by Radclyffe
She takes me there.
DARRELL
Jay Lawrence
I have a wonderfully secluded little garden at my house by the sea. In the winter, when the fog rolls in from the bay, it sleeps, a neatly walled twilight zone of barren stick-like plants and covered patio furniture. In the summer, however, my garden comes into its own, rapidly swelling to a dazzling crescendo of fruit and flowers. I love bright colors and unusual, flamboyant plants. An ascending chorus line of terra-cotta pots edges the steps up to my kitchen door, containing a nursery of kiwi fruit, kumquats and hibiscus.
Last August, a former lover decided to pay me a surprise call. As always, during the warmer months, I had installed myself and my laptop at the little table on the slightly uneven red brick square that serves as my patio. I was trying to summon the Muse, who appeared to be taking a day off, when a familiar voice called from beyond the wrought iron gate.
“Hey there!”
“Why, hello, Darrell! Where on earth did you spring from? Come on in.”
The gate creaked softly as Darrell entered and I noticed that she carried a well-stuffed holdall. Questions regarding the state of play of her long-term relationship came to mind but were dismissed in favor of a welcoming hug and kiss.
“You look tired, darling. Let me make you some tea.”
Darrell sank into a chair and smiled up at me, all bright blue eyes and a halo of soft golden hair. She looked like an angel.
“I’ve left Karen. It’s for the best.”
“I’m so sorry. Oh dear, I don’t really know what to say.”
Darrell’s expression was as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s.
“Then don’t say anything at all! Some things simply aren’t meant to be. I don’t suppose you have any of that glorious apricot tea left?”
Ah, Darrell, ever the little pragmatist. Like a cat, she’d always fall on her feet. I watched my girl kick off her sandals and stretch out in the dappled, sun-splashed light of the patio. Two years before, I had lost Darrell to Karen, a tall, brusque redhead with an architect’s business in Manhattan. I wasn’t bitter. It was hard to bear a grudge against someone like Darrell.
In my tiny yellow kitchen with shells arranged upon the window ledge, I boiled water and searched for the special fruity tea. There was just enough left to make a small pot for two and I recalled the origins of the heady brew, an old-fashioned store in Greenwich Village. Darrell had worn a great big scarf to keep out the November chill, looking every inch the student she was. Yellowed maple leaves were thick on the ground as I kissed her, tracing her cold cheeks with my worshipful hands.
“Here we are, Daz.”
The old endearment slipped so easily from my lips as I set a tray down upon the garden table. I’d used a clear glass teapot and the hot liquid within glowed like the purest amber. I noticed that Darrell’s dress had somehow risen above her lovely knees, revealing a glorious sweep of gleaming suntanned leg. She grinned at me like a mischievous child and I suddenly realized that I could forgive her anything. Half-amused, part annoyed and just plain happy to see the girl, I poured the fragrant tea into porcelain cups.
“You always did have wonderful taste, Suzy. I envy you.”
That made me laugh out loud. There was my gorgeous girl, veritably glittering in the afternoon sun, humbly admiring my fine but mismatched thrift-store china. She shifted slightly in her chair, crossing her legs and magically revealing an extra inch or two of thigh. Terminally artful and absolutely adorable.
“Are those peaches, Suze? They look marvelous!”
I followed Darrell’s gaze to the heavily laden tree, which I had carefully espaliered against the south-facing wall of my little sanctuary. A multitude of blushing downy globes had rewarded my care and I had been planning a lengthy canning session that very evening. Peaches are my favorite fruit, and there’s nothing can brighten a dark winter’s day more than a spoonful of luscious gold from my well-stocked pantry.
The grass felt cool and moist beneath my feet as I padded across the lawn and selected the finest, ripest fruit for my impromptu guest.
“You don’t get this in the city.”
I thought of Karen’s industrial-chic loft, all white empty space and Bauhaus chairs, like living in some monochromatic Lego set. Karen herself, lean and taut with Pilates, poles apart from my homely charms. I placed the peach in Darrell’s lap, an offering to the goddess. She looked down and smiled.
“You’re so sweet. Would you peel it for me, please? I’m so hopeless, I always get in a terrible mess.”
“Of course.”
I returned to the kitchen to fetch a knife and, as an afterthought, a bright paper napkin with a pattern of sunflowers. Glancing through the window as I rummaged in a cluttered drawer, I spotted my friend surreptitiously unbuttoning the bodice of her dress. Suddenly my mouth was dry, as if every last drop of moisture had rushed to the warm oasis between my legs.
Well, my beloved, you certainly didn’t waste any time. And you know I’m caught just like a fish on your hook.
Conflicting emotions surged through me as I stood, transfixed, watching Darrell remove her dress. Did she sense that she had a captive audience of one? It was an unself-conscious striptease. A ray of sunlight caressed her breasts as she unhooked her bra, and my pussy responded with a soft yet insistent fluttering sensation. Butterflies of desire. Slowly, as if determined to maintain at least a semblance of dignity, I descended to the patio, clasping the knife and napkin in moist hands. My heart was beating like a drum.
Darrell was stretched out on the grass like a big calico cat. I almost expected her to purr expectantly as I sat down beside her with my votive offering. I couldn’t help smiling as I swiftly peeled and sliced the velvety fruit. Only Daz would have the nerve, the sheer insouciance to arrive without warning, requesting her special tea, asking me to prepare her peach as if nothing had changed since that Greenwich November and Karen the architect didn’t exist. I felt as if I should be building some kind of emotional wall but, dammit, I just wanted the girl. Wanted her and loved her too.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“You could start by kissing me.”
Darrell giggled and opened her arms. I felt a kind of inner rush, like being enveloped by a warm tide. I just wanted to dive on into her welcoming embrace. I knew I was being used, but I didn’t care. I kissed the girl. Her lips tasted sweet and faintly sticky, as if she’d been eating candy on her journey. The previous months melted away as we reconnected, lost time dissolving as surely as the honey in our tea. Finally, we came up for air, both breathing hard. I looked down at Darrell’s face. Her eyes were closed; a faint smile played upon her lips and her cheeks were flushed. I admired her beautiful breasts, which were quite small but ultra-firm, their tips upturned. Pert and perky tits. I had always lavished attention on Darrell’s breasts.
The sun felt heavy on my back as I knelt between my lover’s parted thighs and dipped my hot tea-sweet mouth to suck upon her small pink nipples. They felt like firm jellied candies against my massaging tongue. The butterflies returned, beating their pleasuring wings deep within my syrupy pussy. I took a slice of juicy peach and placed it against my lover’s slightly parted lips, simultaneously caressing her silky inner thigh. Darrell sighed, a long, sibilant sound like the sea rushing up the gravel beach to greet the dunes. Slowly, as if she knew it would drive me wild, she drew the dripping wedge of fruit into her mouth and held it there.
“Why don’t you feed me, Daz?”
Her eyes half opened, glittering dreamy slits in her sun-kissed face. I counted the tiny freckles on her sweet snub nose as she squeezed the slice of peach out through her plump and sticky lips. A nub of orange-pink flesh emerged from her mouth, so resembling a swollen clitoris that I began to flick the fruit with my tongue. The ripe fruit slid down my throat and I swallowed greedily as my hand instinctively strayed to the soaking place between my legs. My thin panties were drenched and I shivered as Darrell’s cool fingers reached
up to ease them over my hips and down my thighs. Swiftly, I wriggled out of my sundress and tossed it onto the grass. Suddenly, it was as if we couldn’t stand to have the slightest wisp of fabric between our bodies. Almost roughly, I nipped at her skimpy panties with my teeth, dragging them down to reveal her perfumed velvety pussy.
“You look just like a peach!”
It was true. I’d always thought Darrell had the most beautiful pussy. She had a lovely plump Mound of Venus, which was usually either shaved smooth or trimmed to leave but a fine dusting of reddish gold, a mere bloom of soft curly hair. Her labia were small but perfectly formed. She was, indeed, the most tempting fruit of all, as she lay like some magnificent windfall beneath the whispering branches of my tiny orchard. The afternoon sun seemed to caress my naked back as I slipped on top of my lover in a sixty-nine. My lips found her clit and I began to lap up her musky juice, tracing the satiny contours of her inner curves with my searching tongue.
“Eat me, Daz!”
Almost tentatively, Darrell’s mouth captured my own ripe to bursting fruit. I could take no more than a few brief moments of her intense wet heat before crying out with my first orgasm. As soon as the waves subsided, I placed my mouth over her solid, shiny clit and sucked like a five-year-old enjoying a lollipop. I remembered Darrell. She was the kind of girl who took a lot of stimulation. I’d long suspected that Karen spanked her, taking full advantage of her slight passivity, but ours was a meeting of equals. I licked and sucked and flicked the tiny female cock, savoring the smooth silk of her fresh clean flesh, the salty sugar of her copious juice. Darrell aroused slowly but steadily, as if her body chose to climb a long, steep plateau and make brief ecstasy last forever. Her hands felt warm, sometimes playing with my hair, sometimes pressing softly on my back, guiding me gently, encouraging me to stay the course. I could sense her orgasm rise, swell, grow, from a well-hidden seed in the depths of her love-nest to a full, ripe, bursting, juice-filled crescendo. As she almost reached her peak, she began to thrash around from side to side, as if to come was just too intense, too much for her body to bear. She took her time but when she came it was explosive.
“Oh, fuck me! Oh, please fuck me!”
I kept my mouth on her clit, never missing a beat, but slipped the tip of one finger inside her ass. Darrell’s whole body seemed to rise; she writhed like an ivory serpent on the grass.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…”
I remembered her pleading, as if she almost had to fight the relentless onslaught of her orgasm. Nobody came like Darrell came. It was all I could do to hold on to her as she ground her shaking hips against my face. I was coated in her juice from forehead to chin. Finally, joyfully, her body imploded beneath my tongue and she screamed, wailed, moaned a veritable Greek chorus accompanying a climax that could waken the dead.
“Oh god, oh my darling…”
It took her a while to subside, to slowly come back down to earth, so I gently dismounted and brought her her tepid tea, patiently waiting for my lover to recover. From time to time she shuddered with little aftershocks, as if she had been plugged into a powerful electrical source and now had to shed the current amp by amp. Suddenly I felt overwhelmingly protective.
“You’re precious to me, you know.”
Darrell looked up at me, her bright gaze a hybrid of gratitude and triumph. She made a slight face as she sipped the half-cold apricot tea.
“You’re so sweet, Suze! There’s so much I have to tell you.”
“There’s plenty of time. No hurry. I’m not going anywhere.”
My lover smiled ruefully, but truthfully, I hadn’t meant to imply anything. I wouldn’t be going anywhere because permanence is my style. I’m a patient sort. I understand that the seasons turn and birds fly south in winter, only to return when the weather is fine. I love the slow, sensual rhythm of my garden. Sometimes it sleeps, sometimes it sings with a riot of color. If I tend it, it rewards me with baskets full of fruit. Darrell is a butterfly. She lives completely in the present, without regret. I know I can never possess her, I can only seize the day. And so, that drowsy August afternoon, I got her to help me with my peach canning. I decided to store up sweet fruit and memories to ward off future chill. My lover comes and goes. Sometimes, months pass and all I have is a postcard on my fridge, stamped in Albuquerque or Spokane. I deal with it. Summer can’t last forever, but it always returns.
COOLING DOWN, HEATING UP
Dena Hankins
I use the ribbed cotton of my tank top to dry the skin under my tits. A bra would soak up some of the sweat, but I can’t bear one thread more than the top and my underwear. I’m sitting on the floor, leaning against the fieldstone fireplace in our 180-year-old farmhouse. Never thought the fireplace would be the coolest spot in the house.
The fan squeaks a bit, way up in the high ceiling. I’ll have to fix that when it’s not a million degrees. The blades pour humid air over me like a warm river.
Hennie’s flushed, lying flat on her back in a cotton slip she made herself. It’s got thin lines of lace, top and bottom, and she scratches at her thigh where the lace tickles. She wiggles within reach, hunting a cooler spot on the wooden floor, and I poke her hip with my big toe. She groans. “I love you, sweetheart. Don’t touch me.”
I laugh.
The hills outside Chapel Hill, North Carolina, sport more than one lovely old house. Ours has little in the way of grounds—the fields had been sold long before we came around. We’ve owned it three years now, moved in on our eighth anniversary. Still getting bruised and blistered working on it, but that’s just part of owning an old home. Our bedroom is straight out of the nineteenth century, except we made the dressing room into a bathroom. We updated the kitchen but left the cupboards. The old plumbing complains and we replace what we have to.
Mostly, we restore what we can and live without plenty. Like air-conditioning.
“Hennie, I think it’s time.”
My lover smiles without opening her eyes. “Gettin’ itchy?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Hennie sits up with a whoosh and blinks like she’s light-headed. Her slip’s wet where she was lying on it. Her tits are bare under the thin cotton and her nipples are soft, nearly flat in the heat. “Want to make reservations or pack?”
I lever myself to my feet and wish I hadn’t. “I’ll pack.”
Hennie laughs. “You’re sweet, but I was joking. Get on the computer and I’ll put together an overnight bag.”
I lean over and give Hennie my hand. We both groan at the sticky feeling as I pull her upright. Pressing my lips to hers without touching anywhere else, I mumble against her mouth, “You’re the one for me.”
“I’d better be.” Her grumpy tone makes me smile and she pulls away. Slogging through the dank air, she heads up the stairs to our bedroom on the second floor. Her voice fades as she gripes, “I still say we should have a summer bedroom downstairs. We can put a bed in the piano parlor and…”
My face settles into the expression Hennie calls “mulish.” I consider that an insult and refuse to cop to it. I love our bedroom and won’t give it up for anything. A smile breaks through. Actually, I will give it up tonight for that most modern of conveniences.
We’re driving away less than an hour later and pull up to the chain motel a half hour after that. After checking in, we drive around the back and park in front of the door to our room for the night.
Hennie slides the key card into the reader and shoves against the seal made by the weather stripping. She gasps and calls out, “It’s already cold in here!” The delight in her voice is worth the sixty dollars we just dropped.
Holding the bag, I lock the car doors and follow her into the room. The temperature drops at the door and I shiver hard. Hennie’s inspecting the room—opening drawers, checking out the bathroom. Reminds me of a dog sniffing new territory when she does that, though I’d never make the mistake of saying so. She starts the shower and yells, “Good pressure.”
The
shower doesn’t stop. She must have decided to jump right in. Would she want something to wear afterward? I’ll probably ruin a surprise if I open the bag, so I decide against getting clothes out for her. Maybe we won’t wear anything until it’s time to check out.
Water hits the wall and the shower curtain, the sound modulating as she moves. I picture her turning under the spray, cupping her hands and letting the cool water overflow down her chest.
I can’t stay all sticky while she’s getting so clean.
Down with my shorts, off with my underwear. The tank top droops, heavy with my sweat, and the chilling fabric draws another shiver from me as I pull it over my head. Damn. The cold is almost as uncomfortable as the heat.
In the cold, though, we can get close.
I push open the door to the little bathroom and it stops against the shower/tub combo. Hennie’s slip is limp on the floor and I catch my first sight of her in the vanity mirror across from the shower.
Her deep curves make my insides tighten. Through the translucent plastic shower curtain, she has the mysterious proportions of a goddess. Her heavy hips and solid thighs taper to strong calves and small feet, while above…ah, above.
Hennie’s breasts curve away from her ribs, lower than they were when we first stripped for one another. We attacked each other that night with the lights out. Not for shyness, but because we were in such a hurry that we forgot to turn them on.
Since then, Hennie has put on thirty, maybe forty pounds. Her breasts are heavier, her ass more padded. Her waist still has that delicious curve and her face barely shows a difference, but she looks so much more womanly to me. As a girl, she charmed me. Now I am devoted to the woman she’s become.