by Sacchi Green
“I still have sunblock on,” I grumbled, but she was right. If I was going to sleep, it should be back in the beach house.
“Come on.” She stood up and grabbed my hand to pull me with her. “The ocean cures everything.”
I wasn’t so sure about that when, a minute later, I found myself knee-deep in the freezing tide. “Crap, this is cold.”
“The perfect thing for tired muscles and a weary groin,” Morgan said, lowering herself into the water until only her shoulders and head bobbed above it. Her hair floated around her like seaweed, reminding me of all those drawings of mermaids I used to make when I was a kid and in love with Disney’s Ariel, princess of the sea.
Desire flooded me. My calves could barely feel anything thanks to the cold, but the rest of me felt too much. I wanted to kiss Morgan now, under the bright blue sky.
I wanted to do much more than kiss her.
I sank into the water next to her, almost kneeling. The briskness of the water was as shocking as an orgasm. I gasped just as loud.
“I like that sound,” Morgan said. She reached for my hand under the water and found it. We linked our fingers. She leaned in closer. “I’d like to hear more where that came from.”
“You’re an incorrigible flirt today, aren’t you?” I said breathlessly.
“For you? Always.” She slipped her hand from mine, ran her fingers along my waist and down my hip, stopping at the top of my thigh. The ocean lifted and rocked us, moving like a heartbeat through both our bodies. As it rose, we rose with it, standing tall. As it receded, we sank, our knees descending into the seabed. “Does it bother you?”
I was too cold to blush. “Only if you don’t mean anything by it.”
“I mean everything by it.” And then, her lips close to my ear, as if her words were too private to even share with the ocean, “We’ve been beating around the bush, haven’t we?”
My brain chose that inopportune moment to notify me of the double entendre of beat and bush. What was I, twelve?
Measured by sense of humor, yes. I started to laugh. Then tried to stop laughing.
Of course, that just resulted in me laughing harder.
She looked at me, bewildered.
I had to explain myself. I didn’t want her to think I was laughing at her. “It’s funny because beating around the bush is the opposite of what we’ve been doing. Technically speaking.”
Well, that was it. Now she’d know for sure how much of a catch I wasn’t. I considered ducking under the water and staying there until I reached the shore.
But then I heard her own laughter, louder than the seagulls cawing above us. “Well, yeah. If you mean us together. Though, to be honest, I beat around my own bush pretty often.”
I didn’t think it was possible to get any wetter, submerged in the ocean as I already was. But the image that came into my mind’s eye made me flood the lining of my swimsuit. “That’s . . . hot,” was all I could think to say.
She smiled. “You know what’s even hotter?”
I shook my head.
She leaned in and said in that same private voice from earlier, “Lately, the thing that gets me off the hardest is thinking about you.”
My clit stood at attention despite the freezing water. I forgot about how tired I was, about the people on the boardwalk who might see us, about the sand that had washed into the back of my suit and made my skin itch. Morgan and the ocean were all I saw and smelled and heard. I looked at the drops of water coalescing on her shoulder, sparkling in the late afternoon sun as if they were giving off their own light.
I kissed one of those drops. It was salty and warm, and Morgan shuddered. “Oh,” she said, in soft surprise.
I kissed her mouth next.
Her lips were warm and wind-chapped. She opened them like she was ready to devour me for dinner. She slipped her finger under the opening of my swimsuit.
Up until that moment, I’d forgotten myself along with my tiredness. Maybe that’s what had let me be brave enough to kiss her, even though I wasn’t on my bike.
But with her finger slipping over my clit, I came back to my body. I was in it, and still unafraid.
I wanted her to devour me.
I moaned something like yes into her mouth, or tried to. Our tongues were too tangled for words. She pulled back, just slightly, then pressed her lips to my cheek as she spoke, as if she couldn’t bear to separate completely. “I want to taste you.”
We ran the whole way. Desire made our bodies forget they’d just ridden eighty miles. We rinsed off together in the enclosed outdoor shower, kissing and clinging as we pulled off our suits and the water poured over us.
“I’m torn between making you come now and waiting until we’re inside,” she said as she lifted her mouth off my breast.
“Do both.” Was that me speaking? Yes. I had become someone else, and I liked it.
She crooked an eyebrow. “Yeah? Can you handle it?”
I spread my legs to give her access to my clit and reached for hers, but she swatted my hand away. “Not yet. Too sore. I’ll need something more gentle.”
I spoke my deepest desire. “My tongue?”
“Yeah.” She pressed her lips to mine, opening her mouth as she stroked two fingers up and down either side of my clit. The water made things tricky, washing most of my lubrication away, but there was still enough that she managed to slide one finger inside me, quickly followed by another. I grunted into her mouth and spread myself wider, propping one foot against the wooden shower wall as my cunt spasmed around her, my breaths shallow and desperate.
She brought her thumb to my clit, swiping it back and forth across the hardened nub. Heat built up in me. I felt like I was going to melt, or explode. I wanted to come, and I also fought against it. The sensation was almost too intense, terrifying and wonderful, like hurtling down a steep, winding road on my bicycle, the wind growing louder in my ears as I built up speed, each slight maneuver the only difference between crashing and soaring.
Our kissing grew messy. She ran her free hand over my wet breast, gave it a firm squeeze as she pressed harder against my clit, and slid a third finger inside me, moaning as if she were the one being touched.
It was the sound that did me in. I sucked her tongue into my mouth and came, wave after wave crashing over me.
“God, you’re hot,” she whispered against my neck as I tried to catch my breath. “Even better than I’d imagined.”
In our bedroom, Morgan said my cunt tasted like honey. I said that was flattering, but probably inaccurate from an objective point of view. Her laugh lit up her eyes.
To me, she tasted like the ocean had seeped into her crevices and was now pouring back out. I worked my tongue around her swollen clit until she begged. “Suck it, Lori, please.” She squeezed her thighs against my head in her excitement; I pushed them back open to get better access, bringing her hard nub between my lips and drawing my cheeks in. She cried out—her legs quaking, her clit throbbing against my tongue.
“You can—oh, um . . . I . . . mmm . . . I came, you can—”
I looked up and smiled at her. “Keep going?”
Her cheeks and chest were flushed pink, her chest heaving. “I was going to stay you can stop, but since you’re offering . . . ”
“If it doesn’t hurt, I want to keep going.”
Her look was perplexed. “Why would it hurt?”
“Your bike saddle?”
“Oh.” Her eyes went wide. “Funny, I forgot all about that.”
“Good. Let me help you forget some more.” I dove back in between her legs.
My pajamas never made it out of my travel bag. We fucked throughout the night and slept less than we should have. Still, when the alarm went off in the morning, I had no regrets.
“How’s your crotch?” I couldn’t resist asking as we rode off at daybreak. The sun hid behind some low clouds, giving the sky a grayish-pink cast and turning the ocean steel blue as we rode along the shore.
“
Never been better.”
“Never? You exaggerate.”
She pursed her mouth as if she were lost in thought. “No. Definitely not exaggerating. I don’t think my crotch has ever been so happy.” She glanced over at me. “I’m pretty happy too.”
We turned a curve in the road so that the ocean was now behind us. “So you’re ready for another eighty miles?” I said.
“Of course.” She smiled, and just at that moment the sun came out of hiding. Its light shimmered across her skin. She seemed to be glowing from the inside. “With you, I’m ready for anything.”
THE DIARY
Emily L. Byrne
Your diary is sitting out on the table when I get home, a puzzling, mysterious presence glowering at me when I get too close. Just the fact that you keep an actual book for the express purpose of writing down your thoughts and the day’s events baffles me. That’s why there are blogs, right? Just looking at it intimidates me a little.
Another thought occurs to me. Were you writing about me? What were you saying? I hover over the table, eyeing the book, one hand twitching in an effort not to reach toward the closed cover.
What will happen if I open it? I know you have your secrets, your hidden inner self that you reveal to no one. Well, almost no one. I have seen flickers of it, here and there, when I open myself completely to you, submitting to your will. Only then do I get to see anything like your true self.
I want to see more. And this could be my first real chance. For all your bravado, it can be like coaxing a the diary terrified animal out of hiding to get you to open up. Sometimes, like now, impatience gets the better of me. I want to understand you, to make you belong to me the way I belong to you.
But I have to admit to myself that maybe this isn’t the right way to do it.
Besides, if you come home and find me reading your diary, who knows how you’ll react? My clit throbs as I contemplate your more creative punishments. Or, much scarier, you could shut me out, close the door on that little bit of yourself that I’ve managed to draw out, maybe permanently. I don’t think I could bear that.
I put my hand in my pocket and turn away from the table, resolution steeling my shoulders.
You will be home from your meeting soon. I could put on something slinky and wait for you in the bedroom, surrounded by lit candles, maybe toss around a handful or two of those synthetic rose petals that I found at the mall. They smelled gross in the tin but not so bad on the bedroom rug.
Maybe I should open a bottle of sparkling juice and pull out some glasses to help set the mood. You told me once that I could keep wine in the apartment if I wanted to, but I don’t want to risk your sobriety for something so minor. Besides, I liked the taste of the sparkly stuff better now.
A part of me wants to like everything you like, wants to surrender the minute you touch me, to swoon and faint into your arms like a heroine out of a bad movie. But I know that’s not what either of us really wants. I’ve seen the glint in your eyes when I play hard to get. You like the thrill of the chase, followed by capture and possession. And I do love being captured and possessed.
Maybe I can pick up a few hints about what else you might like. My better self wars with my curiosity for a minute, then two. One of them wins.
An instant later, I’m back at the table with one eye on the clock and the front door. I hesitate, just for a moment, before I flip the book open. Your diary lies open in front of me and I tremble at my presumption. I have to stop myself from trying to pretend that it’s just a book, some fantasy or mystery that you left on the table mid-read. I shouldn’t distance myself from the level of intrusion that I’m about to commit.
I should . . . I should stop . . . I sink into the chair and grab the book. Then I let your words, written in your precise handwriting, wash over me.
I skip the first third looking for the date when we met. A lot of it looks like it’s about your past and things you haven’t been willing to tell me yet, and I’m determined to let you keep most of your secrets. I may be having an illicit look at your diary, but a gal’s got to have some standards. I keep checking for my name in your meticulously dated pages, flipping faster and faster until the movement hypnotizes me.
Which explains why I don’t hear the door open when you come home. I had wandered into what I was looking for, hoping for, and the reality took a minute to kick in. Even after I look up, I can still see your fantasy like a movie playing on the wall behind you. It is a film showing that ends abruptly when I see your expression. Or, rather, your lack of expression.
Oh shit.
My mouth opens like it’s on strings but the apologies and the excuses simply aren’t showing up the way I hope that they will. And my brain is full of your faded jeans and leather jacket and what might happen if I stripped you right out of them with the power of my desire alone. The ache between my legs hits me hard just then, as does the sudden terror that I’m never going to get to feel your touch again.
“Why?” Your voice is a growl, a snarl that makes me cringe, despite my best intentions to handle this like a grown-up.
“I . . . I . . . ” Excuses dance in my head. I picked it up by accident. I thought it was something else. It fell open. “I wanted to know what you wrote about us. Me.” It sounded so horribly juvenile when I said it that way. I hand over the book and stare at the floor waiting for my punishment, whatever it is, to fall.
You are quiet for a very long time. I shut my eyes, an involuntary gesture, made to shut you out, to shut out my sin. To delay the moment when you kick me out of your life.
“Did you like it . . . the parts that you read?”
My eyes jerk open, sending a sudden wave of heat down to my pussy. I squirm my butt against the chair, thighs suddenly slick and hot and wet with imagining you naked and vulnerable on our bed. Tied down and spread-eagled and wanting, the way you like to have me. Yes, I liked it. I liked it very much.
Even though it scared the crap out of me.
Words well up in an unintelligible noise that falls out of my mouth, so garbled I’m not even sure what they started out to be. I follow them with an emphatic nod and a wide-eyed, apprehensive stare.
I have plenty to be apprehensive about. It isn’t like I’ve earned your trust. Quite the opposite, in fact. That thought throws ice-cold water on my fantasies. You aren’t even looking at me now.
Instead, you’re staring at your diary and the expression on your face breaks my heart. “I’m so, so sorry! I love you so much and I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean to hurt you! It won’t happen—” You hold your hand up, and I grind to a halt.
You look straight into my eyes, your blue gaze piercing through me, seeing and weighing everything I’ve done, everything I might do. I bite back a whimper. When you do move, it’s like you’ve read my mind. You take off your leather jacket and drop it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Then, you pull off your white T-shirt, exposing your sturdy body, thick muscles overlaid with a layer of soft skin. You pull off your bra, exposing your breasts, and I gasp.
Then you put your damned diary on the table between us. I stare at it and wonder what to do next.
You turn away from me, walking toward the bedroom without a word or a glance back at me. Should I follow you? Should I stay here? Your diary stares back at me from the tabletop like an accusing eye and I stare back, lust and longing and guilt swirling around in my head until there is no room for anything else.
“Hey. In here. Bring the book.” You don’t say anything more than that, but it’s enough. I get up and follow the sound of your voice into the bedroom, letting it pull me along like a leash.
The seven steps to the bedroom give me valuable seconds to compose what I am going to say when I see you. Whatever that may be. To— I turn the corner into the bedroom to find your clothes on the floor and you lying naked on the bed.
You are lying on your stomach and from what I can see in the dim light, every muscle in your body is tense. Your eyes are closed and your paddle
lies on the bed next to you.
I stop and stare while I sort my thoughts. Am I supposed to use the paddle on you? Somehow, it doesn’t look like you will be having much fun if I do. Even the sight of your naked butt and your spread legs only gets me slightly hot. Okay, maybe a little more than that.
But I want you to want me the same way I want you. I want you to want to surrender to me, if that’s what you want. And from this angle, it looks like you are having doubts.
“Baby . . . ” I rest a reluctant hand on your calf. You quiver. “You don’t have to do this, whatever this is. If anything, I should be lying here waiting to be paddled because of what I did. This feels . . . weird.” I run what I hope is a soothing palm up over your back and you shudder.
Instead of replying, you stretch your arms out, gesturing toward the ropes tied to each bedpost. I lean over, stroke your hair. “Why?”
You open one eye. “Do you trust me when it’s you lying here?” I nod. “Then show me that I can trust you, too.” You growl our safeword like a talisman and close your eyes, exhaling in a long shuddering breath.
I chew my lip, but reach for the cuffs, fastening each to one of your limbs. I check to make sure that their grip on you is firm, not painful or distracting, before rocking back on my heels. In the scene in your diary, you’re on the bed just like this and I’m . . . my eye falls on the closet. I’m wearing something more interesting than a cotton skirt and an oversized shirt.
I get off the bed, go to the closet, and select my outfit with care. Then, I walk back to you and run my fingertips lightly from your heels to your shoulder. “I’ll be back, babe. Let your imagination run wild for a little while.” Then I trail my hand over your ass and send my fingers down your slit, reaching inside to pinch your clit lightly. You reward me with a gratifying gasp and I grin before taking my outfit and going into the other room to change.
A few moments later I’m transformed from zaftig hippy goddess to slutty leather queen. It’s amazing how much difference showing more skin and accenting the rest with black leather and red lace can make. I even slip on the high heels that I can only wear for an hour or two before I have to sit and take them off. Tonight, I will be mistress of them as well as you. After a moment’s hesitation, I add makeup, making my eyes cloudy and mysterious, my lips a crimson slash across my broad, pale face.