by Dacia Quinn
But not much better. She looks pretty damned good as she is. Or maybe that was just the Southern Comfort talking. Theresa wears a contented smile on her face, despite the uncomfortable position she’s landed in, ankles together, knees askew, skirt dangerously high on her thighs. Thighs—another of my downfalls. I shouldn’t even be looking. Theresa strikes me as the kind of girl who has never even thought about women the way I’m thinking about her. But her hair hangs limp down over her face, stuck adorably to her red lips. I want to brush it away and kiss them.
“You know, I loved the way you described Nara,” she mumbles.
I scowl. “Really?”
“That bit about the stone and the mountain,” she says. “Unmovable except by time and pressure.”
She’s butchered it, but has obviously read more than just “that bit,” which is certainly more than I’ve gotten from most people.
“I think that’s the first time anyone’s said anything about the book to me that didn’t involve mention of a strap-on.”
“Oh, I liked that part too,” she says, and then, as though she’s let out a secret, flaps her hands over her mouth and turns a bright shade of pink. “Oh dear God, why did I say that!”
“It’s alright,” I say. And maybe because it’s not the first thing out of her mouth about the book, I really am alright with it. “Not everyone seems willing to admit they liked it.”
“I couldn’t believe it, when it started, and then I was horrified! And then, you know, I started getting, you know.”
“Wet?” I ask, sliding next to her onto the couch. Yes, the SoCo is in control at this point, definitely. Not me. I would never do this sort of thing.
She whimpers when I say the word. She probably thought something less explicit, but I can see I’ve gotten it right. She nods, hands still bunched at her chin, though no longer hiding her mouth. I feel that familiar knot of tension building inside me just begging for some sort of attention.
I’ve crowded her on the couch, and our legs touch from hip to knee. My arm presses up against her small, firm breast. The angle gives me a view down her freckled chest to the arcs and curves below. I make out the barest hint of a hard nipple beneath the thin layers of blouse and bra. My eyes linger in a way I’d not allowed before, and I sense her eyes watching me. I want to look up and see what her reaction is to my overt ogling, but can’t take my eyes off her. I trace my fingers down her thigh, brushing her breast deliberately with my arm. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull back.
I try to say something. What, exactly, I don’t know. When I finally look up at her, I see nothing more than a tangle of hair, closed eyelids, and flashes of interrupted light as she presses her lips against mine. It’s awkward, rough, and badly aimed, but all that is lost in a moment of sheer surprise, a crackle of audacity from this girl that I never supposed possible.
My hands come up instinctively, and find the gentle swell of her breasts pressed firmly into them. For a moment I know my grasping hands will be the needle to puncture this particular balloon, but I’m wrong: she doesn’t have the slightest hesitation. One of her hands cups my cheek while the other slides up my thigh.
It takes less than a second to realize that it is her, and not me, that has done the seducing, and only another fraction of a second to realize that it is me, and not her, that may be the inexperienced one at this sort of thing.
My instinct is to stop, to push her away and talk about this. To explore our feelings, to express comfort, support, or to at least define some relationship boundaries. I want to dig out my notepad and fathom all this like a character in a book. Work out the details and understand it before going further.
And then, with her breasts in my hands and her tongue slipping between my lips, I tell my brain to shut the fuck up.
My legs open. Damn it, I’ve worn pants—but that doesn’t stop her hand from doing what it wants. Her fingers press firmly but gently against me, rubbing in small arcs that brush the seam of my panties against my clit. I sigh and break off the kiss, the sudden urge to breath deeply too much for me to ignore. My head lolls back, and Theresa begins kissing down my neck, her tongue exploring every crevice. My hands play feebly with her breasts, caressing their shape, my fingers brush the bare skin peeking out from her blouse. Her hands are soft and gentle, and somehow it makes my own movements clumsy in comparison.
My hips make subtle movements that she matches with her hand. Her hot breath tumbles down my body, between my shirt and skin, tickling my nipples. My hands leave her breasts, desperately searching out the bottom hem of her shirt in order to explore beneath, but there I only find another shirt. With a frustrated moan, I tug it free of her skirt, my fingers finding taut muscle beneath soft flesh, the hint of curves only a few inches further down. Much as I want my hands there, I move them up instead, exploring her navel and the small ring of metal I find there.
“Anything else pierced?” I ask between gasps of breath.
She bites her lip, then grins. “You’ll see.”
I find myself rapidly approaching the point of inevitability, and so quickly reach down and take her hand off my mound. We’ve only just started. I can’t allow it to end so quickly. She takes my movement for what it is—encouragement to move things in a different direction. Her fingers begin unbuttoning my shirt, her lips and tongue still exploring the curve of my neck with frequent forays to the lobe of my ear. My blouse opens, and I shrug it off. Theresa leans back to give me room, and I have a moment to take in the sight of her—hair tousled, face red, breath coming in short, quick gasps.
She nearly dives into my breasts while my fingers are still fumbling with my own bra. Her hands slip back behind me and do that work for me, freeing my fingertips to glide down her back. My bra comes off. I’m expecting her to attack me greedily with her mouth—longing for her to, really—but instead she leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. I return the kiss, lingering there for a moment, feeling her hair tickle the tops of my bare shoulders.
Her shirt and bra come off. Her breasts are smaller even than mine, but creamy white and smooth with dark, small nipples—each of which has a small metal stud pierced through it.
“Mmmm,” I moan, letting my fingers savor the feel of cold metal and hot skin.
She climbs on top of me, and our breasts touch. I can feel the light, delicate pressure of her nipples against my skin, and the added sensation of cold metal. Just the thought of them makes me even wetter.
My hands play along her thighs, pushing her skirt up higher. Her hands unfasten my pants. She slides a hand inside, and I cry out.
“Is this alright?” she asks.
“Oh, it’s fantastic,” I answer, and lower myself onto the couch so she has better access. She pushes my pants down past my hips, exposing my black lace panties. Slowly she slips a hand into them, finding my damp cleft. She rests her hand there, making just the smallest movement with her fingers. I breathe out heavily. It’s driving me just a little bit crazy.
One of my hands reaches up to play with a pierced nipple while the other finds her panty-clad pussy. I’m fascinated by the stud in her nipple—I can’t stop brushing it with my fingers. It’s a sensation she seems to enjoy immensely. Her panties are damp, which makes me smile. I rub her through them, enjoying the feeling of her hard clit beneath my fingers.
“I want to taste you,” I say.
She gives me a simmering look, grins, then stands up. Sitting on the edge of the couch, I run my hands up her slim, taut thighs. She lower her panties slightly, and I press my mouth to her, tonguing her lips open gently. She’s shaved smooth and slick.
“Oh, that feels great,” she says. Her hands are in my hair, pulling me tight against her. She’s sweet as honey, and I try to taste every bit of her. She squirms against me, and her panties fall away completely. I lose myself in her, letting my hands caress everything within reach—her legs, her back, her ass. I can feel her legs weakening, trembling, as my tongue finds its target. I suck her clit into my mouth, tick
ling it with my lips.
She pulls away, face red and chest heaving. She pushes me back onto the couch. My legs open, and she climbs gracefully atop me. Gently, she presses her pussy against mine, then with more vigor. We’re both slick and hot, and the friction of our bodies together makes me shiver with pleasure.
I grab her ass with both hands and pull her tight against me. She exhales a deeply held breath and bites her lip. She’s grinding against me now, her pace increasing. With every thrust of her hips, her nipples brush against mine. She presses her forehead against mine, and through a tangle of hair I see her eyes full of lustful intensity, and wonder if mine are as sharp and eager as hers. Our hot breath mingles in moans and cries.
I get there first, and my sudden climax sends her over the edge. We grind fast and hard, our bodies sweating with effort, my fingers pressed deep into the firm flesh of her ass.
“Oh god, oh god!” she cries, over and over, and god only knows what I’m saying in the sheer chaos of the moment. The moment stretches out thin and taut, and it might be a minute or an hour, and I don’t care. My body seems to flash into a thousand pinpricks of fire, with every movement pouring more and more heat into me until every nerve screams.
And suddenly we’re done. Theresa collapses on top of me, hot and limp and breathing in gasps and torrents, still shuddering from the cataclysm we shared. She seems smaller, even, than before, as though I’ve somehow used up a part of her. She catches her breath a moment, looks up and me and together we laugh the laugh of the satisfied.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, THERESA IS getting dressed beside the couch. It’s well after midnight, on a Wednesday. Although I guess it’s officially Thursday now. I recognize—a bit belatedly—that she’s probably got work in the morning.
“I’m sorry to keep you here so late,” I say. Then I smile. “Not too sorry, but you know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, buttoning her blouse. “I’ll call out sick, maybe. I never do that. They can’t complain.”
“I didn’t intend this, you know,” I say. Why am I feeling apologetic? I can’t help it. “I had no idea you were ...”
“Into women?”
“It’s not the sort of thing you just go up to someone and say. And, to be honest, when I came into the office the other week, I couldn’t remember your name.”
The look on her face tells me she’s not surprised.
“You had that deer-in-the-headlights looks that people get when they should know you but don’t remember. I get that a lot.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, on impulse. I’m curious. She works at a publisher. She must read lots of books. “Why did the Clara Barton books appeal to you?”
“Oh, those? I don’t know. I liked to think that I was better than those women. They were so lost. They needed someone to put them right. I liked your book better.”
Of course she’d say that. She’s in my bedroom. And still half-naked. My stomach clenches slightly. “What do you think of the men in my book?”
Now it’s her turn for the deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Don’t worry,” I add quickly. “I can take criticism.” I think.
“They’re ... a little pathetic. I mean, I understand why someone like Nara would end up with Peter. But I liked her more than him. She was so overpowering, and he just didn’t stand a chance. When I read the book, I kept picturing you. I know Nara is supposed to look different—blonde and tall and imperious. But I kept seeing you instead. Oh, now I’ve offended you.”
“No, no,” I say, but I’m lying. “That’s ... helpful.”
Dammit, it’s not helpful. I wanted her to say something that I could bring back to Thane that I could use as a blunt object of ridicule. Instead she’s given me a wet herring of self-bludgeoning.
“So, when you were reading that scene,” I ask, turning a bit red. “You were imagining me with the strap-on?”
“Mmm hmm,” she says, with a mischievous smile.
“And...”
“You weren’t giving it to Peter, let me tell you.”
“You are a dirty girl!”
“Hey! You wrote that chapter, not me.”
“You’re calling in tomorrow, right?” I give her a playful slap on the butt.
“I just got dressed!”
“I think I can fix that.”
[FOUR] CROWDS
I"M NOT A FAN OF barbecues, but with spring in full swing and the warm weather kicking in, Gail and Danny have decided it’s time to open their pool and invite neighbors over. They extend the invite to me as well, despite my edgy reputation, and even go so far as to suggest I bring a plus-one. Theresa agrees to come with me.
“We’re not dating,” I tell Gail the first moment we’re alone. “So don’t go there.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Gail says, and for a moment I wonder if her opinion of women has changed a bit in the intervening months since our last naked encounter. “She’s got to be ten years younger than us.”
“Jeeze, Gail, we’re not that old. She’s maybe five or six years younger,” I say. “And we’re not dating. We’re just friends.”
“I’m not blind, Sara,” she says, giving me a look of haughty derision. “You don’t have to be worried about me. I don’t care. Hell, I doubt even Danny would care. He leaves that stuff at Mass most of the time.”
“So, you told him.”
“That you like girls? He’s my husband. I tell him everything.”
“Gail...”
“Whine, whine, whine. He doesn’t care,” she says, waving her hand at me impatiently, as if I were a fly buzzing around her head. “If I thought he cared, I probably wouldn’t have said anything.”
“My parents don’t even know!”
“Get out of the closet, already. Is being secretive about being bi considered ‘in the closet’? Or is there some other euphemism? It’s not like you’re completely gay. They still have a chance of having grandchildren, right? That’s all your mom would care about.”
“And to think, you’re one of my more tolerant friends,” I say with a wry smile. She doesn’t get it, clearly, but then I’m not sure I know anyone who would get it better.
Danny approaches with two drinks in hand, one of which he hands to Gail with a peck on the cheek, and the other he hands to me. I watch for some sign of either judgment or lewd insinuation, but there’s nothing. It’d just Danny being Danny. I sigh internally—I need to stop expecting the worst out of men.
“Mango vodka,” he says. “Your friend suggested it was something you like. What’s her name again?”
“Theresa,” I say.
“She’s cute,” he says. He gives me an uncertain look. “Are you two...”
I blush deeply. “We’re not a couple!”
My words come out a little too loudly, but thankfully there’s no one close enough by to overhear it.
“How’s the book coming?” he asks. At least he can take a hint, unlike Gail—who rolls her eyes at her husband’s obvious change of topic.
“It’s a process of pure hell, with intermittent periods of excruciating torture,” I answer, then down a gulp of vodka. I used to think the cliche of alcoholic writers was ridiculous, but suddenly reconsider it, given the circumstances.
“And this new editor of yours that Gail tells me about?”
“He’s a hard ass. It makes my job a lot more difficult than it should be.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it, when it’s done,” he says.
“Are you gonna read the whole thing this time, or should I send you a copy with a note listing all the interesting parts?”
Dammit, I’m being a smart-ass again, and the words a bit more cutting than I intend. I wince. I need to think before I speak. Too late now, though.
“I’ll read the whole thing. I actually liked Thirty Hour Day, once I managed to convince myself to read it. I know a guy like Peter at work. Middle-management. Think’s he’s God’s gift. Real jackass. C
ould use a little ... you know. Discipline.”
Double dammit, would people stop telling me that Thane is right? But here’s Danny telling me that he actually read and enjoyed my book, after I basically called him a knuckle-draging Neanderthal, right to his face. For a prudish, Mass-attending nut, he’s actually a nice guy. Which I knew, already, but have a hard time accepting. Why’s he got to go around puncturing my nice, comfortable little prejudices?
He’s rendered the smart-ass writer speechless, which I think makes him more uncomfortable than it makes me. He smiles, nods, then walks back to the grill. I allow myself a quick peek at his ass.
“Did you just check out my husband?” Gail asks, with feigned reproach.
“I sure did,” I admit. “He let you go there yet?”
“Very funny,” she says, poking me hard in the shoulder with a bony finger once, then twice more. “For someone who seems so obsessed with taking offense at people’s interest, you seem awfully ready to prod people about it.”
“Alright, alright. It’s just my way of asking if your hang-ups have sorted themselves out.”
“We’re ... gradually sorting things out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re trying some new things.”
I’m shocked! Happily so. “So you have gone there!”
“Now’s not the best place for this,” she says in a harsh whisper.
“Yeah, but it’s alright to give me a hard time about dildos and strap-ons over lunch?”
“Jeeze, Sara, alright!” she whines. “Just, not around these people. And no, we haven’t gone there. We’ve just talked about it a little. And some other things. You know, like fantasies.”
“Oh, really? And what dark desires did you discover?”
“Like I said. Not here.”
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly. The whole exchange has my libido turned up a notch. My skin is feeling like it’s a size too small.
“Your friend seems awfully friendly with Danny,” Gail says, with a smirk.