Liquid Silver Books

After Lisa's departure, Wendy stepped out of her wrinkled business suit. She stripped the panty hose from her legs, then peeled the damp bra from her breasts. The icy ceramic bathroom tile chilled her sweaty feet as she headed toward the shower. Today's heat and humidity must have set a record. The thong followed the damp bra into her hamper, but the suit would need to be dry cleaned. She'd think about laundry later. Now all she wanted was a shower.

Well, that wasn't all she wanted. Truth was, she'd been aroused from the moment the air conditioning had brushed across her nipples. Lisa's talk about being horny hadn't helped, either. After the shower, Wendy planned to indulge in a little of that auto-eroticism.

A gentle way to put it, she thought, smiling to herself. Lisa was right about one thing: Wendy was in her sexual prime. She'd discovered she was her own best lover.

She'd learned long ago no man would satisfy her. She'd kissed too many frogs looking for a prince. But she'd also learned it didn't matter. She could support herself financially, she had a social life, and she had an arsenal of sex toys for self-satisfaction.

A man in her life? Ha! What for? Extra laundry, groceries, and remote controls. Less closet space and privacy. Then there were birth control and health-safety issues. No, thank you.

Men didn't even make good friends, unless you counted a football game-watching buddy as a friend. She smiled, remembering her old pal, Scott Drysdale. Definitely the exception where men were concerned. She and Scott had always been close friends, but that was all. And he was safely married, thank you very much.

The shower spray sluiced over her shoulders, tantalizing her breasts and the tender flesh at the tips. If anything, the shower intensified her horniness. The fluffy terry cloth towel rubbed her tingling skin dry. Her fingers lingered between her legs, inching closer to her most sensitive spot.

Swift arousal drove her to the soft carpet just outside the bathroom, her fingers rhythmically massaging her clit. As it swelled with need, she increased the tempo. Tiny circles of sensation rippled deep, bringing her to fever pitch. God almighty! She was quickly on the brink of coming.

Deliberately slowing her massage, she crawled to her nightstand. Inside the lower drawer she grabbed the dildo, a remarkable tool resembling a large, pink cucumber she affectionately called Willie. Peter, the battery-powered vibrator, wouldn't be needed this time.

To further arouse herself, she thumbed her left nipple, then her right, while using her other hand to slide Willie inside. In and out, in and out, she maintained the rhythm as her temperature rose. She took the dildo deep, then shoved it further. She tensed, clenching her pelvic muscles. Rigid, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Oh, yes! Yes!" She abandoned her nipples for her clit and rode wave after wave of her orgasm. "Oh, God. Oh, yes! Oooooh."

She rested a moment, catching her breath and relaxing her thigh muscles. But she couldn't hold back her need. Working Willie in and out, in and out, she pulled the dildo, slick with her own wetness, across her clit, then slid it back inside. She repeated the movement, picking up speed, until she tensed again. She shuddered against the dildo, crying out her satisfaction in a lengthy, unintelligible groan.

Panting, she leaned her head against the bed's quilted comforter and closed her eyes. Relaxed for the first time since she'd left for work that morning, she slowed her breathing, then sighed. Just like a good workout, sex left her drained but refreshed.

Yes, life was good. She had everything she needed with none of the hassles. Living alone, she called the shots, owing no explanations for her long hours at the office or her occasional nights out with friends. Her family respected her privacy and busy schedule, dropping by only if they'd called first. She cooked if and when she chose, masturbating when the mood struck. She wouldn't trade her independence for the world.

The bedside telephone chirped, jarring her solitude. Tempted to let it go to voice mail, she answered it on the third ring.

"Wendy, it's Scott."

"Scott? You don't sound like yourself."

He hesitated--was that a sob?--he finally sighed. "Heather left me."

"Oh, Scott." Wendy swallowed the lump in her throat. His voice filled with so much pain, she fought a sudden urge of anger toward his insensitive wife. How could Heather dump sweet, shy Scott? "You want to talk about it?"

"That's why I called. You know you're my best friend."

"I'll be right over..."

"Well, uh, I was on my way over there. Is that okay?"

"You know it's okay. But be careful, hear? You sound upset."

"Yeah, well, I can still drive."

She hung up and hurried to dress. Scott had been the geek in glasses who'd tutored Wendy through high school chemistry their junior year. She'd coached him on updating his image. He'd had his heart set on Junior Prom Queen Heather Michaels. Thanks to contact lenses, styled hair, and a wardrobe update, he'd finally gotten her attention. Then Wendy had role-played with him for hours until he'd felt comfortable enough to ask Heather out.

What Scott didn't know was how Wendy had worked behind the scenes to promote him to Heather. Heather had been ready to ask him out by the time he'd found the courage to approach her for a date. Now Wendy wondered if she'd done him any favors.

She'd often wondered why popular Heather Michaels married the studious and shy Scott. Although Scott was ecstatic, he, too, had been speechless when she'd said yes to his proposal.

Attractive in her own right, Wendy had nonetheless moved outside the circles of the Heather Michaelses of the world. She'd envied Heather some, hated her a little. But she'd resolved to like the woman when she married Scott, Wendy's best friend.

He'd sounded devastated on the phone. If she could get her hands on that stuck up little snot Heather, she'd choke the bitch for hurting him.

"Wendy, that's irrational," she muttered, but the self-scolding did no good.

She'd barely dressed when the buzzer sounded for her door.

* * * *

Scott Drysdale pressed the buzzer at his best friend's apartment. Most guys would go out drinking with their best friend to commiserate a broken relationship. And that's just what Scott intended. Of course, most men's best friends were other men. Scott happened to have a female best buddy.

He wasn't sure how his and Wendy's friendship had started, only that she'd been the first student in his class to take the time to get to know him. She'd understood him and spent time helping him gain acceptance with the popular crowd. If he'd had a sister, he'd have wanted her to be Wendy Powers.

Wendy opened her door and pulled him into her arms, hugging him against her. Damp and clean, she'd probably just stepped from the shower. The filmy shorts and knit T-shirt she wore hugged her athletic body. His eyes stung as he buried his face into her wet hair. Misery from Heather's defection gave way to something else, an overwhelming sense of being loved and accepted as himself, like a parent's love, but not quite. He'd sort it out later, when he'd cleared his head of the emotional chaos. Certain that his best friend would fix things for him--she always had, hadn't she?--he gave in to the tears.