Rooftop Oil and Forbidden Touches

It started innocent enough, or at least that was the story Yolanda told herself on the drive home. She was thirty-two, five foot two, a petite blonde with 38D breasts that made every modest bikini feel like a confession. She was a mother, divorced, still shy in the small-town way, the woman who wrapped a towel around her hips before she sat on the sand.

Beside her, Deborah lay like the sun had picked her on purpose. Twenty-five, Italian, a voluptuous mother whose 38E breasts swelled against black fabric, olive skin already gold, dark hair stuck to her neck. They had started spending Saturdays at the beach after a laundry-room conversation turned into a habit. They talked about work and weather and the price of good tomatoes. They oiled their shoulders and laughed when a gull stole a chip. It was innocent on the surface.

Deborah did not feel innocent. As the sun kissed their bodies she watched the light slide over Yolanda's waist, the shy dip of her spine, the way those soft thighs pressed together when the blonde thought no one was looking. Lust lived in Deborah's mouth. She wanted her palms on that skin. She wanted the careful innocence cracked open somewhere private, where Yolanda could stop performing modesty and start telling the truth with her body.

One bright afternoon Deborah rolled onto her side, bikini top shifting, and let her voice stay easy. "My condo has a rooftop deck. Private. No strangers walking past your legs. Come lay out with me tomorrow. Just us and the sun."

Yolanda's throat worked. "I burn easy."

"Then I'll oil you," Deborah said, and smiled the slow smile that made Yolanda's stomach pull tight. "Properly."

Yolanda said yes before she could talk herself out of it. She stared at the water afterward so Deborah would not see how badly she wanted those hands, even while she told herself it was only friendship and a favor between mothers who liked the same stretch of shore.

The next day the elevator opened onto heat and sky. The deck was a warm rectangle above the city, walled just high enough to hide them from the neighboring towers, one wide lounger already dragged into the glare. Yolanda settled on her stomach in the same modest bottoms, arms folded under her cheek, heart knocking against the cushion. Deborah knelt beside her and uncapped a bottle of suntan oil. Coconut rose between them, sweet and thick.

"Legs first," Deborah murmured. "You'll burn if I don't."

She poured a slow line of warm oil over Yolanda's calves and set her palms to the skin. The first strokes were careful, thorough, working the shine into smooth muscle from ankle to knee. Yolanda made a small sound she hoped the wind would take. Deborah's hands did not stop at the knee. They climbed, slick and sure, and the petite blonde shuddered so hard the lounger creaked under her.

Deborah felt the shudder travel into her wrists and smiled where Yolanda could not see. She paused, thumbs resting just above the knees, and watched the smaller woman's shoulders rise too fast for sunscreen.

"Cold?" she asked, though the oil was warm and the deck was hot enough to haze.

"No." Yolanda's voice came out thin against her arms. "Don't stop. Please."

The please lit Deborah clean through. She poured more oil and slid her hands higher, over the backs of Yolanda's thighs, long strokes that ended just under the hem of the bikini and then, on the next pass, did not end there at all. Her thumbs swept the soft inner skin. Yolanda jerked and made a sound that had nothing to do with sunburn. A flush climbed the back of her neck. Her breath broke into little catches. When Deborah glanced along the side of the lounger she could see the pale blue top doing nothing to hide how hard Yolanda's nipples had gone, stiff peaks pressed to the cushion, her body betraying her in every line.

"You're wet," Deborah said, low and sure. "I can see it darkening your bottoms. You've been wanting this."

Yolanda turned her face. Her eyes were bright, her mouth open, the shy mother struggling with a hunger she had stopped being able to hide. "I didn't know how to ask. I thought if I asked, you'd stop being my friend."

"I'm not stopping." Deborah's oiled palm rested high on her thigh, waiting. "Tell me you want my hands on you. I need to hear it."

"I want them," Yolanda whispered. Then, clearer, because the want had already won: "I want you. Yes. Touch me. I consent. I've wanted you to."

Deborah hooked her slick fingers under the edges of the bikini bottoms and drew the fabric inward, gathering it, pushing it deep between Yolanda's ass cheeks until the thin strip vanished into the cleft and the soft round flesh on either side shone bare with oil. Yolanda gasped and lifted her hips, offering herself now that yes had been said out loud. Deborah held the gathered cloth there with one hand and let the other travel lower, tugging the soaked crotch aside, two fingers sliding along slick folds.

Heat met her fingertips. Swollen, dripping, unmistakably aroused. Yolanda whimpered, a shy little sound that broke into something hungrier when Deborah circled her clit with an oiled fingertip and then traced down to tease her entrance, not quite entering, learning her. The blonde's whole body rocked. Her ass clenched around the fabric buried in the crack, and a fresh rush of wetness coated Deborah's fingers.

"Deborah—"

"I've got you." She pressed a little firmer, parting her. "Look at you. Shy all week and soaking the second I rub oil up your legs."

Yolanda arched willingly into the touch, back bowing, hips chasing the hand. "More. Please, more. I want your fingers inside me. I want all of it. Don't be gentle if you don't want to be."

"Say it once more," Deborah murmured against her shoulder, breath hot.

"Finger me," Yolanda said, voice shaking with need and not with fear. "I want it. I want you."

Deborah smiled, all heat, and pushed one finger slowly inside. Yolanda cried out into the open sky, and the innocent afternoon was gone.

Deborah did not rush the next inch, and she did not stay gentle either. She worked Yolanda open with one finger, then two, the suntan oil and Yolanda's own arousal making every stroke glide. The bikini bottoms stayed wedged deep between her ass cheeks so each clench tugged the fabric tighter and made the petite blonde gasp. Deborah fucked her with her hand in steady, vigorous thrusts, curling, the wet sound of it bright under the sun. Yolanda moaned, loud enough that a gull veered off the wall, and Deborah decided the city could have the noise. This woman was hers for the afternoon.

"Turn over," Deborah said, voice gone rough. "I want those tits in my mouth. I want to see your face while I finger you."

Yolanda rolled, breathless and flushed, and Deborah stripped her completely. The pale blue top came off first. Yolanda's 38D breasts spilled free, heavy for her small frame, pale where the suit had hidden them and pink at the tips. Her nipples were stiff already, large areolas wide and soft-looking until Deborah's thumbs crossed them and they drew up tight, the color deepening. The bottoms followed, peeled out of the crack of her ass, down oil-slick thighs, and tossed onto the deck. Yolanda lay naked under the open sky, five foot two of trembling want, legs trying to close out of old habit and then opening again because she had asked for this and meant it.

"Beautiful," Deborah said, and bent to her.

She took one large pink nipple into her mouth and sucked, tongue flattening over the wide areola, lips sealing, pulling the stiff peak deep. At the same time she pinched the other nipple between finger and thumb, rolling it, tugging until Yolanda's back left the cushion and a broken cry tore out of her. Deborah's free hand slid down the oiled belly and found her dripping pussy again. Two fingers pushed in without teasing, vigorous, curling, the heel of her palm grinding Yolanda's clit on every thrust. Wet sounds rose between them, obscene and honest. Oil and sweat made Deborah's mouth slip; she licked the shine off the swollen nipple and sucked harder.

"Oh God—Deborah—yes—" Yolanda's hands found dark hair and held on. "Harder. Suck them harder. They're so sensitive. Pinch them. Please, I can feel it in my stomach when you pull."

Deborah switched breasts, mouth closing over the neglected nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make Yolanda yelp and then moan for more. She pinched the wet one she had left behind, tugging the swollen tip, watching the large areola pucker and flush. Her fingers pumped faster, in and out of clutching heat, Yolanda's arousal coating her knuckles and dripping onto the lounger in shiny strands. The petite blonde's hips rolled up to meet her, greedy now, all the small-town caution burned off.

"Spread for me," Deborah said against her skin. "Wide. Hold yourself open. I want to see this pretty pussy while I fuck it."

Yolanda obeyed at once. She grabbed her own thighs and opened them, shy no longer, pink folds glistening in the sun, clit swollen under Deborah's palm. "Like this? Is this good? Oh—don't stop fingering me. Don't you dare stop. I can feel it building. I'm going to—"

"Not yet." Deborah pulled her fingers out slow, let Yolanda whine at the empty ache, and kissed both nipples once more, sucking each large pink areola until the blonde was shaking. Then she flipped her with sure hands onto all fours. The lounger creaked. Yolanda's ass rose, oil shining on the curves, nothing left to hide her.

Deborah knelt behind her and pushed two fingers deep from behind, fucking her in long, hard strokes that rocked the smaller woman forward on the sun-warmed cushion. The angle was filthy and perfect. Every thrust drove in to the knuckle. Yolanda dropped to her elbows, face turned, mouth open, moaning so loudly the sound seemed to lift off the rooftop.

"Yes—yes—like that—deeper—" She begged without shame, pushing back onto the hand. "More. Don't slow down. Pinch my nipples. Please, Deborah, pinch them while you fuck me. Pull on them. I need it."

Deborah reached under her with her free hand and found both breasts hanging, heavy and hot, swaying with each stroke. She caught one pink nipple, then worked to tug the other as well, pinching and pulling the swollen tips, rolling the wide areolas between her fingers until Yolanda sobbed with pleasure. Two fingers drove deep, curling against the front wall, palm meeting soaked flesh with a soft wet slap. Yolanda met every stroke, her 38D breasts swinging into Deborah's pinching hand, nipples tugged tight, the sting blooming straight down into her cunt.

"I'm—I'm coming—" Yolanda's voice broke high. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop, I'm right there, Deborah, please—"

She shattered. The orgasm hit her like the sun itself, a screaming release that tore out of her throat and bounced off the low wall. Her pussy clenched hard around the two fingers buried inside her, pulsing, gushing, thighs shaking so badly Deborah had to brace a hand on her hip to keep her from collapsing onto the lounger. Deborah did not let up. She kept pumping through it, kept pinching and tugging those swollen nipples, drawing the climax out in ruthless, loving strokes until Yolanda was crying yes, yes, yes into the cushion, body jerking with aftershocks, oil and sweat and her own wetness shining on her skin.

When the screams thinned to wrecked whimpers, Deborah eased her fingers free and kissed the small of Yolanda's back, tasting salt. "Your turn," she said, rough with want. "I need your mouth. I've been dripping since I watched the sun on you at the beach. Lie me down and lick me. I want it. Say you want to."

Yolanda turned, eyes blown dark, a smile breaking through the ruin of her composure. She was still trembling, still flushed from her throat to her breasts. "I want to. God, I want to taste you. Lie back. Let me."

Deborah stripped her own bikini in two quick motions and lay back on the sun-warmed lounger, one knee hooked over the side, utterly unshy. Her 38E breasts spilled free, darker nipples tight, her body fuller, hips wide, the dark hair between her thighs already soaked. Yolanda crawled between those thighs, petite and eager, and buried her face where Deborah was hottest.

The first lick was a shy swipe that still made Deborah's hips jump. The second was not shy at all. Yolanda flattened her tongue and dragged it through slick folds, learning the taste of her friend, then sealed her mouth over Deborah's clit and sucked. Deborah swore, one hand fisting in blonde hair, the other squeezing her own breast, pinching a dark nipple the way she had pinched Yolanda's.

"Right there—God, your tongue—"

Yolanda moaned into her and licked harder, nose pressed to Deborah's mound, two small fingers sliding in to fuck her the way she had just been fucked. She curled them, licked in messy devoted circles, and drank every pulse of wetness without hesitation. Deborah's thighs clamped around her ears. The rooftop seemed to tilt. Oil and sweat made their skin slide wherever Yolanda's hands gripped.

"I'm close," Deborah panted, hips grinding up into that eager mouth. "Don't stop. Lick me through it. Yes—fuck—yes, Yolanda—"

She came with a broken shout, pussy fluttering around the fingers inside her, a rush of sweetness that Yolanda lapped up until Deborah tugged her hair, laughing, breathless, oversensitive and glowing in the open sun.

After, they lay facing each other on the lounger, glistening with sweat and oil under the open sky. Yolanda's cheek rested near Deborah's collarbone. Deborah traced the curve of a breast, then a waist, slow and tender. They kissed softly, tasting salt and each other.

"I wanted this longer than today," Yolanda whispered. "Since you oiled my shoulders at the beach and I went home and touched myself thinking about your hands. I was too shy to say it."

"I've been lusting after you every Saturday," Deborah said. "The sun on your body. I kept inviting you up here so I could finally touch you. I'm glad you said yes."

Yolanda's eyes went bright with a new, scheming heat. "Tomorrow. Earlier. Nothing under my dress. I want to sit on your face before you open the oil, and I want you pinching my nipples while I come on your tongue."

Deborah's palm slid over her ass, already mapping the hour: unlocked door, dress on the deck, Yolanda naked in the first sun, begging before noon. "Tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Don't knock. Walk out here, and I'll be waiting with my mouth open. I intend to start the second you step into the light."

Yolanda's breath caught. She was already planning the dress, already counting the hours until Deborah's tongue and those strong hands and the open sky were hers again.