time, Greg noted the visual attention their hostess was paying to him and his cock jumped a bit. Back to the task at hand, he began to warm his food as Emily left to join Wendy.

As the pots and pans clattered in the kitchen, Emily poured three glasses of red wine into healthy-sized crystal goblets. Emily raised her glass for a toast. "To love, health and laughter. Nothing else counts." The two women clicked glasses as Greg puttered in the kitchen. As they did so, Wendy noted the freckling on the tops of Emily's breasts.

The robe had parted a bit and, although they talked about politics, about life in the big city, about the tragic and too early death of Mr. Larrimer and about the running of a bed and breakfast, it was all a facade. When Emily shifted her position, Wendy would catch a hint of pink areola. When Wendy's hand would leave the table, Emily would catch her breath at the thought that there was a hand rubbing a clit through those gray sweats. Each noticed the flush on the other.

At one point, Wendy, her hand on the table beside her plate, said something about the stress of being a woman in a high powered job. Emily covered her hand with her own, telling her she knew what Wendy meant because before opening Sandy Shores, she'd been an attorney for a large corporation. Emily caressed Wendy's hand as she told her how wonderful it was just walk out.

"Is it hard running a place like this?" Wendy asked, changing the subject and withdrawing her hand.

"Sometimes. This is our busiest time. Fall. Isn't it glorious? We're full now, but spring is mud season and it's hard to get people to come and times get very lean. It's almost the same with winter. It would be different if we were nearer to skiing. To get the winter people, we've started offering discounts, crosscountry skiing, ice-skating and rides in horse-drawn sleighs.

It's made a difference, but we still struggle. Especially when we get big snows. Then, come summer, we're booked again. It's the ocean. Only eleven miles from here. They're drawn to it like lemmings." With that, her elbow brushed against her now empty goblet, sending it crashing to the floor.

"Damn. And then there's maintaining the place." Wendy moved to help clean up the glass. "No. You wait there. I've got this great hand-held vacuum," Which she pulled from a breakfront and plugged in. She bent over to clean up the mess, picking up the larger pieces with a cloth napkin while vacuuming the rest. Now she was certain. Wendy could see a pink areola. Two of them, in fact. Each areola was at the crest of a smallish, apple-shaped dome and each surrounded a thick, longish pink nipple.

"Dinner... is... served," Greg announced. I hope buffet style is okay. I've ... Oh. I thought I heard something break." By the look on his face, Wendy knew that he'd seen what she'd just seen. "I've set it all up on the island in the kitchen. The Wellington looks wonderful. Just pink enough." Had Wendy seen what he'd seen? How could she not have?

They served themselves. Emily, as she was accustomed, sat at the head of the table. They ate well. The cooks complimented the other on their respective products. They drank more wine and drank hot cider in mugs with cinnamon sticks as stirrers. Somewhere near the end of the meal, Wendy began to feel the buzz of the wine and then she felt a hand, Emily's hand, on her thigh, all concealed by the long burgundy tablecloth covering the table. They talked about the hospitality business as Wendy, taking the initiative, placed her own hand on Emily's thigh. The robe had parted. Her fingers found warm, smooth flesh.

The thighs parted. Emily continued to talk as though at a chamber of commerce meeting as Wendy's trembling hand inched higher and higher up the limb. Pretending to slouch in the chair in comfort, Emily issued an invitation to her secret lover. Wendy accepted gratefully. She could feel the slick sheen on Emily's thigh and she was till four or five inches away from its source. Now Wendy slouched as well. Emily maintained her conversation with Greg who, noticing a change in his lover's coloring, attributed it to the wine. Wendy never had more than two glasses of wine in a night. She'd already had four.

At last. Wendy found her hair tickled by the hairs of this strange and, edging forward, encountered the warm, soft wetness of the woman's lips. A slight change in finger position and her index finger encountered the finger of the hostess already engaged with her clit. Wendy said something inane about feeling an outsider listening to the two of them talking about industrial stoves and refrigeration and, while saying so, inched her finger into the woman's pussy. It was hot and inviting. Densely humid. She felt her own pussy leaking and, looking down, noticed a growing circle of dark gray moisture at the juncture of the legs of the sweats.

Her whole finger was inside the other woman's pussy now. Was it her imagination or could she smell that fecundity now. Emily's or her own? The thighs closed suddenly and tightly around her hand and, masking her orgasm with a yawn, Emily came, startling Wendy with a stream of liquid that soaked her past her wrist.

"God. I'm tired," Emily declared after her loud 'yawn.' Why don't the two of you just head on to bed and I'll feed the dishwasher tomorrow before I start breakfast. With that, Emily knocked her mug of cider into her lap. "Talk about klutzes. Aren't we a pair? I think we'll take you up on your offer. Let me just clean up before it stains. I'll be right back, Greg. We'll get the cooler in the morning." She went into the kitchen and couldn't help herself. As the water ran, it only took several strokes of her clit before she came.