by D. L. King
“Come on, upstairs. He doesn’t get home till after seven on a Thursday. We’ve plenty of time…”
“I didn’t come here to do this…”
“Like fuck you didn’t. You’re as ravenous as I am!”
They’re in the bedroom by now. A slightly musty smell of old wardrobes and camphor. Same cabbage-rose paper as the downstairs hall. The light low, like an old cinema before the matinee. Velvet drapes drawn in daylight to save the carpet. A neat dressing table with an unused silver brush and mirror set, a double bed with a green satin coverlet. Embroidered with a simple central flower. A homemade rag rug, incongruous on the thickly carpeted floor. Trudy recognizes the style. This is Fiona’s one attempt to assert herself in this silent temple to a dead woman’s taste.
And in the slight chill of someone else’s domain Trudy feels suddenly dwarfed, and so Fiona takes charge. Kisses her again. On the lips then down the whole length of her long white swan’s neck. Turning Trudy’s knees to water. Oh yes, this is what she came here for, yes indeedy, but she had never even dared to hope.
“Do you have anyone? Can I mark you?”
“No, no-one. And yes, yes please, do it all you want…”
She feels Fiona’s lips sucking hard on the fleshy nape of her neck, then her teeth sink in and she wants to weep with pleasure. She’s due to give a lecture on the metaphysical imagery in Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper in Copenhagen two days from now and will have to find a suitable scarf to cover the huge red blemish on her throat, or maybe not. Fuck it, let them all conjecture. Out loud, she groans: “Naked, I want you naked!”
Fiona grins and pushes her down onto the bed. “You’ve seen me naked before, what’s the big deal?”
“Stop teasing and get your kit off before I rip that awful dress down the middle and rape you.”
“Promises, promises. Here, unzip me…”
She slides out of the slubby green sheath like a serpent shedding its skin and transforms into a symphony in creams and whites, her body an arctic landscape of untouched snow, Leda and the Swan, Venus ascending, rounded and pleasing despite the unflattering white bra that fails miserably to contain her big, full breasts. Hipster panties in ivory cotton beneath the tights, her belly rounded, pudenda huge and pronounced under the knickers, hint of a tantalizing camel toe nestled at the crotch.
“You still like?” she asks, kneeling over Trudy’s recumbent form, straddling her like a colossus. “Still as desperate to fuck me now that I’m a fat old woman?”
Trudy nods, breathless. Oh fuck yeah! Pulls the waistband of the tights and panties out with one trembling hand, slides the other deep inside. Feels smooth skin like silk, thick fur, slippery wetness. “Take your bra off.”
Fiona tries to smile but she’s panting by now and her clit is as hard as a lubricious pecan. And her hand shakes as she reaches for the catch on her own brassiere, her huge tits tumbling out like a snowy avalanche, the nipples up like ramrods, unexpectedly dark garnet red in color, not sugar pink like most of the blondes Trudy has fucked. Then Fiona yanks her own pants down to her knees, ripping her panty hose, and flops down on top of Trudy, the two of them kissing like their lives depend on it.
“Have you done this before?” Trudy asks, pulling Fiona’s panties right off and feasting her eyes on her friend’s cunt, the thick white-blonde hair so fine it’s as if she’s shaved, her pouty pussy lips begging to be kissed.
“Yes. With my best friend when I was fourteen.”
“Shit, everyone does it with their best friend when they’re fourteen. I mean have you ever done this properly, with another grown-up woman?”
Fiona closes her eyes for a moment, luxuriating in what Trudy’s fingers are doing to her cunt, slowly pulling it open like a split fig and circling that big throbbing clit. Treating it to the occasional flick that drives her wild. “No,” she whispers. “You’re my first.” Though this isn’t strictly true.
Because there was that day when she found the box of magazines under the bed in her sons’ room, and she’d pored over page after garishly colored page of splayed women, black and white, fat and skinny, hairy and shaved, big tits, little tits, a cornucopia of female pulchritude, and she’d touched herself. Yes, touched herself right there, rubbed herself, massaged her big fat clit until the orgasm ripped itself out of her and made her scream with pent-up rage. Sneaking up to the boys’ room every afternoon to do it again. Bereft when they both fucked off to university without a backward glance and took their wank-stack with them, leaving her alone with the knowledge of exactly what she was.
And now Trudy was back in her life for one magical afternoon. Insistent little Trudy who had always been so desperate to experiment in their tiny attic studio, with each of them taking turns to pose nude while the other drew, Trudy’s furry little pussy with its tight and secret slit like a perfect keyhole so delicious and appealing. But Fiona had wanted babies and a husband who would provide, hadn’t wanted to bump cunts with another girl now that they were grown up and responsible adults. That wasn’t how it was done, she had told herself. Had even believed it for a while.
“You’ve had girls though?” she asks now, maybe accuses, tugging impatiently at the buttons on Trudy’s white silk blouse, the suit jacket lost somewhere between the lounge and here. “You’ve fucked other women, I know you have!”
“I have, but I’ve always hungered for what I couldn’t get,” Trudy pants, ripping off her shirt and wriggling out of her skirt. She has on a tiny Westwood thong in deep pomegranate and black with a matching bra cupping her small breasts, and soft chestnut curls peep deliciously from the hinge of her thighs. “Sooner or later, I’d end up imagining that they were you.”
Fiona pulls the silken ribbon on Trudy’s hip and gasps as her panties unfurl, Trudy’s bush like a soft puffball, a catkin, a sexy bunny tail at the gateway to enchantment. “I always think about you when Jack fucks me,” she confesses. “I visualize sucking your tits when I want to come.”
“Suck away then,” Trudy groans, pulling off her bra and baring her little nubs, the perky brown nipples erect and rubbery. Areolas huge, like old half crowns.
“God, I want to eat you,” Fiona gasps. “Will you show me how?”
Trudy laughs though the breath is rasping out of her like an exhausted long-distance runner’s. “Do to me what I do to you,” she manages to gasp, shivering as Fiona’s fingers stroke her tits and pinch the nipples.
“I’ve never touched another woman’s pussy before,” Fiona admits, one hand circling Trudy’s chubby little pudenda. “We just touched tits when we were kids…”
“You’ll love it, and touching yours is pure heaven,” Trudy kisses back into her ear, her breath hot. “Just pet me gently like this, that’s right, just stroke the hair to begin with, now press a little harder, yes, just like that, now push inside, I’m so wet that you’ll slide right in…”
“You’re so slippery, and so hot. Oh god, Trudy, I think I’m going to come!”
“Me too, rub me hard!”
And they could both feel it, feel the throbbing ache within themselves like a piece of machinery being wound past its limit and about to snap, a river in spate beating at its banks, a dam about to burst, and then suddenly they are kissing and scratching and screaming and bucking like unbroken mares, their fingers deep in each other’s slit, humping furiously against each other, their fervent kisses sharing each other’s orgasm as wave after wave engulfs them.
“And now you’re going to get eaten,” Trudy manages to whisper, as she flips herself around and bends her head to Fiona’s fat and furry cunt. “Now I’m going to show you what a real orgasm feels like!”
“I never came like that in twenty-five years of marriage,” Fiona’s voice filters down as she rubs her face against Trudy’s bush. “It can’t get any better. Can it?”
“Wait till you taste me,” Trudy promises, her own tongue starting to map all of Fiona’s secret pink lips like a cartographer measuring contours. “Believe me,
once you’ve eaten pussy nothing else will ever compare. Oh, holy fuck, Fiona, I’ve waited all my life to do this…”
“Me too,” Fiona agrees, kissing, kissing, a sugar baby oozing sweetness, not daring to lick quite yet, just breathing in all Trudy’s scents, pheromones, hungering for her taste. Her honeyed nectar. “Do it really slow,” she breathes. “I want this to last forever…”
They make love all afternoon and dangerously late into the pink-streaked sky of early evening, and it won’t be long before Jack’s sedate little car pulls into the drive, his key slides into the worn brass lock on the old green-baize door downstairs. Does he shout, Honey, I’m home, Trudy wonders as she gathers her clothes from where they have been strewn all over the bedroom floor, her hair still damp form the shower where Fiona slid into the cubicle and went down on her as she shampooed. It has been heaven on earth, a fairy-tale romance, but like all good fairy tales the princesses must make themselves scarce before the giant awakens, or suffer the consequences in the land beyond the beanstalk.
“I don’t want to go,” Trudy whispers, holding Fiona tight, traitorous tears betraying how much the ice maiden really feels inside.
“You have to go,” says the ever-practical Fiona. Coldly, Trudy thinks. “You have a job. Commitments.”
“Fuck my commitments. It’s you I want.”
“You mean that?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then…”
“Then?”
“Then there is a way. I have a little money put by and Jack’s Range Rover is in the garage. I paid for it, and I’m an excellent driver. We could buy a caravan. I’ll have you in Copenhagen in time for your lecture if we go now, catch the last ferry from Folkestone tonight.”
“But your home? Your children?”
“Another woman’s home, and my children don’t know I exist. Jack saw to that…”
“Your marriage was… terrible?”
“Yes it was, but there’s no time for all that boo-hoo stuff right now. Yes or no, Trudy?”
Trudy pauses. Doesn’t hesitate. Pauses. She always was one for dramatic effect, the cow. “What do you think?” she grins. “Pack your stuff!”
But Fiona just picks up the keys to the Rover and puts her passport in her bag. “I don’t need any stuff, and I don’t want any of it, I’m starting a new life.” Kisses Trudy. “With you.”
“With me,” Trudy grins, beaming like an adolescent being asked to her first prom. “You’re starting a new life with me!”
And they kiss again, right there in the driveway for all the neighbors to see, before backing the Range Rover carefully onto the street and then speeding away toward the darkening eastern sky. And Fiona knows it won’t be easy and they’ll both have to give and take, have to learn each other’s habits all over again; but they’ve lived together before and she knows that they can do it again. And, of course, there’s so much beautiful sex they’ve yet to experience, so much love to make. And a caravan is a dull structure that won’t take much looking after, maybe she could decorate it, stencil a pattern around the window frames or perhaps even design a mural for the interior walls. Maybe even start painting again…
OFF SEASON
Valerie Alexander
Shea had her admirers. Soccer fans and students screaming in the stands; straight girls bringing her brownies for the bus trips to games; ex-conquests grudgingly conceding she was a legendary goalie, even if she was a heartless slut off the field. And players from other Division I schools like me, who studied the team’s game tapes even before I knew I was transferring to that university and it would be my team too. She was a thing of butch magnificence under the lights, a brooding jock of a girl with heroic shoulders and a stoic face that never changed as she guarded her goal.
I didn’t talk to her at our first practice. Coach introduced me as the new center fullback and while some girls smiled and other girls said welcome, Shea’s handsome face stayed impassive. She was squinting in the late afternoon sun, waiting for Coach to finish her opening season first practice pep talk so we could get on to the business of drills.
I tried not to look at her too much.
“Everyone gets along, no one’s competitive in a mean way,” said our sweeper Bridget when we went out for beef pho and pork rolls after practice. “Last year sucked because of Shea and Lana but then Lana transferred so—” She drank her water. “And now we have you.”
Lana was the stopper I’d replaced. I’d studied her the most on the game tapes, her long coppery braid swinging as she booted the ball with powerful kicks. “They were…?”
“Oh, yeah. They thought no one knew, but we all knew. And then Shea slept with Lana’s roommate and every practice, every game, was shit after that. Thank god Lana left before she ruined this season too.”
“Seems like Shea ruined last season,” I said.
“Eh,” Bridget said. “Everyone knows what she’s like. Who’s stupid enough to fuck their teammate?”
Walking back to my apartment—not a dorm room, but a student housing apartment for athletes—I wondered how it felt for Shea to see me in front of her on the field, a shorter, curvier stranger with a honey-colored ponytail, instead of rail-thin Lana. During my penalty kick in practice, she’d watched me like I was any opponent trying to invade her goal, bent slightly with her floppy sun-bleached hair pushed back. She’d leapt up and caught my ball like a cat capturing a lame sparrow and released it back to us with a simple rise of her foot.
Soccer practice had always meant a few things to me: the hard crack of cleat kicking ball; the robin’s-egg blue of the sky and the smell of grass; sweat trickling down my shirt and the hard breathing of girls around me while a coach lectured or cajoled or guided us. Walking home in autumn twilight with sore calves and blood still flowing with adrenalin. It didn’t mean stealing glances across the field. Team romances were for summer leagues, not Division I athletes with their eyes on NCAA tournaments.
Shea, Bridget and four other stars were seniors, which made the season an emotional one for the school. Even our practices had their spectators, students lingering on the sidelines for the thrill of watching our sprints and drills and the occasional scrimmage. Shea and Hanna, our striker with cover-girl looks, had the most groupies, and most of us had at least one. I ignored mine: a shy boy who limited himself to one nervous wave per practice and a busty junior who was notorious for seducing female athletes.
“Stay away from her,” Shea said to me one evening after practice. “She’s a nutter.”
“How do you know?”
“Because when I lived on campus, she talked my roommate into letting her wait naked in my room for me one night. Rose petals on the bed spelling out my jersey number.”
“Did you call security?”
She gave me a weird look. “Why would I?” She headed over to Hanna, who was wrapping up her knee in a different part of the locker room.
It was our first conversation and I’d ruined it. I’d failed to grasp that dominant butch goalies lived a life of groupies and stalkers, that calling security was uncool. I always showered at home after practice but today I went into the sauna and let the heat and silence exorcise my thudding, tumultuous heart. A midfielder came in and stretched out on a bench; someone else left; I closed my eyes and tuned them out. When I opened my eyes, I was alone except for Shea sitting on the opposite redwood bench. She was naked with a white towel over her lap, arms stretched out to the side to show off her massive shoulders, her small muscular tits as hard and defined as pectorals. Her closed eyes relaxed her face’s usual surly indifference and made her look almost noble.
She opened her eyes and we gazed at each other. She pulled off her towel and mopped her head with it, thighs open just enough to show me all of her pussy. Naked, she walked out of the sauna. I pushed my hand between my legs and brought myself off, quickly, desperately, ashamed at how fast I came for so little a show.
***
We played an old rival the following week,
and their midfielder butted Hanna in the face in the first half, breaking her nose. We won 1-0 but it was a silent bus ride home, like everyone sensed that this season wasn’t going to be the cakewalk of triumph everyone needed it to be. And then Coach announced we were playing in a special October tournament. Our opponent: the same college where Lana—our ex-teammate, Shea’s scorned ex and scorched earth—had transferred.
“Good,” Bridget said to me, wrapping up her chest before practice that week. “Lana will lose her shit all over again when she sees Shea. Advantage ours.”
“It’s been a year. She’s probably over it.”
“Not that psycho.”
Nothing for me to think about. Not how it had happened between them, how it had gotten started; an aimless conversation during practice, maybe, when the front line was getting lectured down at the other goal. Lana noticing Shea’s relentless focus on the ball, like a predator stalking its kill, or her primitive grunts when she sent the ball flying back to Hanna with one clean rebuff. Or maybe Shea just texted her one night, blunt and lazy: Come over. And then besotted Lana had probably been giving Shea her all until that wasn’t enough and Shea callously fucked her roommate too.
So many ways it could have happened. Slipping into the woods behind campus, fucking up against the oak trees, or fingering each other in the equipment room. Trying not to exchange any meaningful looks during practice, the way I tried not to look at Shea now.
She barely acknowledged me. She backed me up like any good goalie, shouting encouragement when I was fighting in my full stopper glory, but she never looked at me when we were sprawled on the grass getting scolded by Coach. The sauna episode had been her showing off her lioness glory like she’d show anyone: Behold my magnificence, pulling away the towel had said. At Bridget’s birthday party, Shea stayed on the couch all night with her fan club of flustered, adoring girls, one of whom gradually wound up on her lap. Shea idly played with her thighs under her dress, barely grunting answers as the other girls tried to impress her. I was nothing to her. But the pit in my stomach before each game, the jitters as I laced my cleats, was for her; wanting to outfox, outkick and outplay like a master and force her to notice me.