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Pillow Stories

Idle Hands

by Gracie C. McKeever
(11/14/07)

"You're so tense." Savannah's hands glided eagerly over her client's well-defined back and shoulders, doing her level best not to moan, at least not out loud. Wouldn't have been very professional, not to mention it might scare off her customer, and she knew how tough it had been to get this high-powered Washington lobbyist to come in.

"I was told that's why I needed the visit."

Savannah held in a laugh, imagining the conversation between Myra Savage, her bossy best friend since college, and this resistant older brother, Matthew, when she had convinced him to use his birthday gift and come to Savannah's salon.

"Every muscle's in a knot." She pressed her thumbs into his lean-muscled physique, stimulating the neurons right under his shoulder blades. She found herself close to getting off from just the contact. If she didn't stop enjoying her job so much, she might have to pay him for the visit.

Savage groaned long and low. Savannah closed her eyes to savor the raw sound. Her nipples, already hard, tightened even more; she wondered if he sounded like that when he fucked. Or was he one of those whose-pussy-is-this dirty talkers, or one of those silent, controlled brothers who had surgical transactions between the sheets instead of sweaty sex?

"Do you walk around like this all day long?"

"Like what?" He turned to glance at her over a shoulder and she caught a glimpse of those hypnotic onyx eyes that had riveted her when he'd first walked in.

"Stressed."

"The only stress I'm under is from this appointment. And I'm wasting valuable time that could be better used working."

Savannah chuckled; she couldn't help it. He sounded as if he was being molested. Not yet, baby, but soon. "I assure you, Mr. Savage, I consider my time very valuable, too."

"I'm sure you do, Ms. Michaels. I just didn't realize my sister's gift package included an analysis of my muscles."

Oh, he had an attitude problem. But she'd dealt with worse in her twenty-eight years. She could deal with an arrogant brother who didn't know what was good for him and thought his shit smelled like potpourri. "Jus' making an observation, massa suh."

"Sarcasm isn't at all becoming, even on you. Can we dispense with the physio-breakdown and get this over with? I didn't come here to be taken apart by a tofu-eating flower child."

Savannah held in a laugh. He was so uptight. She could feel his tensing even as she massaged him. But what lovely muscles they were, knotted or not. She licked her lips at the thought of that one basic muscle between his legs and how it would feel sliding hot and hard into her pussy. Damn! She'd never been so turned on by a client before. Detachment was the name of her game, the only way she could function in her business and make it a success over all these years. She didn't have the time or inclination to screw with that. If she weren't made of tougher stuff she might have been insulted by the guy. Myra had warned her about her brother's brusque manner. Homeboy didn't like to stay still for too long, fearing the grass might grow under his too-busy-to-smell-the-roses size thirteens. Savannah knew the type, met them every day in her line of work, Type A executives, captains of industry coming in on rare breaks to discover massage therapy. Usually they came in under duress, sent to her like Mr. Savage by a concerned loved one who wanted to keep them around for as long as possible. Savannah won them all over after one visit -- clients for life. Some of her hardest cases, in fact, became her best repeat customers. However, she'd never met a man more averse to relaxation and pleasure than Savage. She might have not tolerated him at all if it wasn't for a body that had her wanting to slap her mama. God had definitely stuck His toe in the stew during homeboy's conception.

"I'm just trying to bring a little serenity into your life, Mr. Savage. And massage therapy is not something to 'get over with.' It's something to be enjoyed." Savannah snapped her fingers. "I know just the thing to loosen you up." She headed across the room to retrieve her Wengay Ma Roller. Brandishing it as if she were about to pop him upside the head, she went back to her table

"And what do you think you're doing with that?"

"Pummel you into submission, of course," she teased, stopping just short of chuckling.

"I don't have time for games, Ms. Michaels." He sat up, bringing the towel draped over his waist with him and strategically wrapping it around his front.

The action did nothing to hide his erection.

So Mister High-and-Mighty wasn't totally closed off. That was good to know. "It's Savannah, if you must. Or Savvy, as I prefer," she purred. "And this isn't a game. I take massage therapy very seriously." She stopped short of her speech about chakras and essential energies and stimulating "the Guru Point" to put one into spontaneous meditation. She didn't think Mister Brooks Brothers would appreciate the spiel: He already thought she was some flighty hippy.

"I'm sure that you do. I made a mistake in coming here -- that's all, and it's not your fault." He stood with all the dignity of African royalty, flimsy terry towel and erection notwithstanding.

Savannah tilted her head back to take in his chiseled, dark-chocolate features as he tucked in the towel. God, he was a fine-ass drink of water, dwarfing her by at least a foot. Despite her five-foot-nothing, she loved herself a tall man. She watched his firm round brother's ass as he retreated behind the privacy screen on the other side of the room to retrieve his clothes. She tried to think of ways to get him to stay. Savannah liked to finish what she started, but more, she wanted to start something with Mr. Savage. No matter his denials, her mama hadn't raised no fool. And her wet pussy didn't lie.

He stepped from behind the screen fully clad in the corporate gear he'd arrived in. Too many clothes, but the starched cream shirt and yellow tie set off his dark skin and sent her hormones into overdrive.

Savage strutted across the room, blue suitcoat flung over one shoulder and one big hand outstretched. "Ms. Michaels, it's been...an experience."

She took his hand and squeezed, holding his gaze. "Definitely. You've got a rain check whenever you decide to come back for the total massage."

"I'll certainly think about it."


As much as he tried, Matt hadn't stopped thinking about the little cat-eyed vixen since he'd left her salon that afternoon, her gently-toned arms and earthy-sweet scent haunting him all the way back to his office. The memory of that Ylang Ylang oil she'd used on him clung to his nostrils as insistently as the vision of her slanted hazel eyes and sensual fuck-me mouth. She'd said it was an aphrodisiac, and he was beginning to think the copper-skinned sorceress had put a spell on him, or at least his dick. The body part in question twitched in his pants.

He might as well have taken the rest of the afternoon off for all the work he'd gotten done since he'd returned to his office, trying to exorcise the therapist. Matt wanted to kick himself for letting Myra talk him into going to Ms. Michaels' in the first place. He loved his baby sister, but he should have known anything she recommended would be whimsical at best and reckless at worse. From the moment he'd walked into the sumptuous waiting room, pungent with sandalwood and musk and dreamy with New Age music, Matt knew he was in for a liberal assault on his libido.

Then there was the owner herself, unexpected in a flowing peasant skirt and sleeveless top that did little to hide her curves from his eyes and turned him on more as he imagined what she wore beneath that skirt -- or didn't. Savannah had seemed more a tattooed teen playing massage therapist than a business owner -- a hot massage therapist with magic fingers that almost had him forgetting his own name. Tense? He'd been freaking hard the entire time he was on the table, ready to throw Savannah down on it and rut like an animal. Only sheer force of will had gotten him out of that place with his dignity intact. He didn't like not being in control, and from the moment he'd climbed on Ms. Michaels' table it had been obvious who was holding all the cards.

No way could he let their association end as it had. He ate little girls like her for breakfast every day on the Hill. He knew how to make people do what he wanted. He'd do the same with Ms. Michaels.

Matt fidgeted, realizing it wasn't just his hard-ass dick that was making him uncomfortable; it was his conscience. He was going to have to pay Ms. Michaels a visit and apologize face-to-face. His ego demanded nothing less. His cock demanded more.


Savannah had done exactly what she'd promised herself she wouldn't do: She'd scared Savage away.

Her mama always told her men didn't like fast-assed, forward women. And Savannah would silently nod rather than disrespect the woman who'd birthed her and tell her that she was too old-fashioned. Maybe her mama was right though. Savage had certainly run as if he'd thought Savannah was threatening his paradise with forbidden fruit.

She flung her highlighter down on her desk, disappointed at her inability to concentrate. She leaned back in her leather chair with a sigh and closed her eyes. It was her first free moment out of a busy day and she should have been taking advantage of it instead of stressing over a man who probably wasn't thinking twice about her.

A massage would be nice, one of a decidedly internal and sensual variety. Savannah slid her hand into the waistband of her skirt and inside her thong, thinking of Savage as she brushed her pussy and shuddered with the naughtiness of what she was doing. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she pushed first one, then two fingers inside her slick pussy and moaned. But it would have felt even better if it was Savage's fingers inside her.

She'd just have to use her imagination. Savannah caressed the bundle of nerves just inside her opening, pumping until she hit pay dirt with her elusive G-spot. She scissored her fingers against it, then pinched and rolled her engorged clit in concert with the thrust of her fingers. She barely registered the raised voices outside her office, a sudden orgasm flooding her senses with ecstasy.

Before she could fully recover, someone did the unthinkable and opened the office door.

"Do you want some help with that, Ms. Michaels?" Savannah jerked upright and glanced up. Savage was filling her doorway with his broad frame.

"I neither need nor want your help, Mr. Savage," she said with as much refinement as she could muster. She hoped she wasn't blushing as fiercely as the temperature of her face suggested.

She felt silly being so formal after what he'd just witnessed, but what the hell. "Was there something I could help you with?"

Her office assistant stood on her toes trying to peek around Savage. "I tried to tell him you were busy, but he just insisted on barging in and --"

"It's okay, Debra." Savannah was actually relieved it was Savage who'd intruded. She didn't know how she'd have faced the embarrassment of being caught with her hands in her skirt by Debra.

"You want me to stick around or do you have it from here?" Debra asked.

"I've got it."

Debra smiled, then turned and left. Savage pulled the door closed behind himself and pushed the lock.

Savannah arched a brow. "Now what was so important that you couldn't knock on the door?"

"I came to get that rain check."

"I was kind of in the middle of something."

"I noticed." He grinned. The tilt of his full lips took ten years off his face; Savannah almost swallowed her tongue at the blatant sexuality of the smile.

"So I'm supposed to drop everything and cater to your needs because you changed your mind?" She folded her arms over her breasts as he crossed the room to stand before her desk.

"Isn't that how the Destiny's Child song goes?"

"I suppose you want a lap dance too?"

"I'll settle for the massage." He winked. "To start."

Savannah squeezed her legs together against the sudden flow of moisture. "I might be tempted to honor your rain check if I had any sense that you were a man who didn't write checks his body couldn't cash, Mr. Savage."

"Call me Matt."

"From Mr. Savage to your nickname. We're making progress."

"I'd like to make more."

She dropped her gaze to the erection pressing the zipper of his pants. She came from behind her desk to confront him. "A few ground rules."

He frowned but said nothing.

Savannah expected his reaction; she knew he wasn't used to anyone dictating to him, especially not some flirty young "flower child." But if they were going to do this, they were going to do it on her terms. "I'm calling the shots."

"Oh really?"

"Really." She reached up to unknot his perfectly knotted tie. "I like this material -- soft yet sturdy."

"It's silk."

"Of course. Only the best."

"Like you." He moved closer and rubbed his hard-on against her.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, just not right now."

He glowered.

"Don't be impatient, Matt. We'll get there." She slid his tie from the collar of his shirt. Questions clouded his dark eyes as she circled behind him. She ran her hands down his arms, stopping short of fondling his muscles as she pressed her breasts against his back. "I've been thinking about you all day," she whispered.

"Thinking what about me?"

"How much I wanted you to fuck me."

He jerked at her statement, and then tensed as she began looping the tie around his wrists. "I'm not into S&M," he murmured.

She made her way back to his front, pressed a palm against his chest and caressed his hard pecs as she smiled. "Neither am I, baby. I'm only into pleasure, not pain." She took him by an arm, led him behind her desk to her chair and pushed him down into the seat.

"Front pants pocket," he said.

She reached into his pocket and pulled out the condom there. "You came prepared, huh?"

"I was a Boy Scout."

"I've got other plans for this bad boy first." She knelt, slowly unzipped his pants, and reached inside the fly to free his hard cock from his boxers. Savannah licked her lips, impressed at its girth. She bent her head to lap the pearl of pre-cum and smirked when he groaned. She went further, deep-throating and sucking hard as Matt pitched his hips into her mouth. She drank from him, his groans and hers the only sound in the office.

She waited several long moments before she took her mouth off him and got up to straddle his legs.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I'll make it up to you. Promise." She tore into the packet and hurriedly rolled the condom onto his throbbing shaft. She lifted herself up and poised her pussy over his lap, deliberately, gradually impaling herself.

They moaned in unison as she seated herself up to the hilt. She rotated her hips, slowly bouncing the length of his shaft as he thrust at her. She thought the friction would start a blaze between them.

"Damn it, I want to hold you!" He bit out the words after several intense moments of silence.

"I'll hold you." She cupped his face with both hands and bent, taking his mouth with hers, plunging her tongue in rhythm to her grinding hips. She devoured his mouth. Matt tangled his tongue with hers in a primal dance.

Without warning he stiffened beneath her, and Savannah eagerly swallowed the hoarse shout that escaped him as he came inside her. She squeezed her pussy around his hot flesh as her own orgasm swept over her. Matt leaned against her breasts, gasping. Savannah curled her arms around his neck and held him to her, already wanting a second round. She hesitated, unsure if this might have been a one-shot deal -- to get his rocks off and her out of his system.

He nibbled a nipple through her blouse, and then mumbled something against her breasts.

Savannah pulled back to stare at him. "What was that you said about my mama?"

He chuckled. "I said quid pro quo."

"I'm a simple flower child, remember? You gonna get erudite with me?"

"If you untie my hands, I'd like to return the favor. I'd like to taste you now."

"You don't need your hands for that, baby."

"But you'd enjoy it a lot more if they were free."

Her pussy spasmed in agreement. The idea of his fingers inside her, his tongue, made her cunt slick again. "Who am I to stand in the way of enjoyment?"

"You know what they say about idle hands."

She grinned, then leaned in to circle the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. She whispered, "I do."

©2007 by Gracie C. McKeever

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A native New Yorker, Gracie C. McKeever has been writing since the ripe old age of seven when two younger brothers were her earliest, captive audience. It wasn’t until 2001, however, when Gracie caught the erotica bug that spawned her first erotic romance, Beneath the Surface, published by Siren Publishing, Inc. To learn more, visit her Web site.




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