“Water Girl” Quenches Celine’s Thirst For Pussy

I first met Kerri at an outdoor concert. The local bar had musicians performing every Friday night that summer, and a crowd of locals would pack the large patio portion of the place. She was the girl serving up water to people who weren’t drinking or had already had too much.

Her long, dark hair was pulled up in a schoolgirl ponytail, which was fetching all on its own, but it was the roguish stripe of cobalt blue in the dark mass that really made my heart kick. I’d had two beers as the band played eighties pop hits, not nearly enough to need to switch to water. But she was serving the water, and, damn, that made me want some good, old H₂O.

“Hi, there. Can I get one?” I asked, waving my dollar bill.

“Love the tee,” she said.

The shirt was an old Tangerine Dream tee that had been a thrift-store find. I’d cut the arms off, as well as the collar and the hem. It rode just above my navel now and was tight enough to hug my breasts without squashing them.

“Thanks. DIY, baby.”

She laughed and offered me a dripping, cold bottle. As she withdrew her hand, she scraped a wet fingernail across my belly. A shiver ran through me, low-key and not obvious, but my reaction had nothing to do with the fact that her finger was chilly.

I introduced myself as the band cut into a dance number. The crowd seemed to roil en masse to the oldie but goodie.

“You’re new here,” I observed.

“Just passing through. My uncle owns the place, and my family’s visiting for several weeks. Easy to pick up a few extra bucks. I usually sling drinks for the closing shift, but tonight I’m the water girl. He’s lucky. I’m old enough to serve booze, and since we’re related, I work for cheap.”

I resisted the urge to stroke that stripe of blue—until I couldn’t. I did, leaning in and tugging that brightly colored lock. “Surely, a pretty thing like you makes up for that in tips.”

She grinned. “I get tips. Sure.”

“Look, I’m not drunk. I kind of wish I were. But would you have any interest in hanging out after this shindig is over?”

“Sure,” she said, handing a bottle to a man with a florid face who clearly needed to be cut off. She took his dollar and then leaned in closer to be heard. “My break’s in five, though. Meet me by the poker machine. We can have a little appetizer.”

I’d been hoping for a date, so her forwardness caused a tumble low in my stomach that turned my pussy to liquid and my heart to a drum. “Fine,” I managed. Brilliant.

I wandered off, keeping an eye on my watch. If she wanted to meet in five minutes, I didn’t want to be late.

I was by the poker machine five minutes later, my water long ago guzzled. She came up behind me, slipped a small hand beneath the frayed back hem of my cut-up shirt.

“This way. Junk room.”

I had no idea there was a junk room. When she passed by me and disappeared around a tight corner, I was right on her heels. She opened a maroon door and darted inside. I did the same and found myself in a room full of beer signs, decorations and assorted debris. She let me get entirely inside, shut the door and wedged a folding chair beneath the knob to ensure our privacy.

“I only have ten minutes,” she said, moving close and kissing me fast. Her lips were soft and warm. “Take off your pants. Not to be bossy.”

“Be bossy,” I said, unbuttoning my shorts and letting them fall.

She tugged my panties down and quickly dropped to her knees. It stole my breath, seeing her do that. “I’ve been watching you,” she said, placing a chaste kiss at the top of my thigh.

My mind boggled. “Yeah?” was the smartest word I could manage.

“Yeah. You’re the girl who stands out. I was glad you wanted water.”

“I wanted you,” I confessed.

“Even better,” she said.

Without any more preamble, she slipped her tongue along my nether lips, exploring my folds, making me sweat a little and pant a lot. When her tongue found my clit and did a swoop and whirl, I thought my knees would unhinge and dump me on my ass. She spread my outer lips wide, ignored my tender clit and explored me all over again.

“You’re killing me,” I said.

“I’m teasing you.”

She proceeded to slide two fingers inside me and curl them until I saw small fairy lights in my vision. I put my hands on her head, stroking that ponytail as she went back to my clit and sucked it hard enough to make me groan. She altered her ways, keeping me on edge. Tender flicks, hard licks with a rigid tongue, sucks and nibbles, all the while thrusting those fingers deep in my cunt and brushing my G-spot over and over.

I felt the rumble of the bass outside sliding up my back as I pressed against the wall.

“I want you to come for me,” she said, moving down to nibble the insides of my thighs over and over. “I want you to come on my face. I want to taste you on my lips while I’m serving water to drunken people singing the songs of their youth.”

She added a third finger to my pussy and nudged the swollen places deep inside me. Her words had died down, and her tongue returned to me, painting seductive whirls on my clit. The girl with the blue streak was a mind-fuck for sure.

“I can do that,” I said. My voice strangled. “I can—”

The words were cut off as she sucked my clitoris hard enough to shut my mind down. She did it again. And then again. And I came, shaking against the old plasterboard wall, surrounded by dusty neon and Christmas decorations. I came so hard I bit my tongue. But when she stood and pressed her body to mine and kissed me, the pain in my tongue didn’t matter. I could taste my juices on her soft lips.

“I have to get back,” she said.

“But — I wanted—”“Later,” she said. “I came in early today. I get off when the band stops playing. Stick around. We can go out. And you can repay me for my generosity,” she added.

She started to remove the chair, but I grabbed the ponytail gently and pulled her in for one more kiss.

“I’ll be waiting,” I said.

“Good.” She sucked my tongue and then shook her head. “I really have to go. Meet me after.”

I did meet her after. I met her every night until she went back upstate. When Kerri’s in town we hook up. Sometimes the streak in her hair is blue again. Sometimes purple. Sometimes pink. But it’s always a turn-on — a trigger that makes me remember that first time.

—Ms. Celine W., Via E-Mail