Professionals with Benefits

I ran my hand along his shaft, let my thumb circle his swollen head. I gave it another gentle squeeze.

"Morning wood," I whispered. "Best kind of fuel a girl can find. But..."

A large hand cuddled my bum cheek. "But?"

"Honestly? I need to visit the little girls' room. Sorry."

"Me, too, actually."

"Peter?"

"Mmm?"

"Give me a couple of minutes, hon. Don't lose this." I gave it an affectionate pat and slipped out from under his arm.

One thing about a big suite is the convenience of multiple bathrooms. I took care of the obvious, brushed my teeth as fast as possible, pulled a brush through my hair. I looked almost human again, then got downwind of myself and frowned. I was whiff with Betts and Peter. A girl needs to smell good, too.

I pulled on a hotel shower cap, turned on the water in the huge walk-in shower. I only needed a minute.  

I didn't get it. I'd soaped up, rinsed off and had started to fumble for the towel when it was placed into my hand. I rubbed water out of my eyes and there, of course, was Peter. And his smile. And his morning wood.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I just wanted to make myself..."

He cut me off. "Well, it couldn't be making yourself prettier, Betts." He took a small sniff under his own arm. "I guess I could do with one, too."

He slipped past me, backed into the still-running water, spun in place and groaned slightly in happiness.

He filled his palms with body wash before beginning to wash his face, chest and shoulders. Between us, his cock waved with his movements.

Smiling, knowing where this morning had to go, I took some body wash in my own hands, knelt in front of him and did the other obvious.

Peter's eyes popped open at my touch, then immediately closed as they filled with soap. He tried to turn into the shower, but I had a good grip on him and he could only turn his head to the water.

"I thought I might help," I let myself giggle. "Do you mind?"

Without waiting for a response, I began washing the boy again, soapy hands sliding slippery suds over his muscular thighs and engorged sex. Back to the shower, his body kept the water out of both our eyes and I made sure he could see my brightest smile.

I laced my fingers together, pushed my hands over his cockhead, squeezed gently, then slid them slowly down his shaft, my grip tightening as I went. Peter shifted and my eyes filled with streaming water, leaving me blind for a second. That's OK, Braille works pretty well in such circumstances.

My cage of fingers reaching the base of his cock. Reversing direction, my hands dragged his soapy skin back over his hard core, up towards me, then again down. I eased the pressure of my grip, but sped up my strokes. Peter's hands came down on my shower cap.

Ick. That  wouldn't do. Next it would be hair curlers... I reached up, pulled the silly thing off and tossed it aside. Real hair, wet hair, is infinitely better than cheap plastic.

When I returned to what I was doing, the water had rinsed off most of the soap.

"Turn a bit," I ordered. He gave a quarter turn, enough for my fingers to get the rest of the suds off. I tugged gently on his balls, turning him back. Then I had another idea. I started circling on my knees around him, making him turn with me. When the shower head was behind me, the water falling on my back and Peter's chest, I took his sac with one hand and began to roll the boys in my fingers. With the other, I held his organ, began licking it with broad strokes of my tongue, swirling my tongue around its head.

Peter's hands clutched my head now. It was clear that - healthy young man, romantic setting, first thing in the morning - he was already close to the edge.

I had an idea, giggled to myself and pulled my head away. Holding his cock by his shaft, I swung it until its head was held in the heavy stream of fast-falling water. He squirmed as the high-pressure drops bounced off his swollen crown. I giggled again before pulling it back between my lips.

I sucked him into me, swirled my tongue around his rim, began to pump his shaft outside my lips. I pulled back, sucking as I went. Then forward again, faster this time.

Repeat.

It wasn't long before I could feel his legs start to tremble, saw his stomach tighten. He was almost there.

I thought I could go with something guys seemed to like.

"Peter," I said, pulling back for an instant. "Peter!"

He wiped the water out of his eyes, shaded them from the water with one hand.

"How's this, Pete?"

My head bobbed up and down over his cock, faster, faster, my cheeks hollow with suction, my tongue teasing inside, my balls-filled hands sweeping, pumping, stroking. His body began to shudder.

As his orgasm hit, I pulled away, continued to pump his shaft. A fountain of potential Peters gushed out, covering my chin, throat and boobs. The shower washed it off as soon as it hit, but the boy was a bull and it continued, gout after gout. Looking up at him, I made sure he could see my smile.

The eruption fading, I leaned down and lightly kissed his tip.

His body sagged against the wall of the shower. I got up, rinsed the last of him off my boobs and turned the water off before leaning my body against his. I got both arms around his waist, hugged him.

I felt water running off his body, felt it dripping from my hair, heard it dribbling from the shower head. Against my hip, I could feel him softening.

It took a minute for him to recover. A hand came to rest on my waist, gave me a soft hug.

"Wow," he whispered eventually. "Um..."

He hugged me, two hands flowing down to my bum. I found one of them, pulled it to my cheek, leaned against it.

"Hey," I said softly. "It's another day in the workers' paradise; are you ready for it?"

I felt the hand on my bum close in response. I looked up and saw the bluest eyes in the world smiling down at me.

"After that," he grinned, "I think I'm about ready for anything." He hesitated. "But what about you?"

I found his now-soft dangle, let it drag slowly over one finger, fall.

"We've got a month and a half, Pete, maybe eight weeks." I pulled his head down for a quick kiss, released it.

"I'm sure I'll catch up somehow."

And that was that, sort of. That part of the relationship had been redefined to, I thought, both our satisfactions. The next day or six would see how it would play out. We dried each other off with towels the size of sheets.

+

Breakfast was quiet enough. Peter had done a double-take when he came to the table. From my point of view, there wasn't a lot of room left for pretense, not after last night, not after the shower, not with knowing what was awaiting us on the screen. So, after some thought, I hadn't bothered with anything more than bikini bottoms and a t-shirt.

I had instead spent extra time brushing my hair and putting on a touch of makeup. I thought it was a pragmatic decision. I was guessing that the clothes were coming off - and probably sooner than later.

"It's your call, Peter." I smiled, for the boy was having a hard time keeping his eyes off my nipples under the thin cotton. "But this office has now adopted a Very Casual Dress policy.

"That isn't exactly a standing invitation," I said, settling down to my cereal, "just letting you know."

+

I scrolled through the master list of primaries after breakfast, saw nothing all that familiar to me, nothing I remembered having already watched. I shrugged mentally, picked a travelogue - people studying maps, people packing bags, people at the airport, people doing this, doing that... There'd be a lot of flying, a lot of time in terminals, lots of airplanes taking off and landing - lots of opportunity for T.C.A.'s wash, in other words.

It wasn't really my sort of show, but I watched it to the end. Thinking though it, I tried to see if I felt any different. It was kind of strange, like knowing the secret to the trick a famous magician is half-way through. I closed my eyes, tried to imagine flying home. I found I was actually not as concerned as I might have been. I shrugged, put it aside. My job, as I understood it, was to confirm T.C.A. was inserting solid washes. Richard could do market analysis.

I initially went with the split screen, the big TV showing the wash only when appropriate. Erotic images flicked on, back off, back on again. It was enough to convince me that Smith's tech worked, that it synced well with the travelogue's shots of airports and airplanes. I could, maybe, feel it inside me, but I wasn't sure.

Peter had joined me initially, wandered off, had come back and was sitting beside me on the sofa.

"Betts? Are you sure about this?"

"No, I'm not. Not at all. But, Peter?"

"Yes?"

"It's what we've got. And we've still got a job to do. So play the damned video, will you?"

+

The manor house was very old, large enough as these things go. Three stories high and made of red brick, the roof was of grey slate, dotted with a row of dormer windows. A sweeping flight of stone steps led down to the drive from the main entrance.

The house was surrounded by fields, hedges and small stands of trees. Closer in were carefully-tended gardens, many roses and much elegant shrubbery. There was what looked like a newly-expanded vegetable garden out back.

A small group emerged from the main doors. Two servants in livery carried a three-wheeled wheelchair down the steps. A young nurse and a stocky soldier in an Army uniform with cap and puttees together helped a taller, blanket-wrapped figure down the stairs and into the wheelchair. The tall man allowed himself to be placed in it almost grudgingly, as if resenting its need. The nurse tucked the blanket in about him. Another servant curtsied slightly as she presented him a wicker picnic basket. He accepted it with a slight wince, settled it into his lap, turned to the servant with a smile of thanks.

With the first soldier pushing the wheelchair and the nurse walking beside it, the three set off down a path of fine white gravel leading away from the manor. The burly soldier behind the chair wore the hooks of a lance-corporal and seemed to have an almost parental attitude towards the seated figure. His batman, perhaps?

The path came to a gap in the hedges. The man in the wheelchair said something; the lance-corporal saluted briskly and, surrendering the chair to the nurse, moved to stand sentry in the centre of the path. The other returned the salute, rather more casually, then said a few more words, a smile on his face. The second man smiled back, saluted again, looked about. Seeing on a stone bench in the shade, he sat down, loosened his collar button and began to roll a cigarette.

I felt Peter's hand feel for, then grasp mine. I gave it a welcoming squeeze.

The nurse's white uniform had a red cape and a white cap holding under it a mass of pale hair. Her skirt was just short enough to expose slender ankles. She seemed to handle the wheelchair easily. Her shoulders, arms and hands on the chair handles seemed strong, her legs were long and even the enveloping cape could not entirely hide an enviable figure. I found her face enchanting, with grey eyes, high cheekbones and perfect skin. I was surprised to see some modest makeup, then remembered that the Victorian Era would have been over a decade or more. Things change.

The clouds cleared gradually; the sun became warmer. The flowers in the gardens showed their colors better. The figure in the wheelchair began to seem less grumpy and smiled a bit more.

The path ended at a small circular pond perhaps 20 yards across. Bulrushes grew on the other side; insects skated across the pond's surface. A small flock of ducks made their way back and forth. At the nearer side, the gravel path broadened slightly and on the soft grass were positioned several iron chairs, a bench and a table. The nurse pushed the chair into their midst. Putting the brake on, she crouched gracefully beside the wheelchair. The man inside it gently stroked her face with his hand. She clasped it to her cheek fondly; the love in her eyes was clear.

The table was within reach and the man stretched out his right arm to put the basket on it. The woman scurried to help him, but he waved her off politely.

Free of the basket, he stood, shaking off the blanket. Of average height and slim build, the man had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was clean-shaven but for a thin mustache and was dressed in uniform trousers, shiny brown shoes and a uniform shirt. An officer's forage cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head, its brim shading his eyes. His tunic, with the three pips of captain's rank, had been draped over his shoulders like a cape.

Beside me on the sofa, Peter's hand pulled out of mine. His arm came down across my shoulders, warm and, yes, comforting. OK, new normal. But what was 'normal' supposed to look like? Boy, girl, movie...  I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder as I looked up at the screen.

The soldier's left hand and forearm were wrapped in bandages, supported by a spotless sling about his neck. His face was deeply tanned; the corners of his eyes anchored a spiderweb of small wrinkles, seemingly more from stress than age, for his close-cut brown hair showed only traces of grey at the temples. Limping slightly as he moved to the table, he still retained a clear feline grace.

The woman helped him sit, opened the basket and laid out a small meal of sandwiches, pickles and cheese. A bottle of champagne followed. The woman opened it deftly, without asking or being asked. Many things change in wartime.

The man fed himself, slowly, chewing as if savoring very morsel. The nurse helped him only when his wounded arm interfered.

They talked, casually, quietly. Finishing their meal in due course, he said something to her. Nodding, she helped him to his feet and over to the wooden bench before returning to the table for refilled champagne flutes and, again from within the basket, several small books of poetry.

Sitting beside him, she turned her head up for a short kiss before holding up the books, offering a choice. Eyes closed in the sun, he waved his hand at her. You choose.

She looked at the books, selected one apparently at random, opened it and began to read. As she did so, the man began to smile, put his arm around her shoulder. She smiled lightly at his touch, continued reading.

I loved her smile. I put my hand on Peter's knee, squeezed his thigh.

The man began to nod to himself, as if in time to the words she was reading. In a few moments, he began to speak, following her words with his own. Clearly, he knew the poem.

The girl turned to him, surprised but delighted. He laughed; his arm closed on her shoulder in an affectionate hug. He nodded toward the book. Go on.

Instead, discarding the book, she turned her head, rested it on his shoulder. Her fingertip traced over his uniform, over seams, around brass buttons, along ribbons denoting decorations. I sensed she didn't want to meet his eyes. Was it for fear of his having to return to the front when his wounds healed? I couldn't tell.

The man laughed gently, pulled her in tighter. His hand swept slowly down her flank, came to rest on her bum. He squeezed gently. The girl jumped a little, perhaps in surprise, but when she turned her face back to his, her smile was as genuine as it was pleased.

As with the other two clips, I was struck by the love between the two. What I was watching was a trope as old as the species - warrior and mate. Whether it was a man in furs and skins defending his cave from a sabre-tooth or a man in Great War khaki fighting in Flanders, there was almost always a woman left behind, waiting, working, trying desperately to stay strong, pick up the slack and remain hopeful.

The man shifted, then, having but one hand and being unwilling to release his grip on the woman with it, said something to her. She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, but obediently slipped her hand into the pocket of his draped tunic. It emerged a moment later with a small jeweler's box. Her eyes wide, she opened it.

Inside lay a flat silver disc, quite plain but very shiny. The camera zoomed in as she turned the thing in her hand. One side was engraved with his name and regiment; the other with her name and town. A long silver chain threaded through a small loop at top. It might be called, perhaps, a civilian dog tag, a token of the loving bond between them.

Her happy smile was amazing; her hug might have been ferocious but for her obvious concern for his arm. She pulled loose from him, tried to put it around her neck.

The girl looked around; there was nobody else in sight. Her smile mirroring his, she opened her top button. A second button, a third. I smiled inwardly as I felt Peter's hand shift over my shoulder, his fingertips all-so-casually tracing the line along the top of my breast. My nipples responded to his touch, stiffened in hope.

She fastened the chain around her neck and the medallion dropped to lie beneath her undergarment. Both hands clasped her chest over it.

The soldier smiled, then raised his one good hand in a theatrical gesture of frustration. I want to see it properly!

The woman blushed, smiled timidly. While the attraction was obvious, I was uncertain whether or not the two were actual lovers. Even if they were, perhaps outdoor nudity, even partial, was outside her experience or comfort zone.

Peter's hand dropped further, cupped my breast. I could feel my twins spring to full attention under the thin t-shirt.

Apparently coming to a decision, the woman smiled, still shy but willing. Her eyes were very wide as her hands moved further down the row of buttons, undoing them one by one. Finished, she shrugged her shoulders, let the dress fall down her arms into her lap. The shift under it had a V-neck; a portion of the disc could be seen resting on her cleavage.

My own breath caught as Peter squeezed my breast softly. It's what my body was telling me it needed.

For starters.

The nurse looked down at her half-revealed bosom, then up at him. His eyebrows rose, but he otherwise stayed motionless. She blushed slightly, closed her eyes and reached behind her neck, fumbling with another button.

My wrist moved over Peter's thigh, found what I was looking for. His breath caught as I slipped my hand further up his leg, softly stroked the thing waiting under the fabric.

The woman on the screen looked around the pond again, laughed louder. She pulled away from the officer, stood up and began ridding herself of her clothing, quickly, as if not to lose her nerve. In a few seconds, she had stepped out of the last of it, tossed it to one side. She laughed again, in relief I thought, reached for the sun with her arms extended. The world hadn't come to an end after all.

I found myself laughing with her, found myself agreeing with her decision. Enough silliness!  I thought to myself. Who's fooling whom?

I pushed Peter's arm off me, stood up. His eyes were torn between me and the screen.

"So, pause it, dummy," I said gently. He did. I found his face full of uncertainty.

"Let's stop pretending, Pete."

I crossed my arms, grasped the hem of my t-shirt and, with one motion, pulled it up over my head and off me, leaving my boobs bare. I put my thumbs under the waistband of my bikini bottom, paused. I let my eyes shift to the length in his shorts.

"Your turn," I whispered. "Unless you'd prefer..."

He stood, peeled. It took him about a second. I wasn't surprised to see he'd gone commando. Freed of the shorts, his manhood was ready, aimed at the ceiling. I looked at it, licked my lips. Big hands, big feet...  I wasn't complaining.