About that "freaky in the bathroom" bit, well, it soon became apparent that she wasn't kidding. The affair itself didn't seem at all repulsive to me, it just took some getting used to-especially in her more unpredictable moments. And my "loneliness" problem was at last solved, a problem more important than anything involved with sex. So for the sake of companionship, I was willing to go along with Zoe's peculiar quirk.
We had fun in bed too, naturally, but now somehow it was always more exciting in the bathroom. Uncomfortable but exciting, and because of her one-track mind, what else? It didn't matter what we did in there, just as long as we did it there. In bed she was pretty ladylike all too often, and sometimes I got the impression that my sex partner was acting rather than living. Acting her role almost as though she had a commercial client to please. But in the bathroom, oh shit, that was different, that was where I saw the real Zoe. And I no longer minded her coarseness by that time; it was simple and sincere, the sort of thing a true friend should understand and make allowances for. Especially in a bathroom, of all places'. So eventually I began nudging her in that direction myself when the old sex urge came on. I too needed the increased excitement, doesn't every-one?, no matter what brought it to flourishing life.
Once that happened, though, it was like the shattering of a barrier between us. Pretty soon she started dropping hints of new and stranger things to come. Hints only, however, and always with a wry twist that bordered on humor, a bit of camouflage that disguised the brew but kept the cauldron bubbling. Which made me all the more curious after a while and consequently all the more indulgent when I did manage to wring a kind of coy half-confession out of her. Some confession!
"That's it, kiddo. And you'd better not laugh."
"Who's laughing?"
"Well, anyway, I'm glad to see you're not embarrassed."
"Zoe, nothing you do embarrasses me anymore. Those days are gone forever, over and done with. And this really isn't such a big deal, you know. I've sucked you off on the bathroom floor often enough, I guess it wouldn't be a hell of a lot different if you were sitting on the can."
"Honey? You-you mean you're willing to try it?"
"Don't get carried away now. I'll just kneel down and suck your cunt and make you come, how's that?"
"Oh…“
"You sound disappointed."
"Umm, well, I thought for a minute, "
"Let me get used to the idea first, will you? Don't think about it, let's just see what happens. Come on. Hurry! Before I lose my nerve."
It was odd the way I sounded off. Like a command almost, and I certainly wasn't the type to issue orders. Especially to someone like Zoe, older and wiser and infinitely more experienced than myself. But she understood, of course-anyway, she scooted right into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet, anxious to take advantage of my impulsive gesture. Anxious to find out just how available I really was, no doubt.
As usual, we were both naked. I stood there trembling, aware of a change in the atmosphere; the small bathroom seemed sexier than ever all of a sudden. Zoe's thick thighs were spread wide, and under the cover of the silver-blond bush I could see the faint vertical line, the split, the pink-lipped mouth of her vagina. She looked positively lewd sitting there like that, but I wasn't repelled or offended by the sight, oh no, my actions were governed by a definite fascination. For a fleeting instant I recalled the night of our first meeting, the time I barged in on her in exactly this same pose. In the bathroom of that hotel suite. It wasn't so very long ago, and yet everything seemed different now.
"Kid? Don't you dare cop out on me!"
"I-I won't."
"Come on, then. Never mind anything else, just suck me, suck my cunt and make me come. Do it good, huh?"
I sank to my knees, not quite prepared for the shocking sensation of humility that came over me. Her body wriggled, a little shiver almost, and I realized that she was truly aroused. I hadn't touched her yet, nor was she touching herself in any way, just sitting there and smoldering impatiently!, but her emotional state was self-evident, as clear and vividly graphic as the facial expression and body language of an old-time silent film star.
It communicated itself to me. I leaned in over the curved front of the seat and kissed her belly. A moan sounded and then, abruptly, her heavy loins surged upward to greet the downward plunge of my head. And right there on the toilet Zoe became more excited than I'd ever seen her. I had expected to browse a little, to nibble gently, to display my recently acquired prowess as a lesbian lover, but in the heat of that bizarre moment all such technical knowledge went up in smoke and I just sucked her hot cunt madly. The flesh was wet and slick with secreted juices and I smeared my face around inside the furry cleft, hitting her clitoris with the tip of my nose as I dove down and deeper with my tongue. The position was difficult but not impossible, and she helped by grabbing a double handful of my hair and guiding me. It hurt, naturally, but I didn't much care about such petty grievances, I probably wouldn't have minded if she had ripped out every strand by its roots, that was how thoroughly my own rising passion had taken over.
Still clutching me close, she began lurching and bucking up off the toilet seat, grinding crazily. Every so often I managed to peer up at her during an elongated upsweep of my tongue; her eyes were glazed with lust, her features contorted, her breasts heaving and her stomach muscles rippling, oh shit, I had never seen her in such a state. Talk about passion! I had never seen anyone in such a state. With a few snakes growing out of her scalp, I would have been scared to look at her for fear of turning to stone.
Suddenly she loosed a loud groan and I felt her flesh go into its climactic spasm. I wanted to make it good for her, better than ever, the very best, and I all but pushed my entire head between the stretched and gaping lips of her cunt.
She screamed. Then, "Yeah, that's it, kid, that's the way, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your face… "
I couldn't hear much more as her voice crested and then subsided to a burbling moan, but the echo of her cry was still, bouncing around inside the tiled bathroom walls. Inside my skull, too. And I knew that was exactly what I had been doing, sure enough, fucking her with my face! I was still doing it, going at it hot and heavy as her orgasm struck its summit.
Concerned only with satisfying my friend, up until that instant I hadn't paid much attention to my own needs. But now I became conscious of the craving void down there in my body; it had grown unbearable in this long-lasting crisis sand I just couldn't hold back, I had to reach down and poke my hand into the awful emptiness. Not that it took much poking, oh no, a mere jiggle would have been plenty! Anyway, I fucked myself with my fingers and fucked Zoe with my face and we both went into our convulsion at the same time. Which I could only call a fucking miracle…
Afterward, miracles aside, a rueful memory of shame and self-humiliation lingered to grate upon my conscience. I had sucked her off on a toilet seat, imagine! Were there no limits to my slide into depravity?
I tried to shut it out of my mind, the painful picture of myself kneeling there like that. After all, it was over now and I could only renew the agony by dwelling on it. And yet I couldn't even end that much; the bathroom scene, with my own naked body in that demeaning position, was etched upon my brain in the cruelest of corrosives. It was scar tissue now, burned in permanently by Zoe and her freakiness. And it would remain there to haunt me forever, more than likely. A memory of hell, a loathsome kind of hell created for my own personal torture by a sluttish she-devil who didn't need a pitchfork to gain instant obedience to her monstrously crude commands!
Anyway, for a while I studiously avoided any further contact with the woman, using the demands of my burgeoning clientele as an excuse to do nothing but work and sleep, an excuse that a fellow prostitute could well understand and would have to accept. As a matter of fact, it was a fairly legitimate excuse at the time, since that was when dear old Jerome first strayed into my life. Jerome Ackroyd, out-of-town businessman, a gentleman and a scholar, aged in years but still young at heart, and simply loaded with cash and checkbooks and credit cards (to say nothing of stocks and bonds and real estate!) and all those goodies to turn a commercial-minded young girl's head. And despite the money involved in our own personal pay-and-play deals, discreetly arranged by our mutual acquaintance, the madam, the old boy insisted on wining and dining and wooing me on every date, treating me like an escort-service doll rather than a high-priced doxy. So it was no wonder I went out with him often and found the strength to put that other less savory relationship behind me.
But then Jerome finished his big-city business and took off for home, leaving me prey to my lonely nightmares again. And soon the grotesque memories began to blur and run together in my mind, chaotic at first and then converging to a focus with kaleidoscopic clarity. I thought of the fantastic thrill, the clutch of those big soft womanly thighs at climax, the unprecedented fury of Zoe's excitement, and I felt my own excitement reviving and gaining new magnitude, deriving a certain strange enhancement even from my recollections of shame. On top of which my old loneliness returned in all its depressing force, and at last I could only surrender to the inevitable and swallow my pride, making the all-important phone call to resume the affair.
She was happy to hear from me, happier still to take up where we had left off. And just as bossy as ever, of course, hardly an unexpected development! Paradoxically, now that her "confession" had been offered and acted upon so openly it was no longer discussed between us, and I realized that the performance in the bathroom had taken on a special significance. As though it had become sacrosanct, somehow, too deeply meaningful to talk about. But the performance was repeated again and again in the days that followed, and soon the idea of sex in the bathroom didn't mean rolling around on the tile floor; now only the commode was implied. The utilitarian toilet had become our try sting-place. Rendezvous for lovers! Or for friends, rather, since I still couldn't conceive of myself as a lesbian.