Just as Annabel was about to step out onto the deck, the doorbell rang yet again. At the door this time was someone she didn’t know: a petite Latina with long, lustrous black hair and intelligent, penetrating dark eyes.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Lucia. I’m a friend of Carla’s.”
“I’m Annabel. I’m....” She trailed off, realizing how hard it would be to explain. “Anyway, come on in.” She led Lucia out to the deck, where the others were drinking and talking.
Seeing Lucia, Carla immediately flashed back to the summer between high school and her freshman year of college. She’d been drinking in a lesbian bar in Hollywood, using a fake ID as she often did in those days. Way down at the end of the bar was a woman drinking alone, her face mostly hidden behind her mane of black hair. There was something very alluring about her, and Carla found it hard to not keep looking in her direction.
In those days Carla was still a little shy, at least around older women. She’d never actually picked up anyone in a bar, because she’d never had to; women flocked to her, and all she had to do was choose among them. But there was something about this particular woman that fascinated her. Carla kept getting little glimpses of her face; she had a quiet dignity, as if she was perfectly content to be alone. This, too, made Carla hesitant to approach her.
Carla sat there through one drink, then another, before she finally screwed up her courage and went to talk to the mystery woman. Once they were face to face, Carla realized that she knew this person — it was Ms. Santos, the Spanish teacher at Carla’s high school. Carla had taken French, so they hadn’t known each other well, but they’d passed each other in the hall plenty of times.
It had not escaped Carla’s attention that Ms. Santos was a very attractive woman, with a gorgeous face and a great body that she was not shy about showing off with short skirts and tight tops. In fact, more than once Carla had found herself having daydreams about the sexy Spanish teacher. She’d gone so far as to think about transferring to Spanish class, but after three years of French she was pretty committed to her path. And she’d already been in trouble once for getting involved with a teacher.
In the bar that day the common background gave them something to talk about, and before long it had become clear that the mutual attraction was strong. They ended up going back to Lucia’s apartment and spending the night together, and though they were obviously not a good match — Lucia was relationship-oriented, and Carla was not — they’d seen each other sporadically ever since. It usually happened when Lucia was between relationships, as she was currently.
When they did get together, it was always memorable. Lucia was a very passionate woman with a sex drive that matched Carla’s own considerable appetite. Carla was always glad to see her, and was especially so tonight, with all the possibilities inherent in the group she’d put together.
After greeting Lucia with a warm hug and kiss, Carla excused herself to the kitchen; now that all the guests had arrived, she needed to devote her attention to the food. Annabel found herself pretty occupied serving drinks, and then the hors d’oeuvres that Carla sent out, so she only caught little bits of conversation here and there. But from what she heard, it seemed like every one of these women – no matter what age – was more worldly and sophisticated than she was.
Even after years in L.A., Annabel sometimes felt a bit insecure about her origins, thinking that people saw her as a country bumpkin. And being dressed the way she was, playing the role she was playing, wasn’t helping any. On the other hand, in a way being cast as the servant was kind of a relief; this way she could stand aside, listen and observe, without feeling pressure to be involved in the conversation.
At one point Annabel went into the kitchen to see if Carla needed anything. She found her stepdaughter standing over the hot stove stirring a sauce, a lock of hair falling across a forehead beaded with sweat. Reflexively, Annabel went to her and pushed the hair away from her face.
“Thanks,” said Carla, and just for a moment a sincere and disarming smile spread across her face. Then she was all business again. “Food’s almost ready,” she said, jerking her head toward the dining room. “Go set the table.”
Annabel set about arranging the plates and silverware, humming quietly to herself as she worked. She was leaning over the table getting the napkins just so when she sensed a presence near her. She looked back over her shoulder to see Katya, who grinned wolfishly while slipping a hand between Annabel’s thighs. “Don’t mind me,” she purred in her sexy Russian accent.
Annabel tried to keep working, but she was in such a heightened state of sensitivity that this little bit of touch made her quite agitated. Katya’s hand moved up to rub her pussy through the fabric of her panties, and Annabel whimpered while placing both hands flat on the table for support.
Just then Carla walked in. “Don’t molest the help,” she clucked at Katya. “At least not until the table’s set.” Katya withdrew her hand and Annabel turned beet red, feeling like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar — though it had been Katya who’d had her hand somewhere it didn’t belong. Not yet, anyway.