The Ghostwriter's Words

Sara: Post Coital

Sara slowly rose and waded back into the water, mud in the crack of her ass, rather than sand, in her hair and pubes, and she didn't care. A cool breeze blew across her body, but she was warm with afterglow. She still had the taste of him fresh in her mouth. They both came at least three times, maybe more. Sammy still loved her and was happy to have her home.

So far. But after the blow job that could have raised the dead Sara gave him, Sammy should be the happiest man alive. She chuckled to herself. One of the benefits of being nearly one thousand years old herself. Lots of practice. It might be possible that she gave the best head in the world. She couldn't imagine that she hadn't given the most, except, perhaps, her friend Lady. But she had been around near as many years. Then again, she'd had the past fifteen years to do some catching up since Sara hadn't been giving any blow jobs.

How happy Sammy would be to see her was answered, with neither words nor Magick Hats required. She hadn't been fucked that hard since - well, again, considering she'd been with a woman for the past fifteen years. And there hadn't been anyone else. So, that shouldn't be much of a surprise.

Except for Steve. She'd nearly forgotten Steve. But poor Steve had been as afraid of her as he'd been turned on. It wouldn't have surprised her if he hadn't been able to perform at all. He'd been attempting to be a gentleman, but before he'd finished explaining that he would take the couch and turn his back if she needed to change into something to sleep in, she'd been naked, pulled his pants around his knees, thrown him on his back in the bed, and had his penis in her mouth. A short time later, he'd rolled off and apologized for it not being great for her. It hadn't, but rather than complain; she'd told him, "Put your mouth to better use, stupid man."

Sara heard a hiss of intaken breath behind her, pulling her thoughts back to the present. "Wow!" Sammy told her, "I'd convinced myself the ghillie guy in the bushes must have said tits, but it was tats. He was right. Your wings are amazing. Tell me that story. There must be one."

'Oh, so many,' Sara thought, lowering herself in the water, first to rinse the mud from her ass, then from her hair and pubes, and realized one or more of those stories was about to spoil the wonderful few hours she and Sammy had just shared. Probably best not to bring Steve into the conversation, especially since he was back with The Truth and no longer waiting at the house to complicate things, as were Claire, the Professor, and Nan. What was up with Nan?

But she couldn't worry about Nan either. Of the three, Nan was the least of her concerns. Sara decided Claire could also wait until all the dust over the Professor settled, and she could hardly explain her tats without including Claire.

Sara waded slowly back out of the pool, shaking water from her hair and wiping her hands down her face. She checked her butt crack – which was fine. "Oh, so much more than fine," would have been the Professor's appraisal, which she recalled from some distant memory from at least half a millennium before each cheek of that ass was colored by the feathered tips of the angel wings covering her entire back.

Sara took a deep breath and swallowed hard. The Professor.