I looked up into her sea-green eyes; her blonde braids flopping down either side of my face. “You’re a bad girl.”
She winked at me. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Stretching for one of the oversized tomatoes she’d acquired on our shopping trip, she hefted it in her hand before taking a bite. Tomato juice oozed between her fingers, down her wrist and across my T-shirt.
“Hey, Okie, you’re getting me all wet.”
She held the tomato out for me to take a bite. “That’s kinda the point,” she said, all breathy, as if sharing a tomato was the sexiest thing she’d ever done. “Take a bite.”
I’m not a big fan of raw vegetables, but I did as she said. The tomato squished across my tongue, the sweet-acidic taste trickling down my throat. It tasted better than any store-bought tomato I’d ever had. I licked my lips and smiled.
“Not bad.”
Ellie sat up and fished through one of the tote bags. “Wait until you try this honey. It’s incredible.”
She extracted the wooden dipper and trickled the honey across my closed lips. I opened my mouth to protest and got a taste of what I imagined liquid sunshine might taste like. She giggled at my expression.
“Told you.”
I pulled her down on top of me, kissing her with my honeyed lips. “Yeah, you did. What else you got in that bag?”
She had a tough time responding because my hands were under her T-shirt, pulling it over her head with one hand while I pinched her nipples lightly with the other. “Good stuff,” she gasped. “All kinds of good stuff.”
I squirmed under her and took a plump nipple in my mouth. I moaned against her sun-warmed skin, sucking until she whimpered low in her throat. Then I rolled her over on the floor, one of the “Go Green” totes crinkling underneath her. I made quick work of her shorts and panties and sat back to admire my work. Spread out amidst the produce and flowers, she looked like the dessert at the end of a decadent meal.
I extracted a dark green zucchini from her bag of goodies. With a wicked grin, I ran it down between her breasts and across her stomach. She gasped as I stroked her between the thighs with the sizeable veggie.
“You wouldn’t,” she taunted.
“Wouldn’t I?”
I didn’t give her time to respond. I nudged the rounded end of the zucchini between the glistening lips of her pussy, watching the way it opened her. She arched her back and the end of the vegetable slipped inside her wetness. I pumped it slowly, fingering her clit in lazy circles, enjoying the naughty image of an innocent farm girl being debauched by produce.
Eyes closed, back arched, Ellie wasn’t ready for what I did next. Grabbing up a bundle of her Italian herbs, I quickly withdrew the zucchini and slapped the green bunch across her bare pussy. It wasn’t a hard slap, but the sensation was enough to make her yelp and then laugh.
“That stings and tickles,” she said.
I took that as a good sign and did it again. Liking the way she yelped and squirmed, but didn’t close her legs, I did it again. The bruised herbs released their fragrance and blended with the delicious scent of her pussy. I chuckled. “It smells like an Italian whorehouse in here.”
In a throaty voice I barely recognised, Ellie said, “Well, fuck me then. I want you to get your money’s worth.”
I shucked my clothes and covered Ellie’s naked body with my own. “Hey, little country girl, what’s that?” I asked, as I reached between us to thumb her swollen clit. “You’re awfully excited.”
“Farmers markets get me hot. Didn’t you know that?” She bucked against me. “Fuck me.”
I shimmied down her body and took up the zucchini once more. She spread her legs eagerly, staring into my eyes as the zucchini entered her and spread her open. I pumped it inside her, getting turned on by the wet sounds her pussy made as I withdrew it. Her juices glistened halfway up the length of the long vegetable, leaving streaks of opalescence along the dark green skin. It was naughty and erotic as hell to watch my Okie girl writhe against the zucchini.
“Yes, oh yes,” she gasped, gripping my hair as I fucked her.
She threw back her head, her body straining toward orgasm. Her hands tightened in my hair, pulling me toward her crotch. I took it as an invitation and leaned over her, sucking her clit between my lips. I gave her short, quick thrusts with the zucchini as I sucked her rigid clit, tonguing it in between. That was enough to send her over the edge. Clinging to my hair and wrapping her lean thighs around my head, she came, smelling of herbs and vegetables, fresh air and arousal.
I slowly withdrew the zucchini from her clinging pussy as I kept lapping at her clit. She whimpered and moaned, torn between pulling me closer because it felt so good and pushing me away because the sensation was too intense. It was a familiar battle I’d seen play out before and I enjoyed every moment of it, drawing as much pleasure from licking her as she was receiving. Finally, with a deep moan, she pushed me away. Doubled up and gasping as if she’d just run a marathon, she stroked my head like I was an obedient puppy who had just brought her the newspaper.
“Oh, oh, my,” she murmured, trying to catch her breath. “That was delicious.”
I licked my lips, tasting her and still caught in the web of my own arousal. “Yes, it was.”
She looked around us at the mess we’d made; the vegetables scattered across the room, the honey dripping onto the wood floor, the crushed herbs and mushrooms. Then she laughed. “So much for dinner.”
I reached for her, pulling her into my arms and directing her hand between my thighs. “I’m only hungry for one thing right now.”
As she slid two fingers inside me, she sighed. “Well, the farmers market is open tomorrow, too, if you want to go.”
At that moment, straining against her sweat-slick body as she touched just the way I liked, I couldn’t think of anything else I’d rather do on a Sunday morning.
Symmetry
by Jeremy Edwards
At times, Carla thought it was the mind-blowing symmetry that made her crave Susan’s body night after night, fifteen years into their partnership.
It was love that accounted for the fact that they were spending a lifetime together. Carla knew this. But when the atmosphere in their bedroom shifted from overhead fixture to little pink bedside lamp, was it love, per se, that made her intent on getting her tongue inside Susan’s mouth and her fingers inside Susan’s pussy, before either of them considered sleep?
Or was it the never-ending attraction of fucking her mirror image …
Early on, when they used to hit the clubs together every weekend, people had constantly mistaken them for sisters. It was more than just their similar body types (boyish), hair colour (natural blonde), and noses (button). It was the way they each moved and gestured. And a way they exchanged knowing looks and sympathetic smiles. And jokes that others found to be impenetrable.
Perhaps there had also been an element of wishful thinking on the part of all those club boys and girls who wanted to fuck them. Maybe they didn’t want to see that those looks and smiles and jokes signified a connection even more intimate than the kind shared by siblings.
Hell, even their current landlady had asked if they were sisters, and that was within the past year. Over housewarming wine, Susan and Carla had speculated pleasantly about what, and in precisely what manner, the handsome homeowner had hoped to do her new tenants.
They had matured right in step with each other, not only emotionally but also physically. The same still-nearly-invisible grey hairs, appearing unannounced. The same subtle thickening of the body, from “slight” to “svelte”. The same little lines around each woman’s mouth, which identified the wearer as someone who laughed long, hard, and often.
Carla would never forget the first time Susan stripped for her, poised daintily in her bedroom with a smile that said “I’m shy” but a glimmer and resolve in her eye that said “I’m going to eat and drink you up, honey, then eat and drink you up again for dessert.” That loo
k had made Carla so wet, and she had stood there for a sacred moment, her pulse frozen and her panties clinging. And in that moment, she had found that one thought in particular stood out from all the giddiness, marvel, and lust: she looks like me.Before, this had been something to take for granted. But here it had emerged as the most arousing revelation she’d ever had.
Is that what my pussy looks like when it’s wet?Carla would often think as she held Susan’s tender lips apart, before tasting her. After fifteen years, the thought still did it for her. Sometimes she would stop to rub Susan’s blonde bush, then her own blonde bush, alternating the soft strokes with perfect equity. One for me … one for you … until Susan, gliding on giggles, would clutch gently at Carla’s furry mound and elicit a parallel river of laughter. Carla would sneak a look at the mirror on the wall and see two 41-year-old beauties with their hands between each other’s legs. She would observe Susan’s bottom wiggling with titillated abandon and her own face flushing with pleasure. Sometimes, when they were sufficiently entangled, she couldn’t tell whose legs were whose. At those moments, they had a collective resemblance to some many-limbed goddess, transported by secret joys.
Susan worked in an office, and Carla worked at home. Every evening Susan would arrive, give her lover a quick kiss and a lingering ass-squeeze, and head down the hall to change. Susan would always begin to shed her jeans or skirt before reaching the bedroom. Sometimes, if the day had been humid, the panties would also begin a downward journey before she veered out of sight. Is that what my pretty ass looks like when I’m striding down the hall?Carla would wonder. She would touch herself while waiting for Susan to return.
And yet, the symmetry was in many ways illusory. Fifteen years in, Carla knew that she and Susan did not make decisions the same way, experience emotions the same way, or process information the same way. And though their tone and timbre of voice showed a sisterly affinity, they rarely expressed themselves in the same words.
Oh, they were compatible, all right – securely and deliciously so. But large chunks of the compatibility grew out of their differences rather than their similarities. Strong suits to vulnerabilities, expertise here to ingenuousness there … how well they complemented each other.
How well, indeed. In the bedroom, Carla, who couldn’t care less about having her nipples licked, could make Susan come by licking hers. The alien nature of Susan’s pleasure, in Carla’s eyes, made it especially exciting to deliver, even to anticipate. I am in love with a woman who is creaming to have her nipples licked tonight.
In the very midst of gratifying that desire, Carla would reflect on it, and she would feel her arousal grow with the tangible awareness of Susan’s distinctness from her. The ecstasy of bringing Susan to ecstasy was itself sometimes more pleasure than Carla knew what to do with, and she would simply come in her panties, slickly and helplessly, before Susan could even touch her.
But Susan would touch her, and Carla had taught her where to do so. The place was just barely south of her clit – not part of the clit, but an infinitesimal distance away – a signature locus along her inner lips, a unique receptor for an impossibly cozy type of bliss, like mulled wine and warm bathwater and slow-motion orgasms, that was not quite comparable to any of the rich sensations that emanated from her tingling bud or her pulsing cunt walls. Carla may have been the only woman in the world with a special nerve ending exactly there; she cherished it, and Susan could sensually pamper her merely by breathing on it awhile. In fact, she was expected to, night after night.
Vive la différence!Carla liked to say, with a passionate irony, to her same-sex near-twin, when Susan put her over the edge. The French words came out in a guttural slur as Carla’s cunt trembled around fingers that looked very much like her own, but moved so differently.
Tonight was the night the landlady had invited them for dinner. But they’d taken a rain check, because this was their anniversary. That morning, Susan had dressed both for the office and for home – the skirt suit was one of her most elegant workaday outfits, but it was understood, when the suit came off, that the sight of Susan in ruffled blouse and burgundy panty-hose would especially please Carla. Carla was the type to buy a present; Susan was the type to dress up.
This evening, Carla could see that Susan was walking more slowly than usual as she sauntered down the hall, intentionally taking her time as she slithered out of her skirt. Carla grabbed the gift from the coffee table and ran down the hall after her, catching her with a waist-gripping gesture of possession, accompanied by the pressure of her mound against Susan’s panty-hose-perfect ass. She knew that Susan, who was always very deliberate, was turned on by her impulsiveness.
Susan spun around, kicked her skirt out of the way, and smiled at Carla. Then she accepted the small, rectangular package that her woman was extending to her.
“You know,” she kidded, “there’s a part of me that never wants to open presents. Until it’s unwrapped, a present represents perfect fulfilment of every wish, doesn’t it?”
Carla’s eyes roamed over Susan, relishing the seductive effect of the translucent tights, through which the outrageous understatement of a silken, minimalist thong was revealed. She glanced at the skirt that relaxed, two feet away, on the floor. “My present’s unwrapped,” she said. “Andit represents perfect fulfilment of every wish.”
Susan found Carla’s mouth with her own – they fitted each other precisely, a matched set – and they shared their breath for a minute.
Then Carla gently took the unopened present out of Susan’s hand. “This isn’t perishable,” she explained. “It’s not fragile, either.” And she tossed it onto the floor, letting Susan’s skirt cushion the impact.
Tonight, they did it right in the hallway.
Having relieved Susan of the package, Carla pulled her to the floor. She was torn between the almost fetishistic appeal of caressing, wrestling, even humping Susan in her burgundy panty-hose … and the overwhelming desire to crinkle the panty-hose down her legs, pull aside the thong, and get her face in touch with the fragrant, liquid core of Susan’s womanhood.
Reason told her to enjoy Susan in the hose while she could – because, once peeled down, they would certainly not be going back on. Not tonight.
The thrill of petting Susan into a state of hyper-arousal, while she was still contained within the burgundy shell, rewarded Carla’s nod to reason. Her lover’s legs, which she knew like her own, seemed to churn and ripple beneath her touch. And when she stroked across the crotch of the panty-hose, she felt fire.
Carla knew how it felt to go moist in a tiny thong – that precious feeling of one’s sexuality overwhelming one’s apparel – and as she inched the panty-hose down to reveal Susan’s squirming, tender flesh, the sight connected like a doorbell to her own thong. Once again, Carla indulged the convenient sensory luxury of loving a partner who was her physical double.
Just as she’d imagined doing, she pulled the thong aside, rather than removing it. She held Susan within the silk frame like a flower in a hatband, licking and stroking the open petals, which displayed themselves for her as if some gifted milliner had arranged everything to perfection.
Susan’s ecstasy made a sticky mess on Carla’s face, like a fruit cocktail consumed in haste. As Carla lapped up every nurturing drop, Susan cried, softly and joyously. Carla, who often laughed when she came, felt her heart throbbing for this girl who cried when she came.
Susan always drifted off before Carla. Tonight, as every night, Carla held her lover tightly, her arms surrounding Susan’s bottom. She framed the placid globes, presenting them to herself to love with a hundred soft kisses. She gradually lulled herself by grazing on the fleshy, passive cheerfulness of the beloved ass. Your ass in my arms, your cheeks in my face.The thought, and the reality, guaranteed sweet dreams.
Yes, tonight had been an anniversary, a special night, a night for politely declining a landlady’s invitation. But the landlady might have been surprised to know just how regularly these two wo
men long in love, sharing the same years, the same looks, and the same lifetime, were fucking each other’s matching behinds off through layers of symmetry and deeper layers of individuality … stripping away at their sameness and uncovering the raw elements of erotic essence.
The landlady might have been surprised.
Holiday Camp Sharing
by Mark Farley
“Center Parcs? We really are a pair of old dykes, aren’t we?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Alys?” Dahlia shot back at me scornfully as we arrived in Sherwood Forest. That’s my girlfriend. My partner, actually. God, I keep forgetting. As of two weeks ago, she is (technically) my wife. My wife. That’s right. My beautiful black princess with her long slender legs and her little bubble bottom. Her cascading, weaved curls of many colours. Me with my bad dress sense, not to mention my stumpy and very pale frame. Oh Gosh. I still think that’s so amazing that we are able to – you know, like the whole civil partnership thing.
I still can’t believe she asked me, and the day after the law passed too. I mean, we’d only been dating six months but I guess when you know, you know. Right?
She took me completely unawares. It was an OKday, not really picnic weather but a bunch of us went out onto the Heath anyway and as we stopped throwing the Frisbee around like children and settled down to some Cava and mini sausage rolls, she chose to pop the question. I cried. So did my friends.
Our wedding day was so perfect. The sun shone down on the Town Hall square in Brighton and there was such a great vibe from the locals too, who had probably seen this every day. They milled around politely with their takeaway coffees and watched with respect and joy as we stood there, smiling for the camera in our specially tailored threads. So many of our loved ones showed up for our reception in the spacious atrium of the nearby Thistle. What a day to remember!
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