Sweet Love

by Violet Blue

  “We’re out,” said Audrey apologetically, pulling away. “I’ll get some at Costco today—did you find the Doritos?”

  Kris pulled her back.

  “It’s all right,” she said warmly. “It really wasn’t the popcorn…and anyway, I could hear you just as well in the kitchen. So I figured…” she shrugged. “Is that pervy of me?”

  “You listened?”

  “Only after you started enjoying yourself,” said Kris. “The fight was…less interesting. Sorry.”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’m mortified,” said Audrey. She tried to pull away, but Kris wouldn’t let her, which actually came as a huge relief. Audrey even let Kris pull her a little closer.

  “Look,” said Kris. “I know the nonmonogamy was Connor’s idea. It was when he and I tried it, too…and it was rough going at first, but now I’m a true believer.”

  Audrey looked glum. “Believer in what?”

  “Take your pick! Having more than one partner. Open relationships. Casual sex. Acknowledging when there’s obvious heat between people. Allowing your partner to be horny, and sexual, and open, and have a good time and enjoy herself and express her sexuality. I’m a true believer in all of that.”

  Audrey breathed heavily. “I want to be, too. I want to be a true believer so badly.”

  “You will be,” said Kris.

  “But how?” Audrey frowned.

  Kris looked deep into her eyes; Audrey could smell her, the soft musky night smell of a hot woman sleeping alone and naked after fucking herself with a vibrator. It was a good smell. Audrey was not entirely pleased that she liked it.

  “You just do it,” said Kris. “You know, seize opportunity. That’s why it’s nonmonogamy and not polyamory, at least as Connor conceives it. There’s no negotiation up front—you sort it all out afterward.”

  “I don’t think he’d put it that succinctly.”

  “Well…he’s not the one who has a beautiful girl in his bed right now. Maybe I’m rationalizing.”

  Audrey’s mind exploded with randomly collected thoughts as Kris inched closer, their eyes meeting between nervous smiles and the faintest sprinkling of laughter.

  My god, Audrey thought. Just the thought is so fucking filthy—his ex-girlfriend, and a houseguest. I couldn’t. And I’m so not a lesbian. I mean, what does one even do with pussy? It’s like…you can’t put it in you. I mean, what would…fingers? Hm. Well, that’s…and tongues. She’s so pretty. I could never. I mean never.

  Besides, there’s the interpersonal stuff. Out of the question. Audrey breathed deep. She does smell quite good, though. Wow. She’s not holding the covers very carefully. I can totally see half of her. My god, they’re perfect. Audrey’s nipples stiffened.

  “I’d love to be able to do that, Kris, but you don’t understand. I was raised in the Midwest….”

  “Right,” said Kris, who had inched closer. “But you are in New York, now…and as an emissary from San Francisco, I feel it’s my duty—”

  Then it was over, and it was not a hypothetical should-we-start? the answer to which seemed murky at best, but a very concrete should-we-continue? which seemed pretty fucking obvious as a hot rush of excitement consumed Audrey’s body.

  Audrey never, ever kissed with morning breath—it was one of her rules, like the sleeping with clothes and the bulk-snacks-for-houseguests. She also was not a bisexual; all this college crap about girls making out to get frat boys popping boners right and left seemed like bullshit to her, and Connor’s “everyone’s bisexual” argument had been shut down by Audrey as the rank male hypocrisy it was, when she’d told him flat-out she’d eat pussy when he sucked dick.

  Connor had shrugged. “Almost worth it,” he said. “How about kissing?”

  Sensing his annoyance and tacitly pleased by it, Audrey had leaned in close and said, “When you kiss a boy,” with a saucy, naughty sound to it. Dismayed by her then-boyfriend’s mischievous smirk, Audrey had spent the time between then and now vaguely anxious whenever she thought of it, because she found it vaguely terrifying, the thought of kissing a girl. If she did, she sometimes thought as she daydreamed, she’d like it to be perfect: a soft summer breeze blowing at a romantic nude picnic, say, with a string quartet playing “Just the Way You Are” and Catherine Zeta-Jones using stolen Russian plans or something to blackmail her into a make-out session. Such a thing seemed, at best, unlikely to happen any time soon.

  But then, here Audrey was, about to make out with Kris, and she wasn’t even drunk. Conditions were far from perfect, the interpersonal dynamics absolutely terrifying, and her lips still aching from hard kisses just last night from the man Kris had spent two years fucking. And here she was, trembling as Kris drew closer and their gazes locked, both bright with promise and fear. Audrey’s tongue lolled out easily the moment they made contact, as if it was the most natural thing in the world not only to kiss her husband’s slutty West Coast ex-girlfriend, but to do it open-mouthed with morning breath while drawing the covers away.

  Floodgates opened, or at least it kinda felt like that, as Audrey surged forward kissing hard and pressed her cotton-clad body against Kris’s naked one, bearing Kris back prone onto the bed and climbing atop her in an easy hands-and-knees posture in which Kris’s slight, slim body fit easily under Audrey’s taller muscular form. Their kiss deepened, and Audrey’s body settled down as if of its own accord, her mind thinking so many thoughts at once that they all added up to thinking nothing at all. When one thought finally broke free, it was after Kris had gotten her hands up under Audrey’s shirt and began to caress her back, easing up so far that just a few inches would bring those perfect hands with their pretty fingers into contact with Audrey’s firm tits. And the thought that broke free was: Am I being the aggressor, here?

  “Is this all right?” Audrey’s thought spilled out between slurpy morning-breath kisses, barely audible with Kris’s tongue half-stuffed in Audrey’s mouth. She managed to pull back a bit to stare into Kris’s quizzical look, and repeated her question: “Is this all right?” to which Kris rolled her eyes and made a pfft sound that said something like “Shut up and fuck me.”

  By then Kris had Audrey’s shirt pulled up over her tits and was caressing her nipples with exquisite circles of her sweat-damp palms, so Audrey put up her arms and let Kris strip her down. The shorts were even easier; Audrey just felt Kris’s legs going tight-wrapped around her, and one naked foot slid the thin cotton shorts to Audrey’s ankles—and she surged forward, drunk with excitement, and pressed naked body to naked body, cunt meeting cunt so that Audrey cried out. Kris’s was shaved, Audrey’s trimmed close; with little between clit and clit, Audrey let out a long keening wail and her eyes rolled back into her head as she issued a long string of obscenities—not unlike the night before, when Kris had listened to Audrey spewing the same horny coprolalia, lying here spread with her vibe working rhythmically into her cunt.

  That thought sizzled in Audrey’s mind as her pussy went sliding easily against Kris’s; had she seen this in a book or something? Watched it in a porno? It came so fucking easy; just tangle your legs around the other girl’s lean back and—

  “Fuck, that feels good,” Audrey murmured, and Kris gave a cackle.

  “Does it?”

  Then Kris flipped her, the old creaky guest bed shuddering as Audrey came down, legs spreading, head toward the foot. Kris pinned her with her hand tangled in Audrey’s hair, and kissed hard. She then slurped her way down Audrey’s naked front, tongue swirling around her nipples just long enough to elicit little gasps before heading south between Audrey’s spread legs.

  “Um…um…hey, isn’t this wrong? I mean, Connor—”

  Kris looked up wickedly from between Audrey’s legs.

  “Right. I’m sure he’s going to be really pissed off that his wife and ex-girlfriend got it on in the guest bed while he was at work. I think he’s really going to be upset about that.”

  �
�I see your point.”

  Audrey sighed as Kris’s pretty face dipped down between her spread legs and her urgent tongue began licking Audrey’s clit. Audrey’s back arched and her knees cocked, her ass grinding hard against Kris’s digging fingernails, the sharp pain mingling with the hot waves of pleasure from Kris’s expert tongue. One hand wrenched free and traveled up to caress Audrey’s tits. Audrey thought she was reaching up to hold hands or something—didn’t lesbians do that?—and groped after them, but Kris’s hand started caressing both her nipples at once, and Audrey’s own hands went limp and helpless as she trembled all over. Kris’s tongue swirled invitingly around Audrey’s clit and down her cunt lips, teasing into the hole—oh, fuck, she was wet, she was totally wet, there was cum in there, filthy! Filthy! Filthy! Kris made a mewling sound, a sort of “Mmm, mmm,” and Audrey, mortified, shut her eyes tight and tried to forget—oh, fuck, fuck, this feels good.

  Kris, quite finished exploring and ready for business, settled into a rhythm. Her lips closed firmly around Audrey’s clit, her tongue seething rhythmically. Audrey shut her eyes tight and rocked her hips against Kris’s thrusts. She looked down at Kris, caressing the girl’s hair, her arousal mounting as she watched Kris get lost in the rapture of working her tongue against Audrey. Then two of Kris’s fingers worked easily into Audrey’s cunt. Kris kept her fingernails short—probably a lesbian thing—and Audrey felt the slickness of Connor’s semen inside her, alternately thrilled and horrified by the feel of it dribbling out onto Kris’s hand. Then she closed her eyes tight and forgot everything except the pressure of Kris’s expert fingers on her G-spot and her tongue on Audrey’s clit. But even so, she felt waves of anxiety—would she be able to come?

  She felt the reach of Kris’s arm over her, heard the click as the vibrator detached from the charging base; then she heard buzzing.

  Mortified, Audrey opened her mouth to say, “Shouldn’t you wash that?” and instead drizzled, “Oh fuck oh motherfuck oh fucking motherfuck oh fuck fucking motherfucking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” since by that time the dextrous Kris had gotten the tip of the vibe up against Audrey’s clit, and now there was just no fucking question that anybody would ever fucking wash fucking anything, fucking ever again. Audrey clawed the sweaty bedsheets and thought up half a dozen new obscenities as Kris found exactly the right angle.

  She was close, fast; her back arched and she leaned back screaming and clawing. Her arms went flailing over the edge of the bed, her eyes popping open, and—

  Oh. That explained the footsteps.

  “Um… Hi, baby,” said Audrey.

  “I guess you skipped the museum.”

  Funny how when you’re doing one thing, you know, focused, you can hear a sound but not hear a sound, or not react to it. Shouldn’t Kris have been paying more attention? No, don’t blame this on her, thought Audrey. This is totally you. You’re the married one.

  Kris stopped licking, came up from between Audrey’s legs with her face glistening and sticky. Her fingers were still thrust deep into Audrey, and both women could feel the pressure from Audrey’s swelling G-spot.

  “I can explain,” said Audrey.

  “I’m listening,” said Connor.

  “Hey, you’re home early,” said Audrey brightly.

  “It’s lunchtime,” said Connor.

  “Oh,” said Audrey breathlessly. “Is it lunchtime already?”

  “I see the two of you started without me.”

  “Free buffet,” said Kris, clearing her throat. “Listen, Connor, do we need to process this for the next umpteen hours and get all weird, polyamorous blah blah blah blah on each other? Or would you like to fuck your wife?”

  With that word, “fuck,” Kris’s fingers went gently pressing on Audrey’s G-spot, and she gave a girlish little whimper, as if begging.

  “I think I’d like to fuck my wife,” said Connor, pulling off his tie and reaching for his belt.

  “As I figured,” sighed Kris as her wet mouth slowly descended between Audrey’s spread cunt lips. “Like you haven’t—oh, mm”—she made wet sounds, slurping whimpers—“at least thought of it?”

  Then Audrey was lost in the taste and smell of her husband, as his cockhead nuzzled easily against her lips and went sliding deep into her mouth and then her throat—holy shit, this was a great position for that, throat nice and open, straight and relaxed. She had to pull back as she cried out and came, but besides that the only time Connor left her mouth was when he had all of his clothes off and was ready to fuck her.

  To her credit, Kris asked nicely before she helped guide it in. And the little hot flare of jealousy that almost made Audrey say no was nothing compared to the surge of arousal as she felt Kris’s perfect fingers not only guiding Connor’s prick into her, but parting Audrey’s cunt lips—holding her open, ready for Connor. Kris asked a second time before she kissed Connor as he fucked her; this time, Audrey didn’t feel that hot flare of jealousy, just a pulse of arousal as she watched the two kiss above her.

  Then Connor was fucking fast, and Audrey pulled Kris close as she came.

  Afterward, they lay in a tangle for just about as long as it took for Connor to complain that he’d be late back from lunch. A nooner with two beautiful women, think the boss would buy this excuse?

  Kris and Audrey kicked him out of bed; they had massages to get. And probably some talking to do, but not until after a rubdown. The day was still young—especially now that the air was clear.

  JUMP OR FALL?

  Janine Ashbless

  Blayne is a locked box and I don’t have the key.

  He and I are clearing up on the set. We do it each night: every lightbulb, rope, link and socket has to be checked to make sure we’re okay for tomorrow. The audience for Jump or Fall? has a lot of space to move around in; this venue was once a large shoe shop and half of the shelving is still there. That’s a lot of places to dump crisp packets and unwanted leaflets—everyone’s pockets are full of arts festival flyers—you can’t walk ten yards up the Royal Mile without being mugged by a leafleteer—and we have to keep the place clean. It’s in the contract.

  From the corner of my vision I see him watching me as I push the broom around. I’ve got my long hair tied back in a single braid tonight, because I saw the light in his eye the first time I did it. The plait hangs like a rope between my shoulder blades. Most men prefer my hair loose—it’s what they see first, it’s what they remember about me—but Blayne is different. Blayne’s so different I can’t make sense of him at all.

  Jump or Fall? is our theatrical art installation. I’m the theater, he’s the art. I get to strike and hold the poses on the bar, the swing and the beam; I did a circus skills course just to make sure I was up to it. His pictures projected behind me are dark and vertiginous, deceptively realistic but emotionally engulfing. He’s good. He’s incredibly good. He’s one of the most talented creative people I’ve met. We’re already talking about our second project together, and we’re definitely aiming for the Edinburgh Festival again next year.

  I want him so fucking badly that my body is just one big ache.

  The members of the audience walk around while the piece is in progress. They’re supposed to, of course. They look at me from every angle, and depending on their standpoint they see me against one or another of Blayne’s projected backdrops. I’m hanging upside down from the trapeze swing, my hands folded at my breast: am I asleep on a velvet bedspread, or diving from a high cliff, or a carcass in an abattoir rack? Am I relaxed or flying or dead? Context is everything; each position has meaning only when you know what’s going on around it. A five-inch balance beam isn’t frightening unless you’re sixty stories above a city street. A woman kneeling with head bowed isn’t alarming until she’s doing it in front of a railway tunnel.

  Every position I take is crafted to convey multiple stories depending from which angle I’m viewed. It’s hard work holding motionless: I daren’t lose focus. From the corners of my eyes I see the audience crossin
g and recrossing. When the pictures change I move, and new stories are recast.

  Here’s a story: I ask Blayne to a bar after the show and he agrees. Later we sneak past the guard of our Calvinist landlady into his room and fall into bed together. We fuck all night, and in the morning I’m so sore and blissed out I can hardly do the show.

  But that story isn’t visible from any angle, no matter how I turn.

  He watches me, but he does nothing. He refuses to go drinking. He smiles when I smile, puts his arm around my shoulders without seeming to notice that it sends me into meltdown, plays with the ends of my hair—and then he walks away if the flirting gets too warm. I’ve never seen him lose his poise, which is extraordinary in this business. When things go wrong he just folds his arms and narrows his eyes and waits for it all to calm down or the solution to present itself. I’ve never met someone so self-contained, so reserved. I asked if he was a Buddhist and he just raised an eyebrow teasingly and shook his head. He’s got eyebrows like flourished calligraphy and hair that’s never tidy and lips pressed firmly shut over their secrets. He doesn’t talk about himself. He’s angular and thoughtful and I want to know if his cock’s long and slim like the rest of him.

  When it came to Blayne I fell, there’s no denying it. Head over heels.

  Tonight after I’ve swept up I climb onto the trapeze swing and idly watch him while he empties the bins, last job of the evening. Tying the bin-bag handles, he stretches.

  “You coming then, Izzy?”

  I roll off the bar and hang upside down, my feet hooked round the ropes. My braid hangs below me and I cast it back and forth with sweeps of my head, knowing he’s watching. “Where are we going?”

  “You fancy Thai tonight?”

  “Hm. Dunno.”

  “What then?”

  With a swing and a heave of my stomach muscles I pull myself back upright on the bar. He’s wandered in closer. It’s the plait, I’m sure. He has a thing for my plaited hair. I casually stroke the rippled length down my breast, wiggling the tuft at him. It’s like fly-fishing: he walks onto the crash-mat, arms loosely folded, a funny little smile on his lips.