Slow Hand Curves (Big Girls Next Door Erotica) by Christa Wick Page A
Authors: Christa Wick
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completely ignored. Melinda slurped the last of her shake and then authoritatively pointed its container at her best friend. “Crockers don’t masturbate -- at least the ones with ovaries don’t.”
If my mother had any say, the Crockers with testicles didn’t masturbate either. Heck, they shouldn’t even know what the word meant! Eleanor Crocker Rice was a past President of the Ladies Auxiliary for the First Baptist Church of Dallas, currently serving as an Ambassador-at-Large for the Southern Baptists of Texas and darn proud of it. She would have a stroke if anyone so much as suggested a member of her bloodline touched their naughty bits.
“You mean they lie about it.” Bree snorted and shoved a French fry between expertly painted red lips. “Of course she’s masturbated.”
Blushing, I remained silent.
“So, can’t rub one out on your own, huh?” Bree tilted her head to the side, her gray eyes glittering like ash-covered diamonds. “I could give you one.”
When Bree reached for my wrist, her gaze skipping to the restroom door, I started to hyperventilate.
“Lay off.” Melinda gave her friend a soft shoulder slug, but my relief lasted no more than five seconds before she offered an alternative. “What about that guy you were telling me about?”
Bree arched one manicured brow in confusion.
“At the wellness center,” Melinda prompted, her hand making an odd twist in the air for emphasis.
Bree’s jaw dropped open, her expression widening at the suggestion. “Slow Hand Sam?”
I looked desperately between the two of them. I had no clue where this was going or who this Sam was. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t like the look on their faces. They were up to no good, clearly conspiring against me.
I started to rise from the table. Bree had driven Melinda to the restaurant and the plan was she would drive her home. I had to escape while I still could!
“Not so fast, Rice Krispies.” Bree’s hand closed around mine. I glowered at her but she wouldn’t let go. Grinning like a demon, she pushed her cell phone at Melinda. “Dial, bestie.”
Melinda picked up the phone, entering the phone number Bree rattled off from memory. Whoever was on the other end answered quickly. Before I knew what was happening, Melinda was pretending to be me.
“Yes, this is Amber Rice, I need to schedule a massage with Samuel Pepin.” She paused as the person on the other side asked a couple of questions. “Tension headaches. I’ll be paying cash…Tuesday at three? Sounds perfect!”
As the phone snapped shut, Bree released me. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a dollar bill and started to fold it in a peculiar manner.
“What did you just do?” I looked at Melinda. Her grin was only half a centimeter narrower than the one she’d wore on her wedding day. I looked to Bree, who was still folding the dollar bill. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a code.” She showed me the bill. “You go in with a hundred folded like this. You get a massage and a hand job from this really hot physical therapist--”
“I will not!”
Bree gave me another one of her eye rolls. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly clinical.”
I could tell by the demonic smile lingering on Bree’s face it was anything but clinical. I folded my arms across my chest. “If by clinical you mean illegal !”
“It’s a tip, for a job well done.” She looked to Melinda. “Go on, tell her!”
A look I’d never seen in my sister-in-law’s eyes appeared as she leaned in close. “This is all supposed to be a secret, but…”
She continued whispering in my ear, my expression growing increasingly distressed as she told me first about what Samuel Pepin had done for Imogene Fudge, whose husband had left her after she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She followed that report with one about his extra special treatment of Elaine Tyler, who had back surgery last summer, and then Becky Clay…
“He turned Portia Philips’
If my mother had any say, the Crockers with testicles didn’t masturbate either. Heck, they shouldn’t even know what the word meant! Eleanor Crocker Rice was a past President of the Ladies Auxiliary for the First Baptist Church of Dallas, currently serving as an Ambassador-at-Large for the Southern Baptists of Texas and darn proud of it. She would have a stroke if anyone so much as suggested a member of her bloodline touched their naughty bits.
“You mean they lie about it.” Bree snorted and shoved a French fry between expertly painted red lips. “Of course she’s masturbated.”
Blushing, I remained silent.
“So, can’t rub one out on your own, huh?” Bree tilted her head to the side, her gray eyes glittering like ash-covered diamonds. “I could give you one.”
When Bree reached for my wrist, her gaze skipping to the restroom door, I started to hyperventilate.
“Lay off.” Melinda gave her friend a soft shoulder slug, but my relief lasted no more than five seconds before she offered an alternative. “What about that guy you were telling me about?”
Bree arched one manicured brow in confusion.
“At the wellness center,” Melinda prompted, her hand making an odd twist in the air for emphasis.
Bree’s jaw dropped open, her expression widening at the suggestion. “Slow Hand Sam?”
I looked desperately between the two of them. I had no clue where this was going or who this Sam was. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t like the look on their faces. They were up to no good, clearly conspiring against me.
I started to rise from the table. Bree had driven Melinda to the restaurant and the plan was she would drive her home. I had to escape while I still could!
“Not so fast, Rice Krispies.” Bree’s hand closed around mine. I glowered at her but she wouldn’t let go. Grinning like a demon, she pushed her cell phone at Melinda. “Dial, bestie.”
Melinda picked up the phone, entering the phone number Bree rattled off from memory. Whoever was on the other end answered quickly. Before I knew what was happening, Melinda was pretending to be me.
“Yes, this is Amber Rice, I need to schedule a massage with Samuel Pepin.” She paused as the person on the other side asked a couple of questions. “Tension headaches. I’ll be paying cash…Tuesday at three? Sounds perfect!”
As the phone snapped shut, Bree released me. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a dollar bill and started to fold it in a peculiar manner.
“What did you just do?” I looked at Melinda. Her grin was only half a centimeter narrower than the one she’d wore on her wedding day. I looked to Bree, who was still folding the dollar bill. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a code.” She showed me the bill. “You go in with a hundred folded like this. You get a massage and a hand job from this really hot physical therapist--”
“I will not!”
Bree gave me another one of her eye rolls. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly clinical.”
I could tell by the demonic smile lingering on Bree’s face it was anything but clinical. I folded my arms across my chest. “If by clinical you mean illegal !”
“It’s a tip, for a job well done.” She looked to Melinda. “Go on, tell her!”
A look I’d never seen in my sister-in-law’s eyes appeared as she leaned in close. “This is all supposed to be a secret, but…”
She continued whispering in my ear, my expression growing increasingly distressed as she told me first about what Samuel Pepin had done for Imogene Fudge, whose husband had left her after she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She followed that report with one about his extra special treatment of Elaine Tyler, who had back surgery last summer, and then Becky Clay…
“He turned Portia Philips’
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