I Kissed a Girl

A Virgin Lesbian Anthology

A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

Edited by Regina Perry

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A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

www.ravenousromance.com

Copyright © 2009 by Ravenous Romance

Ravenous Romance™

100 Cummings Center

Suite 123A

Beverly, MA 01915

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-297-3

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Freckles by C. Margery Kempe

Two’s Company by Louisa Bacio

Champagne by Inara LaVey

Get Thee to the Nunnery by Samantha Jones

Lady’s Maid by K. Ann Karlsson

The Tiger’s Tale by Kilt Kilpatrick

Passions, Like Storms by Nola Erus

When I Taste Like a Waste I Breathe by Farrah J. Phoenix

My New Roommate by Jen Bluekissed

The End of the World by L.A. Mistral

Show Me Yours by Lucy Felthouse

Defining Lines by Regina Perry

Introduction

Katy Perry’s hit song I Kissed a Girl brought bisexuality to the forefront. I admit I was amazed when I heard my neighbor’s five-year-old daughter singing the entire song, never missing a word or beat. Alternative lifestyles are open for discussion—no longer taboo.

Since Dr. Alfred Kinsey released his first reports on human sexual behavior in 1948, society has been in the process of accepting that almost all healthy men and women have some homosexual tendencies. Instead of hiding these inclinations in shame, it’s time to celebrate our desires and be comfortable in our own skin. No labels, no judgment—only enlightenment and tolerance.

I’m not suggesting that all humans are bisexual. As I have discovered, being aroused by an erotic story doesn’t label anyone. I can get excited reading BDSM, but don’t try spanking me in bed. Because I am passionate about same-sex erotica does not make me bisexual, but it has enhanced my ability to love and accept.

This anthology is a collection of lesbian first-time encounters. I am delighted with the diversity of this collection. I hope you enjoy and share my passion for exploring new boundaries. Regina Perry

July 2009

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Freckles

by C. Margery Kempe

"You want me to do what?" Lea asked with surprise while Keegan grinned at her like a monkey. "With whom?"

"Oh come on, Lea. Isn’t it about time we tried something to jumpstart our sex life?" His words were lazily drawled, but she could tell by the quick twitch of his knee as his foot worked up and down that he was tense with fear she would nix the plan.

Oddly enough, she had also been thinking their sex life had become fairly moribund, but the solution that had presented itself to her was finding a new lover. Keegan just wasn't that interesting when you got right down to it. Despite her initial irritation at his suggestion—after all, wasn't he hinting she wasn't enough for him?—she was intrigued.

"Well, who did you have in mind for this ménage a trois? I don't want some random weirdo picked up at a bar."

Keegan smiled, and at once Lea knew that he had been planning this for some time. "What about Bridey?"

Lea frowned, trying to connect the name to a face. "Is that the brown-haired mousy gal in shipping?"

Keegan laughed. "No, the redhead, the one you said looked like an ad for vacations in Ireland." He looked out the window toward the street as if to effect nonchalance, but Lea wasn't fooled.

"You already asked her, didn't you?" She wasn't sure if she was angry, but it had been convenient of late to act as if she were at times like this. This is how a relationship goes wrong. She felt a twinge of sorrow.

Keegan shrugged. "I may have mentioned it in passing."

Now he was playing with his dinner and Lea wanted to shout at him to stop, but she held in the urge and tried to concentrate on the question before her. Did she want to do this? Did she want to get into bed with Keegan and another woman? How convenient that he assumed that it wouldn’t be a man. Two guys, now that wouldn't have required much debate at all. Bridey? Hmm—she remembered her all right: deep red hair, not quite auburn, milky white skin and a broad galaxy of freckles. Pretty enough for a girl, she supposed, though Lea had never given her much thought.

What would it be like? Lea had certainly showered with other women at the gym and dressed in close quarters on campus, but she had never touched another woman's body intimately. What would another woman's breast feel like? Would it be familiar or strange to run her hands along curves like her own? And touching another girl's clit! How would that be? Lea felt an odd prickle of sexual energy as she thought about it. Fortune favors the bold—wasn't that what they said?

Keegan played with his food, clearly trying to look at her out of the corner of his eye without being seen. Lea thought about the two years they had been together. It had been fun for a time, but it was never much more than that. Maybe this would be a breakthrough to a new level in their relationship, allowing them to share more intimacy. Either that or it could give her an out, right? Oh, I can't believe you talked me into this! I'm breaking up with you. Who could say which way it would go? At least it would be a change.

"All right, let's do it," Lea said at last. Keegan grinned and jumped up from his chair to give her a bear hug, knocking over her water glass.

I hope I'm doing the right thing. Lea strained to throw her napkin into the spreading puddle of water.

* * * *

That Friday night, they were all a bit nervous as they sat down to a light supper of salmon and steamed vegetables that Lea had prepared with a little soy ginger sauce. Nothing heavy; that was the theme. Bridey had arrived with a shy smile and a nice bottle of Shiraz. They were sipping it while they made awkward conversation around the table. Lea noticed that Keegan was drinking way slower than usual. She guessed he didn’t want to miss a thing. But at the rate things were going, it was going to take about a week for anything to happen.

"So, Bridey, I hear your family's originally from Cork," Lea said in a moment of inspiration. "Have you been there?"

Bridey's face lit up. "Every summer since I was twelve! My great uncle's farm is still operating, and we've got about three hundred head of sheep, mostly Galways, though we've got a few Cheviots as well. My cousins there all work in the wool trade. This sweater is one of ours," she added proudly, fingering the soft grey of the wool.

"It's really beautiful," Lea said with genuine warmth, watching the animated expression on Bridey's face. She really was a lovely girl. "Do you knit…or, I guess it’s weave?”

Bridey laughed. It was almost musical. She squinched her green eyes up tight and her red mouth opened wide showing small even teeth. God, I have such a horse face. It was hard not to compare herself to this other woman, but Bridey was oblivious to Lea's doubts. "I'm absolutely hopeless! They tried to teach me carding and shearing. I just couldn't do anything right. They've all been doing it since they were babies, so they think it's dead easy, but I was all thumbs. There was no way they'd let me near the looms."

Lea laughed along with her. It was easy to do. "We had required home ec in seventh grade. We had to make a simple dress from a pattern. I was the only one who failed. It looked like some kind of torture instrument," Lea admitted and the two laughed again.

Things went more smoothly after that. Lea realized she had been intimidated by Bridey's petite good looks. She felt large and oafish beside her, but as the wine hit her brain, her confidence returned. All kinds of ways to be beautiful. She admired Bridey's tumble of red curls and wondered what it would feel like to twine her fingers in that hair. The little rosebud of a mouth looked invitingly wet with a tinge of red wine painting it. Lea poured another glass. Wine was good. She had a feeling that tonight was going to be more than she had expected. And why the hell not? Best to be open to the possibilities, eh?

"So, how do you think we should proceed?" she asked, looking from Keegan to Bridey, then back again. Both flushed with embarrassment but seemed relieved she had cleared the air. Lea tipped her glass up and let the last of the red nectar flow down her throat. Her whole body felt warm, and it was not just the wine.

"I want to see you two kiss," Keegan said at last, his voice a little rough, so he coughed to clear his throat. "And you know, whatever."

"I've been looking forward to kissing you, Lea," Bridey said, her voice barely audible, but sweetened with an extra blush. Lea felt a grin stretch across her face in return. She seemed to be filled with a glorious feeling of magnanimity for the world, although she had to admit, most of it was focused on Bridey at present.

She got up and took Bridey's hand and led her to the bedroom. Keegan followed, close on their heels. He sat down on the bench in front of the vanity. Lea kissed him softly on the lips before leading Bridey to the bed, freshly made in honor of the night with their very best set of Egyptian cotton sheets in a crisp, rich crimson. After folding back the duvet, she sat on the side, kicking off her shoes while Bridey did the same.

Not quite looking her in the face, she curled her arm around Bridey's neck and pulled it gently until she brought their lips together. The first touch was electric, and Lea parted her lips to thrust her tongue tentatively against the soft protuberance of Bridey's velvet lips. Her mouth was open at once, inviting the exploring tongue. Lea realized their eyes were closed, but it seemed like a teen's first kiss, sloppy and ardent, so the shut eyes was like part of the dare.

Now that they were face to face, Lea let her eyes linger over the freckles sprinkled across Bridey's nose and cheek. She ran her finger over the soft skin beneath the freckles while Bridey's bright green eyes opened to regard her curiously. Lea allowed her fingers to follow the trail of spots down her long neck to the white expanse exposed by her shirt. The valley of her breasts featured another galaxy of freckles. I've never touched another girl's breasts, Lea thought and with the thought, knew she had to know what it felt like, whether it felt different from touching her own.

She leaned in to take Bridey's lower lip between her own lips, moving her fingers to the front of the grey sweater, loosening the buttons from their companion homes until Bridey’s blush pink brassiere appeared. Lea pulled back the wool far enough to slip her hand into the space between the soft sweater and the pink cups. Bridey gasped as Lea's hand circled the small tight mound of flesh. She heard an echoing moan from Keegan. Bridey's nipple popped up at once and Lea flicked it with her thumb. So tiny! She was accustomed to her own generous orbs, so Bridey's breasts seemed like little more than a beginning, tentative and uncertain.

Nonetheless, her ragged breath and the way she arched her back indicated pleasure, and Lea took this as license to roam further. She slipped the sweater the rest of the way off Bridey’s shoulders, then with both hands she reached behind the girl's back and unhooked the bra, moving her hands back to the breasts and their eager nipples. Lea leaned in to allow her hands to circle the little mounds, unaware that her lips were open as her own breath became shallow. Why does it excite me to handle another woman's breasts? Is it just curiosity?

Even then, she knew she was going to have to feel those nipples in her mouth. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Keegan, heavy lidded, content to hold his erection in his hand as he watched the two of them on the bed. Lea bent down and closed her lips around Bridey's breast. They both groaned. She flicked her tongue against the taut bud of the nipple and felt a resulting surge between her own legs. It was everything: the novelty of tonguing another woman's tit, the taboo feeling of it, the exhibitionistic joy of knowing how hard it made Keegan, of seeing his open-mouthed lust. She had never thought of herself as someone drawn to performing, but Lea was keenly aware of both their eyes upon her as she sucked away at Bridey's breast, moving to the other without hesitation.

When she felt a need for change, Lea moved back up to Bridey's lips, then pulled her own shirt off over her head and mashed their breasts together. Hers—larger, softer—pressed against Bridey's with glee as her tongue probed deeply into the gal's mouth. Lea fucked her mouth with growing excitement and finally pulled her down beside her on the bed. Kisses were not going to be enough, although the touching and kissing had made her feel drunk with desire.

Lea reached for the band of Bridey's jeans and popped the snap at the top, teasing the zipper down. At a distance, she heard Keegan groan as if he, too, wanted to join the fun, but for the moment, he constrained himself to continue watching and pulling at his cock. Impatient, Lea wiggled her palm into the polka-dot panties visible beneath the jeans. So warm! The heat was astounding. She wiggled a finger down between her lips and felt the slick wetness as a prize.

Bridey gasped, and Lea grinned. Bridey’s eyes were as heavy-lidded as Keegan's now, her face consumed with lust. Lea stretched the jeans and panties out and brought her index finger back to the swollen bud of Bridey’s clit. She began to swirl her finger around it, making lazy circles as Bridey arched back, eyes closed. Without much warning, Bridey was crying out, her clit pulsating with pleasure as she bucked beneath Lea's hand. Lea felt herself melt with wild desire.

She turned to shuck off her own jeans, before turning back to slide down Bridey's. No words of protest from the woman, but her own eager hands helping. Lea stared in wonder at the bright little bonfire, the patch of red hair at her delta of Venus, her little soft mound. Lea hesitated, but then bent her head forward to taste the soft wet lips between Bridey's thighs. It was tart and salty, but Lea let her tongue slowly run between the pink lips and playfully tease the still-turgid clit at the head of the passage.

The sight of Lea's head buried between Bridey's thighs was apparently too much for Keegan. He rose and crossed to the bed, kneeling behind Lea and resting his swollen dick on her ass for a moment as she continued to bob her head back and forth. It was a relief to feel his thick cock slide between her wet lips as she began to suck Bridey's bud. At least Keegan remembered to aim for her G-spot, distracted as he was by her ass being in the air at that particular angle, quickly gaining momentum as he slammed into her, clutching her thighs tightly with his fingers. Lea reached back with one hand to help along the orgasm that was beginning to bloom within her, stroking her own clit as she pulled at Bridey's with her lips. At the very end, her cries were muffled in Bridey's belly as she yelped aloud while Keegan continued to pump into her.

Without warning he stiffened against her, letting loose a groan of satisfaction that seemed to well up from his toes. Then he collapsed on her back, mashing Lea against Bridey, who looked less than pleased. "Keegan, up. You're squashing us!"

Keegan mumbled something indistinct and rolled onto his back. "That was the most amazing fuck I have ever had!" he enthused, rubbing his hand across Lea's back roughly. She tried not to let it set her teeth on edge, but she found it really annoying. Before Lea could do much more than wiggle into a more comfortable position between them, Keegan had begun to snore softly.

Bridey stared. "Is he always like that?" she asked, her fiery eyebrows raised in surprise.

Lea nodded. "Usually. But he doesn't always stay asleep for long. I can often wake him up later for a second round." But she found it a bit embarrassing to see Bridey's look of derision. "He's not that bad," she added lamely.

"It hardly seems like you were satisfied," Bridey consoled, moving her palm against Lea's cheek gently.

"I don't suppose there's anything you could do about that," Lea said with a grin before Bridey covered her mouth with another enthusiastic kiss. This time it was Bridey who moved down to take Lea's breast in her mouth, hungrily sucking it in and giving a gentle nip to the rapidly hardening nipple. Lea closed her eyes and let the wonderful sensations wash over her. Bridey kept one hand on her other breast, cupping the soft abundance as her tongue and mouth worked away at the other until Lea was ready to dissolve in a cloud of bliss.

"Got any toys?" Bridey asked when she came up for air. Lea nodded at the drawer in the nightstand behind them, and Bridey rose up to investigate. She lifted up the beautiful glass dildo Lea’s sister had mailed from Hong Kong and looked inquiringly at Lea, who grinned and flushed a little. Bridey grabbed the bottle of Astroglide and squeezed a generous portion onto the glass before pressing Lea back and drizzling more at her crotch.

Bridey slid her hand up and down the glass cock slowly as Lea watched, feeling the thrill fill her thighs. She supposed it was largely the sense of anticipation. When Bridey's hand moved to her wet folds, Lea could not hold back a serious groan of longing that wasn't quite drowned out by Keegan's persistent snore. As the lube heated up and Bridey's quick fingers increased their ministrations, Lea thought she was ready to come again, but Bridey withdrew her hand to guide the dildo slowly into Lea’s aching cunt. She could feel the walls pulsate excitedly as Bridey thrust the tool slowly in, stopping and backtracking just a little until Lea thought she would die of anticipation.

When Bridey moved her other hand back to massage Lea’s clit, she started to come, bucking her hips up involuntarily, crying out. Bridey continued thrusting the sleek glass in, poking at her G-spot while her fingers teased her clit. Lea kept coming over and over until she was breathless and gasping. When Bridey finally stilled her hand, Lea could feel her muscles still clutching away as the spasms slowed. Bridey left her hand on Lea's clit as she eased back down beside her, reaching for another long slow kiss.

"God, you are fantastic," Lea said finally, looking into Bridey's green eyes. The freckles across her nose and cheeks were surrounded by a pink flush of arousal, as she grinned at Lea. "I have never felt so good." She ran her hand over Bridey's shoulder and the pale, nearly translucent skin with its galaxy of spots. Impulsively, Lea pulled her close in a warm hug, laughing with delight. "What can I do for you?"

Bridey laughed, too. "I think I'd really like to feel your lips on the little man in the boat again."

"Would you like me to use my toy, too?"

Bridey shook her head and then lay back, looking at Lea expectantly. Lea decided to kiss her way down, nuzzling the soft valley between her small breasts and using her fingers to trace the soft roundness of Bridey's belly. Lea pressed her teeth onto the bump of Bridey’s hip bone and reached for the lube to squeeze a little onto her red lips before working her fingertips around the area, spreading the rapidly warming fluid across Bridey’s sensitive skin.

The look on Bridey's face was relaxed, yet the quick rise of her chest gave sure sign of her arousal. Lea walked her fingers down Bridey's thigh and pressed her legs open. She slid down the bed and moved her hands under Bridey's creamy cheeks, the soft round weight of them feeling good in her hands. Lea leaned forward to work her tongue up Bridey's lips to the swollen bud, feeling her ass tense as the tip of her tongue touched her nubbin. She let her tongue make lazy circles around the clit until Bridey was moving with her, then greedily kissed it, sucking away while she massaged Bridey's soft globes with her hands. The movements grew more frenzied and before long, Lea was tightening her lips around the bud as it pulsated and Bridey called out, “Lea!”

Lea slicked her fingertips in Bridey's wet juices, bringing them to her lips to taste, then inching up to lie once more beside her new friend. "Was that all right?" she asked, suddenly shy, afraid that she had not been proficient.

"That was wonderful," Bridey assured her, and they kissed again, more softly now, tongues meeting gently, hands on one another's cheeks.

"I'm glad Keegan talked you into this," Lea said at last, closing her eyes and resting her head against Bridey's neck.

Bridey laughed. "Talked me into it? That's a hoot."

Lea yawned. "What do you mean?"

Bridey twined her fingers into Lea's hair. "I suggested it to him weeks ago. Ever since I saw you at the party at the Anchor, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind."

Lea laughed. "I'm flattered."

"Are you interested?"

Lea raised her head and looked into Bridey's face. Suddenly she looked so much younger and unsure. She kissed her again. "Very."

Bridey kissed her back with enthusiasm. "I'm so very glad to hear that, I was afraid—well, you know."

Lea smiled and brushed a lock of the curly hair off Bridey's forehead. "It is kind of shocking," Lea said, making her face look serious. "I never fell in love with a redhead before."

"Ee-jit," Bridey said, then paused. "Love?"

"Are you interested?"

"Very."

"Good." Lea snuggled back down into the crook of Bridey's neck. "I'll give Keegan the news tomorrow."

"Do you think he'll be surprised?"

Lea chuckled. "I am, so I suppose he will be. But I don't care." She traced the freckles along Bridey's neck, then closed her eyes once more. Love was worth a little inconvenience, surely.

Who knew I'd fall for someone like this? Sleep overtook her while Bridey continued to stroke her cheek. Life was good.

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Two’s Company

by Louisa Bacio

Who says you need a cock to fuck? I think, rubbing my hands over Joanna’s ass, feeling the voluptuous curves hidden beneath her tight jeans. Her breasts strain forward, nipples growing even harder. It’s been coming to this for a long time: our first kiss.

* * * *

We had been friends for quite a while—just friends. An undercurrent of sexual tension always lay beneath the surface. Way back in college while watching Friends on Thursday nights, Jo and I would cuddle on the couch. I would stroke Jo’s long dark locks, inhale the lavender scent, and we’d talk about which Friend we’d most like to get friendly with. I loved the sweet naiveté of Joey, while Chandler’s humor drew her. I imagined telling her it was Rachel, but I didn’t quite have the nerve.

Jo always teased me that as long as she had known me, I’d always had a boyfriend—never a dry spell. Jo, on the other hand, dated sporadically, but always boned men. Still, I picked up on something—a connection. We left the tie between us unsaid, but a feeling still lingered that if given a chance, Jo would get with me. What Jo didn’t know was that even though I always had a guy in my bed, sometimes I shared him with another girl.

I first got into women when I was in college. You know, during those experimental years. At least, that’s the excuse most hetero women who experiment give themselves. I am the girl boys fantasize about—one who subscribes to nudie magazines just for the pictures. Actually, I picked up my first skin magazine to read twenty questions with my favorite author, Anne Rice, who’s also known for her dirty stories written under A.N. Roquelaure and Anne Rampling. When all the college studs I knew refused to buy a copy of the mag for me, I trekked to the store myself. And after the curious looks from the male checkers who dared to dream about the hot brunette checking out naked pics of women, I decided to send out for a subscription. The writing was interesting, the advice columns entertaining, and the chicks downright delicious: big-breasted girls-next-door gave me something to fantasize about. Once, I even glimpsed a girl from my high school. The photo spread showed her in and out of her cheerleading uniform. Boy, had that homecoming queen grown up.

My college roommate, Mary Jane, inspired my initiation into bisexuality. My first adventure came in the form of a threesome. Mary Jane and I shared the same taste in men. It wasn’t an outward appearance, because they all looked different. It seemed to be more of a persona or an intellect. To think back on it, I think we dated five of the same guys but only fucked a few of those at the same time. The first threesome was with Noah, a pretty frat boy with perfectly chiseled pecs who at first didn’t quite know what to do with two willing chicks. In class, we used to tease him that someday we would double-team him; what he didn’t know was that we actually meant it.

We played out our promise one Friday night. After a few drinks at home, we dropped in on Noah at his apartment. The tequila hadn’t gotten us drunk; it was just enough to let our guards down. Noah’s housemate answered the door and, with raised eyebrows, called him downstairs. Noah was dressed in a university sweatshirt and a pair of blue shorts, sans underwear. His sandy brown hair lay damp from his evening shower.

“Can Noah come out and play?” asked Mary Jane as she laughingly clasped my hand and looked back at me. “Or is it too late?”

When two girls dressed in flimsy T-shirts and short-shorts show up close to midnight, there’s not much to say. Noah’s already wide smile got wider as he led us upstairs to his bedroom. His housemate looked like he had missed the jackpot at Vegas. Noah closed the door to his bedroom, and we slowly stripped out of our clothes. My Blondie T-shirt hit the floor, and I squeezed out of my khaki shorts. Mary Jane lost her clothing, first her Gap skinny T, then her denim shorts, and we both turned toward Noah. The three of us fit comfortably in his full-sized bed. A soft, navy plaid comforter rested beneath our bodies. Like a Benetton ad, Mary Jane and I complemented each other. For her slight build, I’m busty. Her pale complexion contrasted starkly to my darker, olive complexion. Noah was not the only one who noticed the difference in our physiology. While I was getting busy with Noah, I could see Mary Jane was just as interested in my well-stocked goods.

As Noah drank in the sweet-mustiness of my mouth, I felt a smooth tongue flicker over my nipples. I opened my eyes and caught the blond fall of Mary Jane’s hair as she leaned over my chest. She glanced at me—almost as if she was asking my permission—and then her warm, soft mouth surrounded my areola. I closed my eyes and sunk into the pleasure of two mouths pleasing my body. A hand traveled down my stomach, then slender fingers lightly touched my increasing wetness. I felt a mouth settle over my nether lips. I once again opened my eyes. Mary Jane’s head bobbed up and down as she focused full attention toward my pussy, and the white mounds of her ass rose in the air.

Noah stopped kissing me and checked out the action between my legs. The vision must have been too much for him, because he soon planted himself behind Mary Jane and started going at her doggie-style. Each thrust of his hips pushed her tongue deeper into me until the three of us soared into oblivion.

END EXCERPT

* * * *

After our extracurricular activities with Noah, Mary Jane made it a point to invite herself into my bedroom at home when I had a male visitor. Yet we were never intimate alone.

Come senior year, Mary Jane particularly liked a new guy I was dating, Chris. We had only been seeing each other for a little while. He was a friend of a friend and pitched baseball for our college team. In those days, and I suppose today, too, being in sports upped the cool ante. That he threw crazy fastballs racked up even more points. He was tall and lanky with jet-black hair and a tortured soul. On the outside, he might have been a jock, but inside he was a poet. Chris would show up at my place late at night, too drunk, with his car parked more-than-slightly askew. He wasn’t a pretty sight and shouldn’t have been driving, but I always willingly admitted him and his hefty cock in. One night, Chris showed up with another player from the team, Nathan. While Chris and I macked on each other and moved upstairs, Mary Jane grabbed Nathan and, last I saw, got busy with him downstairs.

Chris knelt above me, slogging his cock into my mouth. My hands wrapped around his ass, bringing him in even further. I felt his cock grow harder and longer with each stroke, but before I could finish him off, he pulled out and turned the proverbial tables. Let me tell you, there is something to be said for nimble fingers. If those digits can make a ball hum, they can make a pussy hit a home run. Chris gave the best finger-bangs this side of Memphis. I was in my second solo when I heard my bedroom door open, and Mary Jane and Nathan slipped in.

If Chris wasn’t about to complain, I certainly wasn’t. When four people fill a bed, it’s a matter of limbs and licking. I took Chris out of my mouth, lay on my back, and pulled him inside me so he could fuck me silly, and then Mary Jane started to fondle my breasts while Nathan kissed me wildly. Yes, for the time being, it was all about me, but soon after, we changed positions.

The evening left me sore and sated—almost, because even then there was still one thing I had yet to do: kiss a woman. Somehow, even though we touched each other, were breast to breast and mouth to snatch, Mary Jane and I never kissed. I had shared my bed more than once with a girlfriend but still hadn’t fully given myself over to a woman. That abandonment was the final frontier.

* * * *

Tonight starts out pretty slow. I shrug off my work outfit—blouse, bra, skirt, hose, panties, flats—and slip into sweat shorts and a tight white tank. Around the house, I love the freedom of going braless with no panties. Who cares? June gloom had finally lifted from the California shoreline and a Baja hurricane had pushed north, leaving the air muggy warm, as though we were in New Orleans.

Turning on the television, I catch a re-run of The One With Frank, Jr.—when the Friends get to pick the five “freebie” celebrities they could sleep with. Slowly, I nurse some homebrewed sun tea, letting the coolness of the ice melt on my tongue. The doorbell rings, and the door opens. And in walks Joanna. She always does that, not waiting for me to open the door. With the falling evening sunlight streaming in behind her, I see the outline of her curves in her olive green Michael Stars T-shirt.

“Hey, Trisha, good to see ya, girl. What’s on tonight?” She sits down next to me on the couch, her thigh touching my leg, and reaches across me to take a sip from the tumbler on the side table. Her breasts brush across my arm. She turns to me with tea glistening on her lips, and I think it is now or never.

I imagine my lips on hers—the first brush, the pressure of my hands in her hair pulling her to me. They say reality may never measure up to imagination, but I’m ready to risk it.

She smiles, as if she knows what I’m thinking. I reach around her neck and pull her face to mine. Our lips meet, and I run my tongue across her lower lip, tasting the vanilla lip gloss. Her lips feel soft and delicate.

I thrust my tongue into Joanna’s mouth and tighten my grip on her long dark locks. Our tongues intertwine, circling. Joanna’s darts in and out of her mouth, almost as if playing hide and seek. Ah, she’s got a quick little licker. Her free hand reaches into my shorts, pulling out the waist, past my partly shaven pussy, her fingers cold. She drags her closely clipped nails as she slowly strokes downward and raises goose bumps on me. I know she can already feel the come dripping down my thighs. Oh, yeah, I’ll give you something to slather over that pretty little mouth.

One finger in, and I squirm. Two fingers and the moans begin to seep out. She presses me against the arm of the couch. I want to touch her. She kneels over me now and props open my left leg with her right knee, straddling my right leg, her arm deep into my shorts and her fingers deep into my cunt. I return the favor, unlacing my fingers from her hair, pulling down her jeans, making her shift her hips to wiggle them down and off. I had always admired her hips; her tan line is smooth and straight. She drips onto my fingers, as I stroke her labia, swollen now and more than moist. With both hands I pull her lips apart. The little bit of wet resistance sticking them together releases, and she practically gushes. I work my right middle finger up inside her and hear a whimper escape from Jo’s pretty mouth bound with my own. By the time I’m in three-fingers deep, Jo can barely control herself.

“How do you like that, Jo?”

She responds by firmly twirling my clit between thumb and forefinger, and I arch my back as I come. Her fingers are relentless. She keeps at it, now releasing it and thrumming around my clit, teasing it fuller, lightly pinching and then stroking into the wetness of my slit, bringing it back up to moisten my clit, off center circles around and up, around and up, and I crest again. No more. I grab her wrists and pull her away.

I sink back into the couch and draw her to me. Her body feels so slight in my arms—her weight light against me. Both of us are considered petite. I think of that term “lipstick lesbians” and gaze at the curve of her lips once again. She smiles in return.

I’d always been afraid to go there because of the labels. If I’m with a woman alone, suddenly that changes me, and I’ve got a new label—“lesbian.” Truth, it’s not about the selection of male versus female: It’s about the person. Joanna’s one of the most beautiful people I know—inside and out. The fact that she wants to be with me, well, it’s hard to imagine. Then again, I’ve been told that I’m a pretty good catch, too.

“What are you thinking about, Trish?” she asks, taking in my sudden seriousness.

If she only knew the entire truth… “Kissing you,” I say, “and how long I’ve wanted to do it.”

Her lips come down on mine—gentle, soft, caressing, and I sigh into her mouth. For some reason, this act of kissing her had worried me, yet it’s so natural. She tastes slightly musty now, with a hint of sweetness lingering underneath. Our kisses grow more insistent, and I once again twine my hands through her hair, and rub my knee between her legs. She grinds her pelvis against my knee.

Moving to the side, I stroke her inner thighs with feather-light touches, feeling her skin prickle beneath my fingertips. Time to reverse positions. I push her back onto the couch to pleasure her. She opens her legs wider for me, granting me full access, and I gaze at her sweet pussy.

I lean forward and breathe in her scent. Her knees rest on either side of my body, and her fingers tease my already-erect nipples. I lightly take her swollen clit within my teeth and roll it—it’s what I like, and think maybe she might too—apparently she does, as she moans and grabs my head. I swirl my tongue slowly around her clit, lapping up the sweetness that flows from her and push a finger back into her pussy. A little at first, twirling as I lick her, then a bit deeper and around, and with my free hand slightly lift her butt and keep her there. I pull out my finger and she grinds her hips toward me. So I push two fingers in, deeper, and circle into her again, all the while flicking her clit with my tongue and alternately licking up and down her nether lips.

Jo moves her hips with my mouth, bucking into my face with each rolling motion, her fingers tugging at my hair, timing and pushing against my fingers and mouth. Yeah, who needs a cock to fuck? And, emboldened, I say it aloud, “Who needs a cock to fuck?”

Laughing and panting, Jo says, “Don’t take your mouth off me.” She pushes me back between her legs. And as I pull apart her lips again with my fingers and insert my tongue up inside her, she whispers, “Not you. Not me. Not now—maybe later.” I smile without relenting and suck on her clit again until I feel her tremble uncontrollably beneath each caress, her legs coming together to stave off any more unendurable pleasure.

A first kiss and more: tonight, for us, is just the beginning. Later, there’s always that dildo in my bedroom…

PAGEBREAK

Champagne

by Inara LaVey

My eyes closed as a finger gently stroked my clitoris under the silk of my g-string. I squirmed with pleasure as the finger was replaced by the soft caress of my unseen lover's tongue—long, slow strokes up and down; warm and moist as he tasted my juices and then began to probe deeper inside me. I moaned softly as it slid in and out of me, impossibly agile, pressing against my G-spot, then flicking teasingly back across the clit. My climax slowly built as my hips lifted involuntarily to increase the pressure until —

"Jeannette?"

Darryl's voice cut though my erotic fantasy like scissors through thread. Snip. All gone, just like my interrupted orgasm.

"Jeannette, are you listening?"

"Mmm. Sorry." I surreptitiously slid my hand out from between my legs. "I was napping."

"Well, we're almost there, so I think you'd better freshen up your makeup, so you make a decent impression." He gave me a critical glance. "Your mascara is smeared."

Not bothering with a response—Darryl wouldn't listen anyway—I retrieved my purse from the floor of the car and pulled out a compact to make the necessary repairs on my makeup.

Darryl resumed his one-sided conversation. "Now, Roux-Dubois is one of the few houses still exclusively owned by a family,” said Darryl as we drove through yet another small village in a cluster of them connected by acres of vines. “They’re part of a long history of wine-making royalty. We’re amazingly lucky to have been invited to stay with them.”

Darryl was a self-styled oenophile, enamored with wine and all the minutiae that were part of its history and manufacture. He was also boring as hell, turning our trip to France into an excruciatingly dull series of lectures. Trapped next to him in our rented Mercedes SL2 as we drove through miles of beautiful vineyard-filled countryside, there was no escaping the endless stream of wine factoids that flowed out of him. I was sick to death of hearing about terroir, microclimates, hills versus flat, the right soil for the right grape, the virtues of cork versus “the controversial yet increasingly popular screw top” (yes, he actually said that). I was expected to listen to everything he said with no feedback of my own that didn’t consist of wide-eyed, “Really?” “That’s so interesting!” “Tell me more about malolactic fermentation, please!” I faked interest, the same way I faked orgasms. He didn’t notice the difference, just as he hadn't noticed me quietly masturbating in the passenger seat next to him.

We’d started our tour in Bordeaux, visiting winery after winery of Grand Cru, Premier Cru and so-so Cru growths. I watched Darryl swirl, sniff, sip, swish, chew, swallow, and sometimes spit his way through countless glasses of Bordeaux, and all I could think was that someone who spent so much time and care on all the oral and olfactory acrobatics involved in wine tasting should really be more adept at oral sex. But even in the early days of our courtship, the sight of my naked body never brought the same gleam of lust to his eyes as a glass of Chateau Margaux. The culmination of the trip was the region of Champagne-Ardennes, northeast of Paris (which we bypassed completely) near the Belgian border. This was definitely my favorite leg of the journey. Rolling hills gave way to lakes and water meadows to the south, while to the north lay dense forests and the hills of the Ardennes. I also love champagne as it doesn’t involve nearly as many facial contortions on the part of the taster, and we tasted the best.

We visited Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin, Perrier-Jouët, Mumm, Laurent-Perrier, Piper-Heidsieck, Krug, and, of course, Moët et Chandon and Louis Roederer, where, respectively, Darryl bought a case of Dom and a case of Cristal. Heady stuff for a girl from a have-some-Beringer-White-Zin background. We also went to a number of smaller champagne houses, names not as recognizable, but the bubbly just as good. I spent the days pleasantly buzzed from morning till bedtime, a condition that made sex with Darryl almost bearable.

Today, however, I was lamentably sober as I listened to Darryl wax enthusiastically about our next and final destination: the champagne house of Roux-Dubois, where we were to stay as guests of the owners for the next three days.

“…absolutely flawless Brut in vintage years. A bottle of Roux-Dubois ’85 is actually worth more to collectors than an ’85 Dom.”

“Mmm...” Not much of an answer, but I was too bored to come up with my usual chipper, “Really?” I was also nervous. For Darryl, this was the zenith of the entire trip. I’d been dreading it since we touched down on French soil.

We’d met Monsieur and Madame Roux-Dubois, both in their late thirties, a few months earlier at a dinner party in Beverly Hills. Both had that impeccably put-together look that seems to be the natural birthright of the French; the confidence and ease of manner that made the simplest of outfits look high fashion. Monsieur Roux-Dubois was tall and lanky and so charming that one didn’t notice that he wasn’t really handsome. He had imperfect features—crooked nose, close-set green eyes, thin lips—that somehow worked when you put them all together.

Madame Roux-Dubois, on the other hand, was gorgeous, raven hair pulled back into the kind of sleek, chic chignon that would have been harsh on anyone less feminine. Her eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, made up in that sexy smudged I’ve-just-been-fucked-six-ways-from-Sunday look that I could never emulate without looking like I’d been sucker punched. Her lipstick was the perfect shade of true red and left no discernable smudge marks on her wine glass. I’d hated her on sight.

Once Darryl had discovered their profession, he put on his most charming manner and spent the rest of the evening wooing them while I sat silently at his side, feeling as awkward and unattractive as I had on my first date in high school. And the thought of being their guests for three days, not knowing any French beyond “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” and “excuse me, where’s the bathroom?” intimidated the hell out of me.

Darryl took a turn down a private drive, flanked on either side by—surprise, surprise—more vineyards. We drove through an archway into an expansive courtyard where a gorgeous eighteenth-century house nestled against the side of a hill, stones mellowed with time and weather, ivy and flowered vines climbing the walls. There was another building set off to the side of the house. Darryl nodded at it. “I’ll bet that’s the winery.”

The front door opened and Madame Roux-Dubois stepped outside, casually dressed in slim-fit leggings, black ballet flats, and an off-white shirt that reminded me of an artist’s smock. Very Leslie Caron, simple yet classic. She looked as if she should be on a catwalk in Paris or dancing with Gene Kelly.

Darryl saw her and his face lit up. He parked the Mercedes next to a sleek classic beige Jaguar and an incongruous little Fiat sitting side by side in the sheltered drive. He was out of the car almost before he’d shut the engine off, dashing to greet the lady of the manor without a glance back to see if I was joining him. I immediately felt frumpy in my boot-cut jeans and white Gap T-shirt and wished I hadn’t eaten that chocolate croissant for breakfast.

Madame Roux-Dubois held out her hand and presented her cheek for Darryl’s enthusiastic kiss. Even as she did so, though, her gaze flickered past him to me. Her eyebrows lifted, and she tilted her head as if in inquiry. She said something to Darryl, who turned and gestured for me to join them. I smiled weakly and reluctantly got out of the car as Madame Roux-Dubois came over, arms outstretched, a smile of what looked like genuine pleasure on her face.

“Mademoiselle Wilson,” she said in heavily accented English, “it is a delight to see you again!”

I was immediately suspicious. Why would she be glad to see me? I was surprised that she even remembered my name. I chalked it up to good manners and awkwardly exchanged hugs. I come from a non-demonstrative family where hugs and kisses are saved for weddings and funerals. I just couldn’t get used to the European custom of kissing cheeks by way of greeting.

“Thank you for having us to stay, Madame,” I said stiffly, hating the So Cal twang of my voice in comparison to the lilt of her French accent.

“Marie-Elise, s’il vous plait,” she said, putting a companionable arm around my shoulders to lead me into the house. “And I may call you Jeanette?” She smiled at Darryl over her shoulder. “And you will bring the bags, oui?”

The inside of the house was as impressive as the exterior—high ceilings, nooks and crannies everywhere, all sorts of interesting architectural details, and shabby chic décor done to perfection. Exactly what you’d expect to find in the “At Home in France” issue of Victoria Magazine except without the overabundance of lace, tulle and twee china figurines.

“Are you hungry?” Marie-Elise asked as we walked up a curving staircase to the second floor, Darryl trailing after us with our luggage.

I shook my head, already feeling the size of a baby elephant next to this French sylph. “No, not really.” My stomach immediately growled in protest.

I blushed, mortified, but Marie-Elise gave me a friendly squeeze, her arm still around my shoulders, and said, “The body doesn’t let us lie when it comes to matters of food or love. We will have lunch before we taste.” She stopped in front of an open door. “This will be your room.”

I stepped inside a cozy room dominated by a large cherrywood sleigh bed with a matching vanity and two small bedside tables. The duvet was white cotton, and I was pretty sure it covered a goose down quilt. Like the rest of the house, the room managed to be comfortably opulent, everything with the feeling of old, yet expensive.

“This is lovely.” I set my purse on the vanity bench as Darryl came in and plunked the luggage down in the middle of a faded Oriental rug.

“I’m pleased you like it.” She opened a door next to the vanity. “C’est la salle de bains.”

“She means bathroom,” said Darryl. Amazing how the man managed to imbue three words with that much condescension.

“I actually know that one,” I said, annoyed.

Marie-Elise’s gaze briefly went from me to Darryl, but her expression gave nothing away. “You must be fatigued from the drive. Perhaps you would enjoy a tray of food in your room? A bath and a rest before supper?”

I smiled gratefully even as Darryl jumped in, “Oh, we’ve only been on the road for a few hours. I’m sure there’s no need for that.”

Again, that quick glance from me to Darryl. “If you do not wish to rest, Darryl, you can take your meal with us, and afterwards I will be happy to give you a tour of the grounds.” To me she said, “I’ll have a tray brought to you. Dinner will be late. It will be a special evening, and you will enjoy it more if you’re rested.”

And Daryl will enjoy himself more if he has you to himself, I thought as I ran bathwater in a tub large enough to fit a family of four. Not that I cared at this point. I was happy to soak in geranium- and sandalwood-scented water, covered up to my breasts in bubbles like a character in a Doris Day movie, and have some time all alone without Darryl’s constant monologue. For whatever reason, our hostess was more thoughtful than I’d expected after the party in Beverly Hills. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so out of place for the next three days after all, although I still felt incredibly gauche in comparison to Marie-Elise’s sleek confidence.

I shut my eyes and sighed in contentment.

“Excusez-moi.” I looked up, startled, to see Marie-Elise standing by the bathroom door, which I hadn’t bothered to close. She was balancing a tray laden with food. “You do not mind if I set this down for you?” She indicated the ledge around the bathtub.

“Uh, no, I don’t mind.” I slid a little further into the water until the bubbles reached my neck. She placed the tray within easy reaching distance. There was fresh bread, a slice of brie, butter, pâté, sliced peaches, and strawberries, as well as a full champagne flute.

“This looks delicious, thank you.” Another piece of my initial reserve slipped away in the face of Marie-Elise’s thoughtfulness.

“It’s what we’re having downstairs,” she said matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss anything just because you’re tired. Men do not always understand a woman’s needs, and so we take care of one another.” She reached out and brushed a strand of hair back from my forehead, a gesture that took me by surprise, yet seemed quite natural. “Appréciez-vous, ma chere. I will see you at dinner.”

Alone once more, I picked up the champagne flute and held it to a ray of light filtering through the curtained window. Something Darryl had said came to mind: the smaller and more numerous the bubbles, the better the champagne. If that were true, this must be high quality, judging by the dozens of tiny bubbles streaming up through the pale gold liquid. I took a sip and tasted almonds and peaches, a creamy mouthful of ambrosia.

I could get used to this.

By the time I finished eating and got out of the bath, it was all I could do to dry off and crawl into bed, which proved to have not only goose feather quilt and pillows, but a down mattress as well. It was like sinking into a cloud, and I was asleep within minutes. Being surrounded by all that goose down, it wasn’t surprising that I dreamed of feathers, or more specifically, feather light touches up and down my body, soft and sure along the curve of my spine, neck, arms and shoulders. There were bubbles in my dream too, tiny bubbles, like the silly Don Ho song. But these bubbles were inside me, a stream of sensations that centered between my legs and spread their warmth outwards. But they had no where to go, no point of release, so the sensation dissipated, leaving me vaguely dissatisfied when I woke up, my usual state whenever I had an erotic dream. Truth be told, I could never quite let go of my control enough either awake or asleep to feel that all-encompassing sensation of release that the French called le petit mort, another of the few French phrases I was familiar with.

I was lying mostly on top of the covers, one leg tucked underneath, but the rest of me was naked for the world to see had anyone chosen to come into the room while I slept. And when I saw that my clothes had been put away in the armoire, it was obvious somebody had. My first guess was Darryl, except he wouldn’t have had the consideration to unpack my things. There was probably a maid or housekeeper, and I suppressed my initial embarrassment by remembering that Europeans didn’t regard nudity with the American puritanical blend of prudery and aren’t-I-being-naughty-for-looking-at-this? I hoped I hadn’t snored, or worse, that the type of dreams I’d been having hadn’t been obvious.

I looked at the clock and was shocked to see I’d slept for more than four hours. The sun had set, and it had to be close to dinnertime. Daryl had warned me earlier to dress for dinner, so I put on an ankle-length red silk velvet dress with a burned-out pattern of leaves. I’d brought it with me because I could crumple it into a ball, stuff it into a suitcase, and it would fall out into unwrinkled folds. The color and bias cut were flattering to both my figure and my coloring, and I found myself wanting to look my best. The only remedy for a disastrous case of bed-head was to sweep my hair up and back into a butterfly clip, but I wasn’t displeased with the result. A quick spritz of Angel perfume, and I was ready to join Darryl and the Roux-Duboises.

I made my way downstairs and found Darryl on his way to fetch me. He was already dressed for dinner in one of his Italian suits. “You look nice,” I said honestly.

His only comment on my appearance was, “Good, you didn’t wear jeans.” And then, “Marie-Elise and Amaury are waiting for us in the dining room.” He walked away.

I trailed behind him, suddenly uncertain. Was I dressed inappropriately?

Once I saw the Roux-Duboises, my dress code apprehensions evaporated. Marie-Elise wore a simple sheath dress made of raw silk in a rich chocolate shade that matched her eyes, while Amaury had on a suit that managed to appear casual and yet extravagantly expensive at the same time. Both of them stood when I entered the dining room. Amaury strode across to greet me with a warm hug and the inevitable kiss on both cheeks. He was as unconventionally handsome as I remembered, and the admiration in his eyes was a balm to my ego after Darryl’s dismissal of my efforts.

“Jeanette, vous êtes exquisite!” He turned to Marie-Elise. “Ne semble-t-elle pas belle, ma cher?”

Marie-Elise nodded. “Very beautiful.” She joined us, touched my face lightly. “Ah, the rest, it was good for you. You look rejuvenated.”

I smiled, grateful for the kind words. Amaury offered me his arm. “Let me show you to your seat.”

Darryl, hovering next to Marie-Elise, immediately proffered his arm to her. She cast me an amused, almost conspiratorial glance and allowed him to lead her to the dining room table, a massive thing that would have looked at home in a medieval castle’s dining hall. It almost dwarfed the room, but like everything else the house, somehow managed to be precisely where it should be.

If my lunchtime snack had been delicious, dinner was an amazing culinary experience. Each course—and there were six of them—was matched with a different wine or champagne that complemented the dish to perfection. Everything was served in small, exquisitely presented portions that left one sated but not overly full. For the first time I truly appreciated the art of food and wine, perhaps because it was presented as a gift to be experienced rather than served to me as a lecture.

Now and again I would surprise myself and realize what a good time I was having—nothing like the social purgatory I’d been dreading. Not once did I feel excluded from the conversation. Indeed, the only person who seemed determined to converse exclusively in French was Darryl. Marie-Elise and Amaury, using a mixture of the two languages, would lead the conversation back into English so seamlessly that Darryl had no idea he was being manipulated.

I found myself enjoying the whole game of wine tasting as both Roux-Duboises gazed at me eagerly to see what aromas I could pick out, what flavors I detected, how each wine tasted differently when paired with food. Darryl seemed almost jealous of the attention I was receiving even though he was getting his share of it as well. “Jeanette doesn’t really understand the complexities of wine,” he said at one point, with a laugh meant to dismiss me in an affectionate yet belittling, isn’t-she-cute sort of way.

“Then we will enjoy teaching her,” said Amaury, pouring me another taste of Burgundy matched with duck and sausage casoulet.

“I think she has an affinité for these things.” Marie-Elise smiled at me from across the table.

It was impossible not to relax and blossom under such a heady combination of rich food, excellent wine and attention. By the time we’d come to the dessert course, white chocolate mousse paired with a champagne tasting of lemons and vanilla, I was chatting volubly about anything and everything and thought our host and hostess were the most charming, fascinating people I’d ever met.

“Do you like this champagne?” Marie-Elise held up her flute and watched the streams of bubbles as they raced upwards.

I nodded. “It’s lighter than the one I had at lunch. This one’s not as…as creamy in the mouth.”

“That’s called ‘mouth feel,’ Jeanette.” Darryl put in his two cents.

Amaury nodded. “They’re two different styles. The one you had earlier was a Blanc de Noir, made entirely of pinot noir grapes. This is a Blanc de Blanc, which is one hundred percent Chardonnay and, as you said, much lighter.”

“They’re both delicious.” I took another sip of the Blanc de Blanc and examined the crystal flute. “Why do you use these glasses? What about the ones that are more...” I shaped my hands like a bowl, unable to think of the word I wanted. “You know, the ones they used in old movies.”

“Ah, the champagne coupe.” Marie-Elise got up from the table, went to an antique china cabinet and brought back a shallow, saucer-shaped glass. “Like this?”

I nodded.

“This has always been popular throughout history because it’s pretty, but it’s not meant to show champagne at its best. These,” she indicated the flutes, “are designed to enhance the flow of bubbles and concentrate the aromas of the wine.”

Amaury nodded and took up the story. “The original coupe is said to have been modeled by Sèvres from the breasts of Marie Antoinette. She was said to have the perfect bosom.”

I listened in fascination. How much more interesting was all of this trivia when told in delightfully accented and animated voices as opposed to Darryl’s condescending monotone.

Marie-Elise took over again. “Four white bowls were made and adorned the Queen’s dairy temple at the Château de Rambouillet near Versailles. The dairy is still in existence today, as is one of the coupes.” She set the coupe on the table and turned to her husband. “Amaury, I think it is time to open one of the ’85 Bruts.”

I thought Darryl’s eyes would pop out of his head and remembered the comment he’d made on the drive here about the value of the Roux-Dubois ’85. I wondered why they’d be willing to open a bottle of what sounded like the equivalent of liquid gold for one visiting American wine enthusiast and his girlfriend.

“An excellent idea.” Amaury started to get to his feet, but Marie-Elise shook her head.

“Je l'obtiendrai. I can show Jeanette the caverne.” She turned to me and said, “Our champagne cellars are dug out of the side of the hills. It is not as spectacular as the caves under Reims or Epernay, but we are very proud of our cellars.”

“Est-ce que je dois aller avec toi?” Amaury raised an eyebrow and looked at his wife. She smiled at him and shook her head.

“Non cette fois. C’est mon tour, amour.”

“Ah. C’est bon.” Amaury turned to Darryl. “We shall fetch the champagne bucket and ice, perhaps step outside and enjoy a cigar and some brandy while the ladies do some exploring and bring back the champagne.”

I could tell Darryl was a little disappointed to be deprived of an excursion into the cellars with Mari-Elise, but brandy and cigars were a good consolation prize. I wasn’t sure if I was up to a trip down or up any stairs after the amount of wine we’d already consumed, but I was genuinely intrigued to see the cave. And a small, childish part of me liked the fact that I would see and perhaps even touch the precious ’85 Brut before Darryl.

I stood as Marie-Elise topped off our flutes with more of the Blanc de Blanc. I was pleased to find that while I definitely felt the affects of the alcohol, I was steady on my feet, even in my heels. I was still in control of my own personal Enterprise here.

She led me through a door at the end of the dining room, down a small hallway and through yet another door, a thick wooden one with iron hinges, opening onto the top of gently curving stone stairs. The light at the top of the landing was dim with nothing but blackness below, and I clutched the iron railing, wondering how I’d navigate the stairs without spilling my champagne. Marie-Elise, a few steps ahead of me, turned and gave me a mischievous grin that replaced the sophisticated woman with a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. “Drink some now and lose less to the floor.” She took a hefty swig of her champagne.

I laughed and followed suit. “You read my mind.”

Marie-Elise smiled again. “Ah, but can you read mine?” With that, she descended the stairs into darkness.

The further down we went, the more the temperature dropped and the dim light faded into inky shadows. I felt like a gothic heroine, going to explore the forbidden cellar against her own better judgment. I followed close behind Marie-Elise, catching the wafting scent of vanilla from her perfume. I liked it for the same reason I like Angel; with its honey and vanilla notes, it smelled like something I’d want to have for dessert. It was pitch black at the bottom of those stairs, and I bumped into Marie-Elise when she abruptly stopped. Champagne sloshed over my flute and spilled onto my fingers.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

“No, I should have warned you that I was stopping.”

There was a small click, and light illuminated the first twenty feet of the room, which was better described as a subterranean cavern. The roof arched high above us, wooden supports following the curve of the ceiling. Racks upon racks of emerald green champagne bottles stretched as far as the eye could see back into the shadowed recesses.

“Wow.”

“Yes.” Marie-Elise nodded complacently, the Roux-Dubois legacy spread out before us. “It goes back a quarter of a mile under the hills.”

I licked the spilled champagne from my fingers as I stared at the sea of bottles. “It’s like Aladdin’s cave.”

“There is certainly treasure to be found here.” Something in her tone pulled my attention back to my hostess, who was watching me with an unreadable expression as I licked my fingers. I hastily stopped what I was doing, wondering if I’d inadvertently committed some unforgivable breach of French etiquette. But no, she didn’t look angry. If anything, she looked—almost hungry.

“The truly wonderful thing about champagne,” Marie Elise took my hand in hers. “is that it goes with almost everything.” She lifted my hand to her mouth and kissed it, her gaze never leaving mine.

The air seemed suddenly thicker, and I felt warm despite the cool temperature of the cellars.

“Do you know how champagne is made?” She let go of my hand with an abruptness that was as disconcerting as that brief kiss had been and walked over to the nearest rack.

“Um…well, Darryl tried to explain it, but—”

“—But you didn’t really listen because he is boring, n’est pas?”

That startled a laugh out of me.

“Enthusiasts are often tedious,” she continued. “When one develops an enthusiasm, one can either inspire others by sharing this passion or push them away by being tedious. Listening to Darryl, I think he is one of the second types.”

I surprised myself by asking, “If he’s so boring, why did you invite him to visit you?” The champagne was having more of an effect than I’d thought.

She gave me an amused smile. “What makes you assume that it was Darryl we wanted to have as our guest?”

“Well, I…I…”

Marie-Elise laughed at my expression. “Now it is not so boring if one already has that same interest, as both Amaury and I do. But it’s easy to see that Darryl has not yet discovered there is more pleasure in building the desire in another to learn than there is in thinking oneself. . .” She paused, searching for the right word, “supérieur.”

She’d hit that one right on the nose, I thought.

“Now Amaury and myself? We are much more interested in sharing our passions through experience rather than lecturing. Par exemple.”

She went over to a refrigerator behind a rough wooden bar and pulled out a half-bottle of champagne. “This is our demi-sec, a sweeter style than the other two. I am very pleased with it. Try a taste.”

I looked dubiously at my half-full flute. “I still have some of the other left.”

“C’est facile.” She drained her glass and poured some of the demi-sec. “We will share.” She took a sip and held the flute out to me. Still holding the other glass, I took it and tried a small taste. Flavors of honey and apricots sparkled in the bubbles. It was delicious. I took another sip, more this time, and handed the flute back to Marie-Elise. She wrapped her fingers around both my fingers and the flute, holding my hand around the glass as she lifted it to her lips.

Her touch sent an unexpected frisson of warmth through my body, something about the firm grasp of her hand around mine. There was strength in those well-manicured fingers that made me wonder if I could pull away. Maybe it was the champagne, but I liked the idea that perhaps I couldn’t. My face flushed with heat at the thought.

She gently stroked the back of my hand as she drank, a light butterfly touch that raised goose bumps all over my body. “Here.” She lifted the glass to my lips and tilted it so a stream of champagne poured into my mouth. I swallowed, and she withdrew the glass, but not quickly enough. A few drops of champagne trickled from my lips down my chin, dripping onto the exposed flesh of my breasts.

“One thing we cannot allow with Roux-Dubois champagne,” Marie-Elise murmured in a tone as rich and decadent as chocolate mousse, “is waste it.” Still holding my hand, she dipped her head to my chest and slowly licked the trail of champagne from my skin, moving from my cleavage up to my neck, her hair falling in a veil across her face as she did so.

My breathing quickened and my nipples stiffened in response as she gently nipped the base of my neck. I tried to draw back, afraid of the sensation that coursed through me at the touch of Marie-Elise’s tongue on my flesh but found myself backed up against the wooden bar with no place to retreat. I felt her lips curve in a smile against my skin before her mouth resumed its leisurely path up to my mouth.

“Je veux t’embrasser.” Her voice caressed me as she traced the outline of my lips with the tip of her tongue. She kissed me then, a firm yet gentle kiss that tasted as sweet and intoxicating as the champagne. I felt her remove the butterfly clip and entwine her fingers in my hair, pulling my head back with a slight tug that made me gasp even as she increased the pressure of the kiss, her tongue like warm velvet against mine. Warmth coiled lazily in my stomach and spread throughout all erogenous zones.

My free hand involuntarily loosened its grasp on the other champagne flute, which slipped from my fingers before I realized what had happened. It hit the ground and shattered. Marie-Elise withdrew her mouth from mine and made a tsk-tsk sound. “What did I say about waste, ma cherie?”

I started to apologize, but she quickly kissed me again, nipping gently at my bottom lip as she gave my hair another sharp tug. “Shh. Don’t worry…I will think of a way for you to pay for that.” Another kiss. She knew exactly how to use her teeth and tongue to elicit a response, not too hard, not too soft—just right.

“Déshabille-toi,” she whispered, her lips moving to my ear and sending another jolt of electricity through my body. She nipped my earlobe and repeated, sharply this time, “Déshabille-toi.”

I looked at her in confusion.

Marie-Elise gave a small laugh. “Ah, I forget you don’t speak French. Another thing to teach you.” She kissed me one more time, then stepped back, releasing both my hands and my hair. “Take off your clothes, Jeanette.”

“What?”

“Now I know you understand English, ma cherie.”

“But —”

“—Take off your clothes.”

We stared at each other, the air between us crackling with sexual chemistry. I knew that if I acquiesced, I would be giving up control to this woman I barely knew. Common sense, and an upbringing by the equivalent of June Cleaver, told me to go back upstairs, plead a headache and go to my room for the evening. I knew if I chose this path Marie-Elise would say nothing to reproach act and me as if nothing had happened between us. But there was part of me—the part that was wet with desire and wild with curiosity—that urged me to give into the moment and do what Marie-Elise commanded.

I made my decision.

Setting down the remaining flute, I slowly pulled my dress over my head and dropped it to the ground, leaving a black Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bra, matching g-string and heels. Marie-Elise’s eyes darkened with desire, and she licked her lips as if contemplating a rich dessert.

“Très bon. Now stand very still.” She reached behind me and unhooked the bra in one deft movement only another woman could manage, then smoothly took it off. I shivered, both from the cool air on my skin and the heat of Marie-Elise’s gaze. She gently traced a circle around each nipple before cupping my breasts—smaller without the miracle of Victoria’s Secret—in her hands. “You would have made a fine model for the champagne coupe.”

The g-string was next. She slid them down oh-so-slowly, her fingers caressing my legs as she did so. I lifted my feet one at a time and the g-string joined the bra on the floor with my dress.

“I want you to hold this.” Marie-Elise handed me the champagne flute as she leaned in and kissed me again. “And you must not spill any. Comprenez-toi?” I nodded, hypnotized by her voice and the taste and feel of her lips against mine. “Bon.”

She dipped a finger in the glass. “Goûtez-le.” She brushed my mouth with her finger, inviting me to taste. I licked champagne from her fingertip, then caught my breath as she inserted it further into my mouth. Without thinking, I sucked on it, using teeth and tongue as if I were pleasuring a man. She made a noise almost like a little purr, withdrew her finger far enough to hold my mouth open as she kissed me fiercely, capturing my tongue with hers. I kissed her back, marveling at how well she knew what buttons to push, just the right amount of pressure on the lips, how her tongue caressed instead of intruded, the subtle movement of her other hand on the back of my neck hitting nerve endings I didn’t know I had.

My knees were weak when she finally ended the kiss, murmuring, “Tou goûtez comme le miel et l'épice.” I wasn’t sure what she said, but it didn’t matter. She could have said, “Come, let us go wash dishes,” and it would have had the same effect.

“And now I shall teach you a little about champagne.” Marie-Elise dipped into the flute again, this time tracing a line of liquid around each of my breasts. “After the grapes are pressed, the wine must age and go through first fermentation…ah, I said not to move.”

I tried to obey as her finger spiraled in ever decreasing circles until each nipple was anointed with champagne. My breathing became faster as she slowly began to follow the path of the liquid with her tongue. She took her time to reach my nipples, pausing now and again to continue the lesson. “Before it is fully fermented in the barrels….” She encircled the aureole of my right breast with her tongue, her breath warm and teasing against the nipple. “The wine goes into bottles that are then sealed with caps.” A light flick of the tongue against the nipple that I felt all the way down between my legs. A sharp tap against my bare thigh reminded me to hold still.

“The bottles are laid on their sides in racks to allow the levure…the yeast…to grow. It is what will allow the bubbles to form inside the bottle.” Her mouth closed around the nipple and it was by sheer force of will that I didn’t move. There was something incredibly erotic about having to stand still while Marie-Elise teased me with her teeth and tongue; it focused my entire consciousness on the sensations coursing through me.

She ran the nails of one hand lightly down the small of my back, along the curve of my ass and hip, around and up between my legs. “The levure dies before the champagne is ready.” She turned her attention to my other breast. “It is called the lees and must be gotten rid of.” I gasped as she slowly slid a finger inside me. “Mm, tu mouilles.” She pressed her hand against me, and I involuntarily arched forward, coming dangerously close to spilling the champagne. “Be still.” She pressed harder and inserted another finger. My free hand opened and closed of its own volition as I made the rest of my body stay motionless.

“We get rid of the lees by what is called remuage,” whispered Marie-Elise against my breast as her fingers began to move inside me, and she stroked my clitoris with her thumb. “The bottles are gently manipulated…turned and tilted on the rack, so that the lees collects in the neck. They are then ready for dégorgément.” She drove her fingers in deeper, moving them slowly as she continued to move her thumb in a gentle circle. My hips began to move of their own accord, and this time Marie-Elise didn’t admonish me, but continued her ministrations with a gentle, steady rhythm as she took her mouth away from my breasts and drizzled champagne down my stomach.

“Traditionally a man with very large thumbs would remove the cap and let out just enough wine to dispose of the lees.” Her mouth followed the trickle of champagne down to my navel. “Then sugar, and sometimes brandy, is added. This is the dosage and determines if the champagne will be dry or sweet.” Her mouth moved lower. “The cork is put in and the champagne will age for at least two years…sometimes more. And all this time…the pressure continues to build...”

My breaths started to come in rapid, shallow gasps as the coil of heat in my stomach expanded, tiny bubbles of sensation rising through me as Marie-Elise’s fingers increased their pressure and speed inside me.

“It is only when the cork is removed that the pressure is finally released…” With that, she removed her hand and replaced it with her mouth, licking me slowly and deliberately before suddenly plunging her tongue deep inside me. My hand contracted around the flute, and I cried out, hips bucking, bubbles of sensation filling my mind and body as I arched against her mouth in wave after wave of shuddering pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

I thought I might pass out, but Marie-Elise’s arms kept me upright as her mouth retraced its path up my body. She held me until my breathing slowed, kissed me slowly, gently and murmured French endearments in my ear. I tasted myself on her lips and tongue, a tangy sweet, musky flavor and found myself wondering how she would taste down there.

Marie-Elise gave a sudden chuckle. “Such a good girl…not a drop spilled.”

I looked down and sure enough, I was still holding the champagne flute upright. I was surprised the glass hadn’t shattered in my hand when I’d come. I offered some to Marie-Elise, then finished the remaining champagne in one gulp.

Marie-Elise helped me back into my clothes, and we went back upstairs, making a brief stop to refresh our makeup before rejoining Amaury and Darryl in the dining room. My brief fear that Darryl would know what I’d been doing was quickly banished. Darryl’s entire attention was focused on the bottle of ’85.

Amaury, on the other hand, gave his wife a knowing smile. “Did you forget where we store the champagne, ma amour?”

Marie-Elise went to her husband’s side and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Ah, but Amaury, you know that the fun is in the exploration.”

“True. So perhaps next time you ladies will allow me to join you.”

“Would you like that, Jeanette?” Marie-Elise stood next to her husband and looked at me. “There is much still for you to learn about champagne.”

Darryl gave a laugh. “Don’t get your hopes up, Marie-Elise. Jeanette’s not very interested in wine.”

“That all depends on the teachers,” I said and crossed over to join the Roux-Duboisrs. Marie-Elise kissed my cheek.

“And I promise you, Amaury,” she said, putting an arm around my waist, “Jeanette will make a very good student. Now shall we open the ’85?”

PAGEBREAK

Get Thee To A Nunnery

by Samantha Jones

I get back to the dorm just after midnight. Regina’s in bed reading. She reads a lot, mostly philosophy and social science, which she’s studying while I toy with journalism. Regina is a serious scholar. I’m a serious party girl.

“Have a good time?”

“Okay. First date. Went to dinner, then his apartment.” I pull off my dress. “Nice guy but much more a sprinter than a long-distance runner.”

Regina laughs. “I guess that means the sex wasn’t so good.”

“It started okay, then he just climbed on top and shoved it in and out and came before I was really into it. Then he said he had to get up early to study, so would I mind leaving? Typical man!”

Regina echoes, “Men!” and giggles.

I slip off my bra, leaving the usual red, heavy-breast, strap marks on my shoulders. “He wants me to meet his sister. What do you think that means?” While I rub the marks, Regina watches my swaying breasts.

“Probably a threesome.”

“But with his sister?”

“You know what guys are like.”

I put bra and panties in the laundry basket, pull on an old T-shirt and go to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Back in the bedroom Regina has put her book away and turned off her reading lamp. In the moonlight, she watches me from the other side of the room as I climb into bed.

“Good night.” I pull up the covers, snuggle in, and one hand automatically goes down between my thighs. I’m still wet which means he turned me on more than I’d realized. Goddamn ignorant, selfish men!

My fantasy about taking on an entire hockey team in their dressing room after a game creeps into my mind and a finger touches my clitoris. I’m naked in the team’s shower room, surrounded by a dozen hard, hungry men with enormous erections. They kiss me…rub soap over my heavy breasts, between my spread thighs…want me more than life itself. Steamy water runs down hard chests and bellies…off urgent cocks…

Regina’s voice interrupts my fantasy. “Hey, honey, can I ask you a question?”

I’m pissed. I want to come before I sleep and this is no time to chat with my roomie. But we’ve only been sharing for a week, and I don’t want to seem rude. Also, I don’t know her well enough to suggest that she let me finish masturbating before we have our girlish chat. “If you must.”

“Will you introduce me to some of your boyfriends?”

“Of course. But you’re almost twenty. Why don’t you find your own?”

“Don’t know how to flirt…never been with a man…wouldn’t know what to do.”

I try to be reassuring. “I promise you it comes naturally. Just lie back and open your legs, and he’ll do all the work. We’ll talk tomorrow.” My finger has a mind of its own and goes back to caressing my clitoris.

Regina’s voice is soft, scared. “I don’t even know if I’m heterosexual. How do you know you are?”

I chuckle. “You just know. Like, you know by whom you watch and want to be close to when you’re a little girl and later, when you’re a woman, in a bar or restaurant or in the street. Is it boys or girls, men or women who make you feel funny when you look at them and they look at you? As much as anything, it’s what you see in their eyes when you look deep. Are their eyes open to you? Can you see inside? If you can, and they can see inside you, that’s how you know. It’s eye access and the feel funny factor.” Suddenly I’m awake and curious. “You’re really still a virgin?”

“Oh, yes.” Long pause. “Except for the convent, I guess.”

“How do you mean?”

“You really want to know?”

“Only if you really want to tell me.”

“Okay.” Her voice is soft. “My dad’s rich, and my parents didn’t get along, so they sent me off to convents for schooling. Probably so they could fight in peace. Anyway, I was at a new convent for my last two years of high school.

“One of the first things I heard from the other girls—the girls in my class—was that the prefects liked to play with them after lights out. I didn’t even know what that meant and none of the girls would tell me. You wouldn’t believe how ignorant I was.”

I interrupt, “What’s a prefect?”

“Sorry. She’s a senior girl given authority by the nuns to be in charge of younger girls in almost everything outside the classroom. Prefects are goddesses…have an awful lot of power.”

“Were you scared?”

“I suppose so…but I didn’t really know what I was scared of. All I knew was once or twice a week, one of the prefects came into our dormitory after lights out and took some of the girls away for what the girls called ‘playtime.’ It was hours before they came back. Seems everyone knew what happened to them while they were away in playtime…everyone except me.

“For a couple of weeks after I got there, it was always other girls. I started to think maybe the prefects didn’t like me. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Then, one night, a prefect came into the dormitory and stopped by my bed. She said I was to follow her. The head prefect wanted to see me.”

This is exciting. “So what happens?”

“I’m feeling lonely. Can I come over to your bed? Then I’ll tell you?”

I hesitate. “If you want…”

Regina gets out of her bed, her slim body gleaming white in the moonlight, slips into my bed and lies down next to me. Our arms and hips touch. She’s naked. I hadn’t expected this.

She sniffs. “You smell of sweat. And there’s something on your boobs.”

“Oh shit.” I check my boobs. There’s semen all over my nipples. “Sorry. He decided to come on my boobs for some reason…thought I’d washed it off back at his place. Go on, please.”

“Only if you let me clean you up.”

“Okay,” I agree, without thinking.

Regina pulls my T-shirt up and before I can stop her, lowers her head to my breasts. Like a mother cat she licks the semen up, paying particular attention to my nipples, which harden under her lips and tongue.

“Jesus, Regina…I didn’t think…”

She grins. “Tell me you don’t like that! It’s sexy, right? Tell the truth.”

“Okay, I liked it. And thank you. Anyone ever tell you you’re really weird?” I can almost hear her smile lying next to me in my bed. “Now will you get on with the goddamn story?”

“When the prefect came for me, I put on my robe and followed her. I was terrified. Prefects didn’t have to live in big dormitories like the rest of us…there were only three of them to a room, not thirty like us.”

Regina licks my ear. It feels rather nice.

“Anyway, when I got there it was dark, and they were all lounging on the beds…six of them on three beds. All in nightdresses. Really sexy, lacy, filmy stuff…like the rest of us weren’t allowed to wear. They looked like those pin-ups you see in old magazines. I felt silly because I was wearing this respectable robe and regulation flannel nightie hemmed in pink roses like a little girl, and they all looked so grown-up.”

Regina’s fingers tiptoe down my belly. It feels good, so I let them get all the way to my groin before I remember she’s not a guy and push her hand away.

“Stop it, Regina. I’m not that sort of girl.”

“You don’t like that? Tell the truth.”

I giggle. “Have I screamed yet?”

She kisses me lightly on the cheek. I don’t want to seem unfriendly, so I put an arm around her shoulders and stroke her hair, which is soft and silky even though she keeps it short. “Don’t get any ideas. But go on. This is really sexy.”

Regina’s voice is soft. “The head prefect told me to sit on the bed next to her. She was a really big girl in a filmy, shortie nightie, which showed her big boobs, and I could see her nipples underneath. I couldn’t take my eyes off her nipples. She asked me how I liked the school. I gave her the answer she wanted; told her I like it a lot. She asked if I’d made lots of friends. I lied, told her yes. She asked what I thought of boys, and I told her I thought they were kinda scary, but I didn’t actually know any.”

Regina’s hand slides down my belly again. It’s not intruding and feels natural, so this time I let it stay, even open my thighs a little to accommodate her. But I’m certainly no lesbian, and this is as far as I’m going.

“The head prefect said she hoped I’d be happy at the convent, and I was very pretty, and had a lovely body. Then she told me to take my robe off and drop my nightie so everyone could see my lovely body. I was so embarrassed, told her my boobs were still very small. She laughed and said she had enough for both of us. I looked around the room and all the other prefects were staring at me.”

One of Regina’s fingers finds my clitoris and I jump. “Don’t.”

But she’s gentle, and I’m already wet and hot and it feels good, so I don’t push her away. But seriously, I tell myself, no further than this.

“I knew I didn’t really have a choice. The prefects had all the power. Besides, it was exciting being with all these big, powerful girls…the prefects who really ran the school. So I took off my robe and nightie so they could see me naked even though I was still embarrassed by my little breasts, even smaller then than they are now, if you can believe that.”

She pauses, her finger slips from my clitoris inside my pussy and back. “You’re still wet. Did he do this for you?”

“Who? What?”

“Your date. Play with your clit.”

“No…I guess he was in a hurry.”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. But don’t expect anything more.”

She grins. Her teeth flash white in the moonlight. “Of course not. And you can stop me whenever you want. All you have to do is scream, honey.”

Regina turns on her side and half sits up. One hand pushes my thighs wider apart; her tongue licks under both breasts, moves up to flick my nipples. “I wish I had big breasts like yours.” One by one she takes my nipples in her mouth and sucks, making little squealing sounds like a baby eating.

This is nothing like messing around with boys and men who are always rough and in a hurry and seem to think the harder they rub my clitoris, the sooner I’ll let them get their cocks in me. Sometimes I’ve had to fuck before I was ready just to stop some guy from attacking my clitoris like he was trying to rub it off.

Regina is gentle, knowing, patient. I close my eyes, and my body responds to her hand and mouth by joining her rhythm. “Oh yes…go on,” I tell her. “What happens next? That’s nice…but nothing else...”

Her head comes back to share my pillow. Her voice is far away. “The head prefect touched my nipples like this…and they got hard…hard like yours now. You want to know something? I liked it when she touched my nipples…then she licked them. I really, really liked it…it seemed so natural.” She whispers now. “She asked if I wanted to see her naked and before I could answer she pulled her nightie off over her head. Her breasts were huge and beautiful, like yours. Each nipple and areola bigger than one of my breasts. And they were only inches from my face. Her nipples fascinated me. She asked if I was a virgin, and I told her I’d never even kissed a boy…never had a boyfriend. She asked if I’d ever licked a girl’s nipples. I told her no. She asked if I’d like to lick hers.

“The funny thing is I wanted to lick them. I wanted to suck them. I really, really wanted to. I didn’t have to. I wanted to. The next thing I knew, I was holding this lovely soft breast in my hands …just like yours, sucking on her nipple, and she was moaning and one of the other girls sat down on the bed next to me and put her hand up my nightie, first on my tummy, then between my legs. I was so ignorant…didn’t know what to do so at first I kept my legs closed, then I opened up for her, because I wanted to…because I wanted to.”

Somehow it seems rude that Regina’s having to do all the work, so I cup her little breasts with their hard, puffy nipples in my hand, one after the other. She whispers, “That’s nice.” Her fingers slip and slide delicately around my clitoris. I groan, tell Regina, “That’s what he should have done for me. The bastard.”

She giggles. “Too late! Anyway, I ended up lying on my back on the head prefect’s lap, her breasts hanging over me, and I held her breasts and licked them and sucked her nipples…while the other prefect played with my pussy.”

Regina slips a second, then a third finger inside me, and I groan again, angle my hips for her. It doesn’t matter any more that she’s a girl. All that matters is that she’s making me feel good.

“Oh, that’s nice…so what happens?”

She laughs. “What do you think? They’ve got this pretty, innocent little girl who liked to suck tit. Didn’t have to be persuaded or threatened. Liked it. So now they wanted to find out if I liked pussy too. Someone turned me over so I was on my knees and my head was in the head prefect’s lap. She opened her thighs so her pussy was right there in front of my face. That’s when the head prefect told me to lick her. So I put my tongue out and licked her—shyly at first because I really didn’t know what I was doing, then with more and more enthusiasm. I wanted to…it felt incredibly natural, and it tasted quite lovely.”

I take Regina’s nipple in my mouth, run my tongue around it. “Did you really like it? I mean, like it a lot?”

“I loved it. I’d never even masturbated and there I was having all these incredible feelings with all these powerful older girls. I loved it.”

Her fingers circle my clitoris. I feel the beginning of an orgasm somewhere way in the background, sparked as much by Regina’s story as by her caresses. I’m breathless. “Go on.”

“I got so excited, so horny. I went down on every one of them that night. One after the other. I was on my knees sucking pussy and boob, pussy and boob and they sucked me and slid fingers in my pussy. Sometimes I didn’t know who was doing what to me. We kept going until long after midnight. I even had my first orgasm. First ever…and I adored it.”

Regina moves her fingers faster and faster around my clitoris, slides in and out of my pussy. It feels incredibly natural, like she really knows how to love the female body. My arm around her shoulder pulls her towards me. “Yes…that’s it…yes…oh yes….” My body tightens and a mini-orgasm grinds out of my belly and floods over me.

Neither of us speaks until Regina murmurs, “It was the first time I’d been really happy in years...”

As if it has a mind of its own, my hand leaves her little breasts, slides down her body to her groin. “That was wonderful, but go on…please go on...” She opens for me. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched another girl between the legs, and I’m surprised by how wet she is already and how her clitoris is so hard and bigger than mine, like a tiny cock. I guess it’d had a lot of convent attention over the years.

“After that they sent for me almost every night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other girls. Two or three of us girls did exhibitions for them. With dildos and strap-ons. Other times I went down on the prefects while they watched the other girls lick and finger each other. And they all loved to go down on me. I became the pussy princess of the whole goddamn convent. I looked like a skinny kid with almost no pubic hair, and all these big girls wanted to suck me. I eventually learned to multiple-orgasm and made a big performance out of it…lots of screaming and moaning…you know the sort of thing.”

“I know. I’ve been there,” I answer dryly. Regina pushes a leg between my thighs, rubs against my clitoris. “Oh, that feels good. Keep doing it. Harder if you like.”

“They gave me presents and treats and when I was caught breaking school rules, I just got warned, never punished like the other girls. It was wonderful. For the first time…first time in my life…I was really happy!”

I start to ask Regina if she ever became head prefect at the convent but her thumb and forefinger are doing strange and wonderful things to my clitoris so I stop talking and tighten my arms around her and curl my body and come again, this time harder. Yes…oh yes…oh yes…yes …oh Jesus...”

She waits for me to finish before answering the unasked question. “Then when I was head prefect in my last year, I could have any girl I wanted for playtime, to go down on me any time I wanted.”

I surrender. Being in bed with Regina is a lot more fun than my date plowing and grunting and coming on my breasts when he should have been worshipping my clitoris. I whisper, “Would you like to go down on me now? I’d love it. You could show me if you want…”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Just keep talking.”

Regina slides down the bed, pushes her head between my thighs. I hold her head in both hands while her lips nibble my clitoris and her tongue slides into my pussy. She looks up at me, smiling. “The girls were always too scared to say no, but I never forced it, you know. I never had a girl the second time if she didn’t like it. But she had to try it. Convent rules. And I was the convent’s all-powerful head prefect who made the rules.” She laughs to tell me she’s joking. But I’m not at all sure she’s really joking.

She circles her tongue around my clitoris, slips lower, thrusts into my pussy. I groan. “But most of them really liked it. At least, they learned to like it. What else were we going to do? Hormones flowing in great tides in a convent, a girl’s boarding school. No cocks, no boys within miles.”

I ask, “But what about the nuns? From what I hear…”

Three fingers push gently in and out and Regina talks between licks. “Hell, almost all of them were lesbians. That’s why they were there. Sometimes we went to their cells, other times they came to the prefects’ bedrooms. Sometimes, when they were feeling really horny and couldn’t wait, they’d call us out of class and we’d go down on them almost anywhere.”

Her tongue flicks my clitoris, flicks again, and again. “A lot of them liked to be whipped like they were being punished for being such sinners. Mother Superior herself, the venerable head nun…couldn’t come until she was sucked off while being whipped. Not a pretty sight, I tell you. And when other nuns visited the convent, I’d bring girls to their cells, and we’d go down on them and suck their pussies…and…”

I can feel my orgasm start to grow like distant thunder. She pulls my lips back with both hands, thrusts her tongue as deep inside me as far as she can. In and out. In and out. In and out. Pussy to clit, back to pussy, to clit,pussy, clit, pussy.…

I collapse. “Oh god…oh god…oh god…yes…yes…yes…yes… do it to me …oh yes…oh yes…oh yes…sweet Jesus…oh god…Regina, yes...” I scream.

We lie wrapped in each other’s arms. Regina nibbles my ear, asks, “Does this mean we’re dating, honey…going steady?”

I’m firm. “No. We’re just fuck buddies.” We giggle together. “Meaningless sex, nothing more. Don’t expect a diamond ring, you saucy thing, you!” I get up on one elbow to make a point. “And don’t think just because of what’s just happened that I’m a lesbian. Because I’m certainly not!”

Regina reaches up, kisses me on the lips. I hesitate, don’t know what to do. Then to my surprise, I kiss her back, just like she’s a man. We fall back on the bed, our tongues touch and linger and taste and she slides her slim body on top of mine, and it’s no different than with a man except that there’s no rough, hungry cock pushing arrogantly at my groin, only another pussy, sweet and gentle, against mine.

“Fuck me Regina…please fuck me,” I whimper.

Later, Regina suggests shyly, “Don’t wash after you’ve been with your boyfriends and want playtime with me, okay? It really turns me on to lick his come off your nipples and know his cock has been in you only a little earlier. Never happened to me with a girl before.”

I run my tongue around her puffy nipple. “You’re a sick woman, Regina. But you give great head. Better than any of my boyfriends.” I kiss her lips; my tongue flirts with hers. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know when you’re lesbian?

“You really want to know?”

“Only if you really want to tell me...”

PAGEBREAK

Lady’s Maid

by K. Ann Karlsson

The fire in the grate cast a warm glow about my boudoir, creating subtle shadows on the carved marble mantel. I shifted in the deep copper tub, which had been set near the hearth, and picked up my glass of brandy. A small sip of amber liquid burned its way down my throat and spread heat through my body.

Brandy was not a usual drink for ladies, even married ladies, but my dearest husband had introduced me to the habit before his departure for the Peninsular Wars. It was a connection with him I couldn’t bear to sever, even though brandy was not entirely to my taste. But the liquid fire felt good down my throat tonight. I fancied it drowned out the ache of missing Justin, but I knew that wasn’t true. That ache was waiting, like a wolf among the trees. Later, when I was alone in my bed, it would pounce and reveal both my loneliness and my selfish desires.

Justin was, to my most recent knowledge, still alive and well. But I needed him. I needed his strength, his smiles, his calm patience and, most of all, his love. Tears pricked at my eyelids, but I blinked them back. Damn that nasty little Napoleon. And damn Justin for finding it necessary to lend his leadership to England’s cause. England, I thought, could not need him half as much as I. Bloody damned war.

I sighed.

I had been soaking in the bath for some time, idly watching the fire while my maid, Moira, tidied the room and put away my clothes. We had just that afternoon arrived at Southerland Park from London. Town had grown thin of company and, therefore, of necessary distractions. In my rush to arrive in this wild part of Cornwall, I had preceded nearly all of the servants who’d been sent to accompany me. Without proper staff, Moira had been forced to ask two of the stable boys to carry up the hot bathwater.

Silence now filled the empty house like a heavy fog, and it seemed as if Moira and I were the only two souls alive in my husband’s ancestral residence. Even Moira’s occasional comment and quiet movements failed to disturb the deep hush that pressed in on me from all sides.

Moira and I had not yet established that comfortable intimacy expected between a lady and her maid. A burly coachman had recently enticed Higgins, my previous personal maid, to leave my employ for another household. But I couldn’t find it in myself to resent the circumstances because on her wedding day, Higgins had looked content indeed with her new situation. And now I had Moira, who had most recently been an upstairs maid in the London house. I’d intended to interview proper lady’s maid candidates to replace the happy Higgins before our departure from London, but for some reason I’d never made time to do so. Moira would do, I thought. Because what my new maid lacked in training, I’d found, she more than made up in immediate loyalty and overall good cheer.

“Lean forward, milady, so’s I kin wash yer back.”

I was a little startled by Moira’s low-voiced request. But I obediently set the brandy snifter down on a low table near the bath and sat forward.

“Where are you from, Moira? I don’t believe I’ve asked you that before.”

“London, ma’am. And ‘afore that, County Cork, it were.”

“Ireland.”

“Yes, milady.”

Moira’s voice was low and sweet, with a lilting accent. She raised a steaming sliver urn and let the water sluice down over my shoulders. The sensation of heat, in contrast to the cooling bathwater, caused my nipples to stand out so suddenly I gasped. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and the brush of my erect nipples against my legs brought my mind back to Justin. How his mouth, cool, then hot, had dragged over the puckered tips of my breasts; how his large, demanding hands had felt on my body. A stab of longing shot to my core, and I pressed my lips together to hold back a sigh.

Moira put the pitcher down in front of the fire and fetched my favorite lavender-scented soap and a large sponge. I heard the splash as she dipped the sponge into the water. But at the first pass across my back, I jerked away.

“’Tis sorry I am, milady. This sponge is a mite too rough for yer lovely soft skin. I’ll use me hands then, shall I?”

It was an unusual suggestion, spoken softly. Higgins would not have said it, but tonight, with Moira, it sounded just right.

“Yes, please,” I replied. “That would be much better.”

The lavender scent grew stronger. Then Moira’s warm hands glided over my back. The foam of suds between her palms and my skin felt silky smooth. A rush of pleasure flowed down my backbone to my womb, which heated and opened like a flower. I didn’t know if the sensation came from the memory of my husband, or Moira’s gentle touch, but a soft moan escaped me.

Her hands stilled but then continued to work soothingly over my back and shoulders. “His lordship’s been gone a long time, has he?” she said. “How long were you married afore he left, ma’am?”

Water sloshed in the tub as I turned to look at Moira. Really look at her. She was about my age, or perhaps a bit younger. For the first time I remarked that our coloring was very similar, though our individual features were not. Her shiny black hair curled in tendrils from the steam of the bath, and framed a round and pleasant face. The candlelight had darkened her eyes, but I could see they were blue. Like mine.

Just now her eyes shifted away, and she returned her attention to the soap. “I’m sorry, ma’am. ‘Tis none of my affair. I just thought—”

“It’s all right, Moira,” I said, feeling lightheaded and reckless between the brandy and the unwanted, uncomfortable sensations moving in me. “You are perfectly correct. Lord Ravensdown has been gone for thirteen months, ten days and, let me see, about eight hours, I would say. And we were married just three days before he left, though I’ve known him since I was a child.” Tears threatened again. Three days had not nearly been enough time, but they had been lovely days, filled with pleasure and laughter. Until the outside world had intruded.

“Oh, ma’am, ’tis no great wonder that you miss him, then.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, I do miss him. More than I can say.”

She nodded too and then fussed with the soap some more. “’Tis just. Well.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes a body craves another’s touch. I could help ye with that, ma’am.” Her eyes, dark and mysterious, met mine. “I know…things…to ease ye, body and soul. Things I can teach ye.”

I couldn’t look away from her steady gaze. My mind had locked onto that word touch. There were whispers, always with a soupçon of scandal, concerning older married ladies who turned to other women for comfort. And for—other things. But the Duchess of Devonshire I was not. The truth was, I could never be unfaithful to Justin Southerland, Lord Ravensdown, and believe me, I’d had plenty of offers. I’d loved Justin my whole life, even before he’d inherited his title and vast estates. But this, this was not like those other offers. This was not a man making advances, but a woman seeking to ease my pain. I cleared my throat.

“What things?” I whispered.

Her face lit in a slow smile. “’Twill be our secret.” She stood and held out her hand. “C’mon, then. I’ll show you, shall I?”

She helped me out of the bath, then brought a towel that had been warming near the fire. She knelt in front of me and rubbed first my feet, then my legs. None of this was unusual, so I began to think I’d imagined the whole conversation until she stood and spoke again in a husky voice.

“Ye have a lovely body, milady. Strong, but womanlike too.”

“Thank you, Moira. I suppose it’s all that riding I do to pass the time.”

“’Til he comes back.”

“Yes.”

“Yer breasts are a picture, ma’am, if I may be so bold as to say. Yer husband must come close to heaven when he soothes ye here.”

I gulped as a clear memory popped in my head of Justin’s face nestled between my breasts, his eyes glittering with passion as he molded the soft shapes in his large hands.

“May I?” Moira asked.

I nodded, breathless. She patted my chest dry with the soft linen towel, but then let it fall to the floor. Her warm, callused hand stroked down my skin until she cupped the slight weight of my breast, rosy from the warm bath. Her thumb moved across the nipple, and I sucked in air. I felt on fire where her fingertips trailed across the puckered tips. I’d never imagined that the fire of arousal, banked since Justin’s departure, could now roar into flame at a woman’s touch. Moira bent her head and suddenly my breast was in her mouth. I didn’t think about whether it was right or appropriate for my upstairs maid to be touching me in such a way; my only thought was that she shouldn’t stop.

Then I had another thought. I must see and touch too. I recognized something in Moira that bound her to me. It was as if I looked at her through Justin’s eyes, in the way he looked at me. As a woman. As sexual and desirable.

The words that next came out of my mouth were ones Justin would have used. “You must take off your clothes, Moira.”

She raised her head and smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Come sit on the bed then, and ye can watch me.”

So I perched naked on the pale grey satin coverlet of my four-poster bed, and I watched as Moira Sullivan revealed her woman’s body to me, piece by piece. When I told her I knew very little of lovemaking and seduction except what my husband had taught me in three days, her method became more like an instructional play. As she disrobed, she would say things like, “yer man will like this” or “the gentlemen love it when ye do this.”

Every movement was so fascinating and sensual I felt compelled to ask, “How do you know these things, Moira?”

She looked up from untying her garter. “I’m thinkin’ yer not really wantin’ to know that, milady.”

I stared. Her eyes held poignant sadness but with a hard glint of experience that squeezed my heart. I pictured any number of shocking situations where she could have learnt such things. “Quite right,” was all I could manage in reply.

When she was naked, she joined me on the bed. We sat cross-legged and facing each other, and just stared for a few moments. She was broader of chest and shoulder than me, and her breasts were considerably larger than mine. Other than that, we were roughly the same height and shape. I had never seen another naked female body. Her skin was smooth and pale in the candlelight. The tips of her breasts puckered and drew up under my gaze. Was this what so entranced Justin when he looked at me? The endless fascinations of a woman’s body?

She reached out and ran a finger down my leg, drawing a gasp from me. “Has your man ever kissed that sweet cunny of yours?” she asked.

“What?” I frowned, vaguely affronted by the unfamiliar language.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, but then her eyes danced with such mirth I began to giggle. She lay down and propped a hand under her head. With her other hand, she beckoned. “Lay yerself down, milady. I’ll show ye what I mean.”

I lay on my back next to her, and her warm hand stroked up my belly, my breasts, down my arm and over my hips. As my skin heated, she began to drop kisses on my neck and shoulders. I moaned.

Here was an echo of what Justin and I had shared before he’d left, and I felt a moment of uncertainty. But the sensations were so different, I found myself easily tempted by the urgings of my body. Moira’s skin was as soft as mine, contrasting with the hard point of her nipple that pressed against my arm. I reached to palm her breast but found my small hand unequal to the task. I turned on my side and used both hands, bringing the turgid point to my lips. Her cry sent a stab between my legs, and I felt a rush of heat and liquid there. Her skin smelled sweet but tasted salty; the combination enticed me even further.

“Ah, milady,” she said, “that feels like heaven, it does.” Her fingers combed through my hair at the back of my head urging me forward. “Take it a bit harder and roll it on yer tongue. Ah, aye, like that.”

She brought her hand up and caught my nipple in her spread fingers. She squeezed the point, and I writhed in pleasure, drawing hard on her breast.

A web of soft black hair, hers and mine, covered us. It was as if we were the same person split into two, and then merged back into one skin. We became a bundle of sensitized nerves locked together. The sounds of her pleasure drove me on.

She grasped my hand and pressed it down into the crisp curls below her belly. “Here, milady.” Her voice was low and warm in my ear. “This is where a man presses his big cock into ye. Ye’ve felt that, aye? When he stuffs ye full.”

Yes, I had felt the power of that deep possession. The pounding excitement, the race to finish. Justin had been large and hard. My heart thrummed at the intensity of the memory, the longing for something so basic, so primitive.

“’Tis good, that,” said Moira. “But there are other ways to enjoy yer body, milady. Softer ways.” Her words made me squirm, but her fingers tangled with mine and kept me focused on her velvety skin.

She dragged my hand further between her legs. “This is me cunny. Me quim, ye see. And this is a woman’s pleasure pearl.” She pushed my fingers onto a firm little nub of flesh. “Ye rub it, and it grows hard, like a man’s cock, aye?”

I’d never thought of such a thing. I’d scarcely touched myself even in the bath. To feel her sex was a revelation. I tentatively explored the slick folds and soft textures, growing bolder as I absorbed her sighs of pleasure. The points of my breasts were nearly painful in their engorged stiffness. I took the hard nub of the “pearl” between my thumb and forefinger. She stiffened and cried out. When I hastened to apologize, she laughed.

“No, ye’ve not hurt me. ’Tis a stab of good. It feels sharp but sweet. Here, I’ll show ye.”

She sat up and knelt between my legs. Her white skin glowed in the candlelight, contrasting with the dark, damp curls between her thighs. She pushed my knees back and I confess to a blush as she studied my nether parts.

“Ah, milady. Such a pretty hole. So ripe an’ pink.”

My husband’s face flashed again at that moment, and I understood it was because I’d recognized a similar expression—excitement, arousal, desire. That look had been a prelude to unimaginable pleasure. My belly quivered in anticipation, my hips twisted. A small smack of her hand landed on my bottom. I froze in place.

“Hold ye still, milady. Ye’ll want to enjoy this.” Her fingers trailed heat through my curls, her thumb circled the little pearl, then grasped it lightly and pulled. I cried out, clutching at the coverlet. Her eyes flicked up to mine. She plunged two fingers inside me, still teasing the nub, stroking it with her thumb. Lightning flashed in my head and my whole body stiffened and shook. The sensation was not unfamiliar; Justin had also used his long fingers to bring me delight, and I felt a twinge of conscience as Moira’s hand moved inside me. But it had been so long ago, so long. My womb clenched around her fingers, and I gritted my teeth against the pain-pleasure. She removed her fingers and bent low between my legs. Her breath burned hot on my curls, then the wet heat of her mouth surrounded that tight little nub.

“Ah, Moira, it’s too much,” I cried.

She looked up then, her face framed by her tumbled hair and the V of my thighs. “No, milady. Yer strong, and beautiful, ye are. Ye must ride it out.” She bent her head. “Savor it.”

Justin had also attempted to kiss me in this most intimate way, I remembered, but I had shyly pushed him away. And, uncharacteristically, he’d relented, promising to revisit me there later. I now regretted refusing him as Moira lapped up my honey-flow like a cat at the cream pot. Her fingers dug into the round cheeks of my bottom, holding me still while her tongue plunged deep inside. My hands fluttered about until Moira placed them gently on my breasts. I licked my fingers and drew the points of my nipples tight, playing with my breasts’ soft weight, pushing the mounds together.

Our quiet sighs and groans blended as she worked her fingers in my slick passage. Her hot-cool mouth on that secret place was nigh unbearable, and her tongue darted everywhere at once, now sharp, now soft and fluttering. The sensations built in me until the muscles of my legs and abdomen grew tighter, harder as I strained towards that wicked mouth.

She pressed the point of her tongue against my pearl and swirled it round and round just as three of her fingers plunged into my quim. I could not be still now as I rode her clever fingers to completion. Her hand drove forward again and again. The lightning fire in my womb burst into a ball of flame, burning a path up my spine, stealing my breath completely. I arched my back in ecstasy and my moans turned to wordless cries as my passage rippled and released over and over and over.

I sprawled on the coverlet, limp and damp. Moira crawled up from between my legs. Her heavy breasts swung between us, and I lifted my hands to shape them. I could feel the tension in her, and it sparked my own as she knelt over me.

“May I kiss ye, milady? So’s ye can taste yer own sweet juices.” Her voice, husky and panting, stabbed at my core. I put my arms around her, and she lay flat on top of me, the soft mound of her pubis pressed to mine. She was light and silky smooth, so unlike my huge bear of a husband. Her eyes glittered with passion.

“Kiss me, Moira,” I whispered. “Please.”

Her mouth tasted of citrus and musk. Of me. The scent was earthy, pungent. I plunged my hands into her hair to hold her closer. Her tongue licked at my lips and chin and throat. We were wet with sweat now, slick and sliding. She turned, and we lay again on our sides, facing each other.

“Put yer fingers in me, milady, and I’ll show ye how to bring me off.” I slid my hand down over her hip and she lifted her leg, her knee forming a triangle. My hand dipped into her wet folds and she moaned. She reached for my sensitive flesh, but I pulled away. Even as I did, I found myself eager to see what Moira would do next.

“’Tis like a game, see, or a mirror,” she said. “I’ll do something to ye and ye do the same to me.”

“Hmm. I think I like this game.” I mimicked her pose and then moved my fingers inside her. She gasped but then pushed my hand away.

“Me first,” she said sternly.

I stilled. “All right.”

She swirled one finger in my passage, then lighted on an interior spot that made my sweet cream pour into her hand. My hips jerked in rhythm as she pressed and released her fingers. But then she stopped. My eyes slammed open to glare at her.

“Your turn, milady,” she said. And damned if she didn’t have a dimple showing in her cheek. Hmm. I did love a challenge.

I slid my middle finger into the depths of her dripping cunt, turning my wrist, seeking that same spot. When her whole body tensed, I pressed inward. Her hips kicked forward, and a frown of concentration appeared on her face.

“Like that?” I teased, enjoying myself, shoving two more fingers inside her.

“Uhnnh. Jay-sus, milady. Sure an’ ye’re a quick learner.”

Her accent had become thicker, her voice dark and throaty. I made to pull away, but she grabbed my wrist, locking my hand between her legs. As she pumped on my fingers, body slick, breasts bouncing with effort, I pulled her hand back between my legs with my other hand. I drove her slack fingers deep inside me, tangling them with my own.

Then Moira started to come apart. Her body convulsed, a hot flush bloomed under her skin, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Her high shriek pitched me into an identical climax, and we writhed together on the bed in utter abandon, soaking the coverlet with our sweat and come.

I must have dozed for a while, but when I came awake it was to Moira stroking my hair, my head pillowed by her breast.

“Why did you show me these things, Moira?”

After a long pause she said, “I could sense ye had need of it, ma’am. I had need too. I miss me man. He was there with your’n. I was there too. ’Tis where I learnt what I know.”

I sat up to stare down at her. “You mean you followed the drum?”

She snorted. “Aye, I was a camp whore, more like.” She put her hands under her head so her elbows splayed out on the pillows. “But then I met Patrick Sullivan, ye see. He was good to me.” Her mouth lifted in a small smile. “We even got married. When they went into Spain, though, he said I was to come back to England.”

“Where is your husband now?” I whispered.

Moira looked away then, and I thought she wasn’t going to answer me.

“Dead,” she said. “Killed just after I left. At Ciudad Rodrigo.”

I gasped, and the tears that had threatened earlier now spilled over. But Moira sat up and brushed them away from my cheeks with her fingers.

I shook my head and reached out to her. “Oh, Moira.”

“’Tis all right, milady.” She took my hand, almost shyly, and squeezed it. “But I wanted ye to know. I’ve shown ye these things for yer own sake, milady. For yer kindnesses. To take away a little part of yer loneliness. I know, ye see, what it means to feel so lonely ye want to die. Though it may mean little from someone such as I, ’twas what I could do for a great lady such as yerself.”

Her deep blue eyes looked steadily into mine. “And ’twill be our secret,” she said, “I swear ’t.”

* * * *

The next morning, I was sitting at my escritoire in the library, taking stock of the previous evening’s events when I heard the front door bang open. I frowned. Who could—

“Cassandra! Cass, I am home.”

“Justin!” I ran to him and was at once engulfed in his arms. And though I could scarce see him for the tears in my eyes, he felt large and strong against me. I pressed close, breathing in the wind-dusted, travel-stained scent of him.

He cupped my face and looked down into my eyes. “Damn, it’s good to see you, my girl. I’ve missed you.”

He stroked my jaw with his thumbs and bent his head. His mouth swept over mine, molding and shaping our lips together. I clutched his lapels and pressed my tongue to his. His hands slid back, tightening in my hair as our mouths slanted and sucked. After several dizzy moments, Justin pulled back.

His whiskey-colored eyes twinkled into mine. “I see you’ve missed me too?”

“Every minute of every day,” I whispered. I looped my arms around his neck and drew him back down to me.

After a discreet interval during which Lord Ravenswood and I had some opportunity to become reacquainted, I heard a scratch on the door and Moira entered. Her eyes twinkled in her pleasant face as she asked, “Shall I fetch some tea then, ma’am?”

“Oh, I think only brandy will do for this occasion.”

“Yes, milady.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Brandy, my dear? At this hour?”

“Of course, Justin. I want to celebrate.” I pulled him close in another hug.

Then I did something I’d never done in my life. Over Justin’s shoulder, I caught Moira’s eye and winked.

And of course, dear reader, you know she winked back.

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The Tiger’s Tale

by Kilt Kilpatrick

That evening, lying underneath the mosquito nets, Elspeth could scarcely believe it had happened at all. All night she slept feverishly, slowly tossing and turning on the mattress of their great oak and satinwood four-poster like a ship lost in a tempest. She even dreamt of Vijaya’s tiger.

Vijaya had said tigers were the guardians of sleep, and could ward off dark dreams, but still her slumber was troubled with nightmares of fire and thunder. But mostly she dreamt of Vijaya’s beautiful smiling face, resplendent in her green silk sari and short choli blouse; trembling at the sense memory of those skillful, tender hands on her, undressing her, touching her…

* * * *

First Vijaya slid her hands into Elspeth’s rich auburn hair and freed it from the delicate little combs to cascade down to the nape of her neck. Then, with patient, nimble fingers, she undid the myriad mother-of-pearl buttons down the back of the gown and slipped it off Elspeth’s shoulders. Vijaya marveled at Elspeth’s smooth, pale Celtic skin adorned with thousands of tiny red freckles as she methodically unlaced the hooks and eyes of Elspeth’s gold- and cream-colored sateen corset and set it aside, then had her raise her arms so she could pull off her pretty French camisole as well.

Elspeth watched in fascination while the beautiful young woman knelt and unbuckled both her soft leather boots, and lifted each of her calves in turn to pull them off her feet. Vijaya quietly directed Elspeth to pull up her chemise. Elspeth obeyed her servant; she bent down slightly, and gathering it in both hands, lifted the silken folds up to her thighs like the curtain on an art exhibit, exposing her long legs.

Vijaya reached up to the tops of Elspeth’s stockings and smoothly rolled them down and off. She paused a moment, then looked up, meeting Elspeth’s gaze at last. The bare moment seemed to stretch on into forever. She kept her eyes locked on Elspeth’s and at last reached up again to take the elegant, lacy chemise from her and gently tug it down, until Elspeth was as completely unclothed as Botticelli’s Venus, and just as radiant. Then she slowly rose and took Elspeth by the hand, laid her down on the large feather bed and sat down beside her. Elspeth looked up at her for a clue to her intentions, but Vijaya’s only expression was a serene inscrutable hint of smile.

From the nightstand she lifted a portly glass vial out of its pan of hot water and poured the warm sesame oil into her hands. She took her time, beginning by tenderly cradling the arms, massaging the fingers, palms and wrists and giving long, unhurried strokes down to the shoulders. Then she rose and repositioned herself at the top of the bed, nestling Elspeth’s head in her lap in order to better anoint the crown of her head with oil and trace out swirls back ad forth, well up into her scalp, down to the line of her jaw and chin and across the brows of her eyes to the temples. Elspeth closed her eyes and her lips parted involuntarily with faint sigh. Vijaya gave soft little tugs all along the ridges and lobes of her ears, and put drops of warm oil on the tip of her little finger to carefully tickle the opening of her ear canals.

Elspeth could feel the pleasing warmth from Vijaya’s bare midriff as she leaned over her, stretching out to rub her collarbones, reach down her flanks, and run her hands in broad clockwise circles across her abdomen and chest. She felt her breasts swelling and her nipples stiffening as the young women’s skilled hands passed over and around them. She swallowed, her breathing becoming deeper and more ragged. Vijaya’s reach extended nearly to the bottom of her belly, fingertips just grazing the thatch of curly red hairs there.

“Could you turn over for me now, Bahanji?” Vijaya whispered. Elspeth opened her eyes, smiled sleepily, and did as she was asked, resting her head on her hands. Vijaya meanwhile stood and came over to the foot of the bed to work on Elspeth’s feet and ankles with more oil, as she audibly groaned with pleasure. After they had received sufficient attention, Vijaya progressed up to the calves, her upper legs, and her thighs. Elspeth shuddered at her touch. Quietly, Vijaya rose onto the bed, and carefully straddled Elspeth’s legs just below her soft round buttocks.

There was a pause and the faintest of rustles, then Vijaya’s hands returned to Elspeth with a firm slow slide from her sacral dimples all the way up to her shoulders, where she kneaded the muscles with a surprising strength. This she repeated twice more before stretching herself down to lie on Elspeth’s back. With a jolt that ran through her body like lightning, Elspeth realized Vijaya had stripped off her choli and was naked from the waist up; she could feel the points of the young woman’s breasts rubbing against her shoulder blades.

Vijaya softly rested her cheek against Elspeth’s, and they lay there together companionably. Then Vijaya raised up just enough to bring her lips to Elspeth’s ear. Her whisper tickled. “Do you love me, my sister?”

Elspeth nodded, and her voice cracked “Yes.”

“And I love you too. Bahanji, your heart needs to be ravished. I will do my part, but we must find you a lover as well.” She played thoughtfully with a stray lock of Elspeth’s hair. “We shoul– ” She gasped in mid-sentence and shot upright.

Elspeth’s husband stood like stone in the bedroom entryway. His eyes were flat and cold; his hands were clenched into hard, furious knots.

* * **

Of all the innumerable trifles she left behind in coming to India, Elspeth missed the sea the most. She was born in Scotland, in the village of Blackwaterfoot on Arran, a green and rocky isle in the Firth of Clyde with more sheep and burren-rabbits than people. As a girl, she played along heathered hills and standing stones, in storied sea caves whose mossy walls were still engraved by Viking and Pictish graffiti, on Neolithic dolmen graves with a patina of lichen. On the clearest days, she could see Ireland.

She was a lovely ginger-haired girl. Her modest family recognized her potential at an early age and sent her to live with her aunts in Edinburgh, city of a thousand chimneys, in order to groom her into the sort of suitable wife who might attract a reasonably well-off gentleman of means for a husband. She was tutored in proper language and etiquette, subtleties of protocol, domestic skills, and the art of dutiful silence. She was forbidden to speak or sing in Gaelic. In the fullness of time she grew into an exquisitely striking young woman with a pale, soft beauty of the kind so favored by Dante Gabriel Rossetti; she gloried in long red hair, the very slightest dusting of freckles, and gentle eyes possessed of a sweet sadness so lovely you could almost forgive a man for wanting to keep her in a permanent state of unhappiness.

Clive Archibald Godfrey was the man who fixed his eye upon her. When her aunts, through various behind-the-scenes machinations, brought the seventeen-year-old girl to his attention, he found her most desirable as a prospective wife and mother. On first perusal he was not an immediate choice for a romantic assignation; though tall and strong and perhaps not unhandsome, he was somewhat horse-faced with a high forehead and an unfortunate overbite that could only be partially mitigated by his handlebar mustache. What was more, he exhibited a highly fastidious deportment, unyielding Anglican piety and a slightly peevish temperament that did not endear him at social gatherings.

Elspeth’s aunts nevertheless thought him a most promising candidate for their charge, and they strove to assure Elspeth that any awkward stiffness was merely a superficial disguise for his fine inner qualities. In their judgment, any shortcomings he may have possessed in manly pulchritude, charm, or sparkling wit were amply compensated for by one salient feature: He was, above all, ambitious. His father in his time—before his untimely death from consuming a surfeit of canned oysters at a summer picnic—had been with the East India Company and profited well from the Chinese tea trade. The younger Godfrey in turn was eager to make his own fortune as a colonial bureaucrat in the British civil service office of the Raj.

Their courtship and subsequent engagement was brief and unremarkable, consisting in the main of pleasant chaperoned outings in the country and church functions and tense interrogatory visits with Elspeth’s future mother-in-law. Events culminated in a small, lovely wedding ceremony appropriate to their class, and Clive indulged Elspeth’s wish for a weekend honeymoon in Blackpool. It was there by the seashore that they consummated their vows with the physical act of love, in great solemnity and earnestness.

Then in very short order, they bid Britain farewell, “possibly for quite some time” as Clive put it, to begin their new life in India. From the great port of London, Clive’s mother saw them off most imperiously while Elspeth’s aunts, their long work done at last, cried and waved goodbye over and over as their ocean liner bore the happy couple off to another world. For more than seven thousand miles they steamed the seas, and it seemed they also sailed backwards in time as well, past France and Spain, though the Pillars of Hercules at Gibraltar, across the wine-dark Mediterranean; into Egypt and threading down the Suez canal into the Red Sea, past Arabia and the African Horn, and out again through the strait the ancient Arab navigators called Bab-el-Mandeb, the Gate of Tears.

Then across the Arabian Sea, until they at last caught sight of the mountains of India.

“The Jewel in the Crown,” murmured Clive uncharacteristically as they looked out over the railing towards the harbor of Bombay. Despite the insufferable heat, Elspeth shivered with wonder and anticipation, and perhaps more than a little trepidation. Elspeth never forgot that overwhelming first moment when they disembarked, or the dreamlike carriage ride towards their new home. They had left the Indian Ocean only to dive into an ocean of Indians. It was not just that there was a sea of people; the whole of creation was here, in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of sight and sound and smell: gods and filth, spices and incense, stench and sweat and urine and feces, silk and gold and dust and rags, festivity and suffering. Always and everywhere the clamorous opposition of a dozen scents, a hundred voices, a thousand bright colors, everything mingling with wild abandon in uproarious profusion. Holy rivers flowed in an infernal heat, as though in the Hindu cosmos, the heavens and hells had collided long ago, leaving their ten-armed divinities to shrug and say: This is India.

* * * *

Ten years passed. As hoped, Clive’s ambition and single-mindedness paid off handsomely. He threw himself into his career with great élan and advanced rapidly in the colonial administration, and each new promotion meant moving to another fine house in another exotic locale on the subcontinent. Regrettably, the days were not unqualifiedly halcyon for the two of them. For Elspeth, though, it was a period of unparalleled sights and marvels, subtle pressures mounted. She could not shake the apprehension Clive did not love her so much as he admired her, in the way of a useful, well-crafted tool or a conversation piece on the mantelpiece. And despite years of dutiful effort and doctoral supervision she was unable to conceive, a deficiency Clive found difficult to forgive, particularly since he himself took such care to follow a strict daily regimen of Dr. Pritchard’s Healthful Turpentine and Calomel Compound to prevent melancholic blood.

Elspeth increasingly regarded herself as a lifelong pilgrim through successively dreadful circles of hell, since circumstances beyond her power had taken her from her island birthplace. Sooty, smoky Edinburgh had offered nothing but unending hours of study and strict training. London had vacillated between fogbound dankness and a falsely merry, gilded marketing of her own person. She hated those days of stiff competition with English society women, outwardly all courtesy and elegance; at heart, rapacious and cruel as predatory birds. The twisting, reeking thoroughfares of Bombay and Delhi were squalid circuses of the most dire, crushing poverty, and her only diversion were the dreary social functions of other colonial wives, who in the large were either dull matronly figures or disdainful patrician social climbers no less unpleasant than their London equivalents. In princely Hyderabad, more Arab than Hindu, elephants and camels roamed the streets and cruel-faced men strode about with open swords in their hands. It was no place for a woman; with Clive so frequently called away by the extended absences required by his work, she spent long days and nights there concealed behind screened windows, a cloistered prisoner in her own home.

So it was with no small relief when Clive’s career brought them out of the teeming cities and north to the Central Provinces, to the lush forests and beautiful wild places of Madhya Pradesh. Now they had gained a fine large house in the country, complete with a handsomely appointed garden, stables, a carriage-house and a contingent of servants. In anticipation of good sporting, Clive acquired two hunting dogs, fierce black metzgerhunds he named Sampson and Goliath. Elspeth began to dare hope that the vicissitudes of her fortunes were finally improving. One morning in the sitting room she expressed her longing to go explore the wild countryside of the region, only to have Clive respond that he had an announcement and a surprise for her. She looked up from her book of poetry, struck with a twinge of apprehension—surely not another move so soon, especially now that prospects seemed so full of promise...

“Truly?”

“Yes, my dear. Now that we have come into our own—and indeed, it is no idle speculation or mere bombast to declare that my efforts may even yet earn us a knighthood or baronet, or other title into the peerage—it is time we learn to comport ourselves in proper fashion. To that end, I find it most unbecoming that you gallivant around the countryside unescorted like an undisciplined schoolgirl.”

Her heart dropped, and she struggled to compose herself to give a reply.

But he continued. “So, then, I have someone I should wish to present to you, and that person is here with me now.”

He clapped his hands sharply and in came a young Indian woman. She was lovely; perhaps a few years younger than her. She was dressed in a simple but lovely sari of green silk with delicate accents of gold. Though her arms and midriff were bare to the eye, there was nothing unbecoming about her attire; indeed, she was elegance and poise personified. Her eyes were bright and happy. Slender jangling bangles garlanded her forearms. A tiny perfect vermilion tikka dot decorated her forehead and a delicate little gold ring her nose. Her flawless skin was of the dusky cinnamon complexion the admiring natives called “wheaten,” and her hair was sleek and midnight black, tied in a long braid.

“She was a temple dancer in Tamil Nadu, but since then she has foresworn heathen ritual and done fine service in English households. I daresay she will be good for both of us, in service as your new lady’s maid. And yes, I judge her a most suitable companion to accompany you on all your reconnoitering.”

The girl put her hands together in a gracious namaste, and wonderfully, broke into a delighted smile and a light laugh, as though the meeting was her heart’s fondest desire. He beamed and presented her with a flourish.

“This is Vijaya.”

* * * *

“Bahanji, what song is that you are humming?” Vijaya asked one day as they reclined, leisurely picnicking on a hilly meadow overlooking forests of teak and sal. When Clive was at home, Vijaya took care to respectfully address Mrs. Godfrey as Memsahib. But when they were by themselves and carefree, Vijaya delighted in calling her Bahanji. Sister. Elspeth smiled at the sound of it. Vijaya was not shy and demure like the village women; she did not keep her gaze down or her voice soft, or her opinions to herself.

From the first, they were inseparable. During the monsoon season, or when the summer heat grew too unbearable, they enjoyed leisurely days reading aloud to one another, or playing cards and backgammon. Some days they would simply talk, entertaining themselves for hours telling stories and laughing together. But on their favorite days they went on long strolls, explored the local markets, and set out on bold expeditions out into the wilds, as they were today.

Elspeth paused in her sketching—in recent weeks she had taken up watercolors. “Was I? How very curious. I was so engaged with my drawings, I hadn’t realized.”

“It went like this,” Vijaya said, and mimicked the tune.

Elspeth’s eyes brightened as she recognized the melody. “Oh! Yes, of course. It’s a song I sang as a girl on Arran:

“Cluinn mi na toinn, an aosda ceòl nan t-uisge

Is aithne dhomh gu math an t-òran sin

An nochd, tha me gafa eadar talamh is an fairge

“Ach thig mi dhachaigh arithist

Fodha an gealach, thig mi saor…”

Vijaya had never heard Elspeth sing before, and the haunting lilt of her voice speaking strange words stirred her deeply. “It’s…beautiful, and yet so sad, too. What does it mean?”

A strange look crossed Elspeth’s face. “It’s a song sung by a selkie – a seal-woman who has become trapped on the land by a fisherman’s love, bound to remain in human shape forever. She looks out over the ocean in the moonlight and listens to her kin there, singing to them. She says,

“I hear the waves, the ancient music of the water

I know well that song

Tonight I am caught between land and sea

“But I will come home again

Beneath the moon, I will be free…”

Vijaya sat up and wrapped her arms around her legs, cocking her head to one side and closing her eyes while she listened and pictured Scottish islands far, far beyond the black water. At last, she said, “Did you know sometimes, your voice changes? I like it.”

Elspeth smiled sheepishly. “It’s my Scottish burr. My aunties spent years beating it out of me so I could become a woman fit for fine English society. But it seems I am just a fraud for all their best efforts. I am no English lady.”

“And I am a very misbehaved Indian girl. Once I was a Devadasi, a handmaiden to the Tridevi: the three great goddesses Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Parvati. We cared for the temple, performed the rituals and pujas, and danced Bharatanatyam. The upper castes would have us give our blessings at the weddings of their children. It was considered quite auspicious.”

She smiled at the thought, but grew rueful. “But the old ways are fading, and now all consider us no better than whores. So I serve the English. But I am not properly dutiful or industrious or respectful. I am quite impious. I do not know my place. I know I am a poor servant.”

“Poor, indeed!” Elspeth said, laughing. But then her face grew earnest. “I have servants aplenty, Vijaya-ji. But I have never had a friend. Would you be my friend?”

Vijaya leaned over and touched her cheek. “I am already your friend, Sanam.” Elspeth smiled and looked away, suddenly feeling bashful. The two of them lay back on their picnic blanket and for a time watched the clouds companionably. Presently, Elspeth felt her courage grow enough to ask an impertinent question she had been ruminating on for quite some time.

“Vijaya?”

“Yes?”

“Do you—have a lover?”

Vijaya rolled over and regarded her before answering. “Oh yes, Bahanji. As beautiful as Krishna, and as red as the sun.”

Elspeth looked at her in surprise. “Vijaya! Who is this man?”

She kept her face inscrutable. “Oh, it is no man.”

Elspeth stared and hesitated. “What—whatever do you mean?”

Vijaya returned her gaze unflinchingly. “My love, my heart’s desire…is—a tiger.”

Elspeth was unconsciously holding her breath. Now she let it out with a sharp exhalation and threw a twist of grass at her. “Cheeky girl!”

Vijaya sat up and continued. “By moonlight I go to the garden and sing for him. He stalks out of the jungle mad with love for me. Oh, he is so magnificent, Bahanji, so handsome! His eyes are bright as carnelian stones, his nose is as broad as an axe, his face is orange and black and shot with white blazes. He weighs five hundred pounds and he fears neither elephant nor maharaja. I embrace him and we make love right there on the estate grounds. Or some nights he takes me his secret honey-scented love-bower in the jungle. Oh, such a marvelous lover, my sister.”

Elspeth smiled indulgently and shook her head. Vijaya was given to the occasional burst of the most outrageous fancy.

Vijaya gave her a playful push on the shoulder. “Oh, you are so serious. Come! When we get home I shall give you a proper Indian massage to help you forget all your troubles.”

“That does sound marvelous. It’s fortuitous that Clive is away until tomorrow. I should hate to think how scandalized my husband would be to find me in such a compromised state.”

They laughed.

* * * *

Peacocks woke Elspeth in the morning with their half-human cries. As consciousness returned, realization descended on her: where she was, and her terrible loss. She rolled into a fetal ball, cried and shook in her bed. Her head felt thick and there was a queer taste in her mouth. On the nightstand was a bottle of McGillicuddy's Patented Laudanum Tonic. Something was wrong with the room; all her watercolors of the Indian countryside had been replaced by a thick wooden crucifix and a pair of oil paintings depicting Christ the Good Shepherd and Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane. In the mirror, her wet, teary eyes looked like raw oysters.

When she had collected herself as best she could and done some needful things, she wiped her tears and came down to the dining room where her husband sat at breakfast, reading his paper over a plate of smoked haddock Kedgeree. She sat down at the table without a word. The news from home was vexing him more than usual. He fumed over Welsh nationalists demanding recognition of their native tongue. “Bloody Taffies and their Celtic gobbledygook! They should conduct themselves as a conquered people.”

Elspeth forbear to mention that she spoke only Gaelic until she was six. He sneered at the announcement of more dinosaur fossils discovered in the Wyoming Territory; Clive trusted paleontologists as much as freemasons and was convinced Archaeopteryx and Neanderthals were Prussian hoaxes orchestrated by Von Bismarck to sap British morale. Finally, Jack the Ripper had killed yet again in Whitechapel.

Clive threw the paper down in disgust, then straightened his collar and cleared his throat. He folded his hands and regarded Elspeth gravely. “My dear, we must speak seriously as man and wife.”

He frowned, marshalling his thoughts. “My dear, we are servants of the Empire, as well as Christian soldiers on the front lines of spiritual warfare, crusading into Lucifer’s very suzerainty on Earth. Demonic forces walk freely here. We must never forget that these people are their thralls.”

He made the approximation of a smile meant to be reassuring. “You must not despair or blame yourself too harshly for falling under the spell of…that woman. Strength of will is not a gift given to the fairer sex. But dearest, now you must fight and redouble your effort, despite your feminine weakness. The apostle Paul warns us against those women who exchange natural passions for vile affections that contravene the order of nature.

“This Jezebel, this heathen demoness who insinuated herself into our lives has bewitched you—India has bewitched you—but my angel, with prayer, faith and strict discipline, for as long as is required, we can drive the devil out of you. It is my husbandly duty to correct you, and I will not be slack in my moral responsibility. Do stop your infernal sniffling, Elspeth,” he snapped. “Wipe your eyes and cease your childish behavior this very instant.”

He furrowed his brow and gave a deep exhale to preface a serious new topic. “Now. What is more, we must take great pains to ensure that this…singular incident…remains our own private disgrace, with our good name and reputation unsullied. And I most solemnly promise you, I will protect you from that evil succubus and ensure that she never lays a finger on you…or anyone else again.”

Elspeth strived to keep her voice from quavering. “Clive, darling, please listen to me. You mustn’t do—”

“Enough!” Clive shouted. He stood and rang the servant’s bell, then tugged on his waistcoat and collected himself. “I have contacted Rev. Abernathy, and he will be coming by this afternoon to begin your spiritual discipline. Do make yourself presentable for him. And I must forbid you from leaving the house until such time as we are convinced you have been spiritually buttressed.”

“No!” She burst from the chair and rushed at him, striking at him viciously. She struck him three times before he managed to seize her wrists. Two of the groundsmen appeared in answer to his summons. “Take Mrs. Godfrey upstairs and see to it she is given three spoonfuls of her tonic.”

The men nodded and pulled her, sobbing and kicking, up the stairs. There was a dreadful commotion from upstairs, but in a few minutes’ time there was silence and the servants returned. “The Memsahib sleeps now,” they reported.

* * * *

The footman found Clive out on the grounds with his rifle, shooting any little grey gilarhi squirrels unfortunate enough to enter his sight. “Are the three Rajasthanis here?”

“They await your pleasure even now, Sahib.” Clive lowered his gun.

“Good. Have them meet me on the veranda.”

He had grim work to do now. The turbaned desert trio appeared up to the task that lay ahead. Their bearded leader was grizzled and had but one eye. His second was wire-thin and hatchet-faced with long creases cut into his cheeks. The third towered over them all, a dark taciturn juggernaut with mighty thews like a djinn. All bore heavy curved daggers in their belts to defend their honor. Clive cleared his throat and spoke with authority. “She is called Vijaya. The peasants have seen her take refuge at the Lakshmi shrine to the east of the village, the one on the old road.”

“We know the place,” spoke the grey-beard. “And we have seen the harlot parading herself without shame or decency.”

“You do well to humble her pride.”

“Virtue is its own reward.”

“Lastly, to earn your money, it is imperative no one ever learn of this incident.”

“Have no fear for your honor. Shame burns well, and ash cannot tell tales.”

Clive permitted himself a cold smile. “We understand one another.”

The men departed, and Clive returned to his sullen shooting. After his brooding had subsided, he returned to the house and ascended the stairs. The servants had closed the shutters and lower the gossamer mosquito netting to encourage Elspeth to sleep more soundly.

He stood unmoving, watched her sleeping form while black thoughts twisted in his head. Then he regarded the new paintings, their Redeemers somewhat sinister-looking now in the ill-lit room. He straightened the crucifix hanging on the wall, and casually lifted the bottle on the nightstand. Perhaps just a nip would remedy his melancholy. He took the smallest swig, then a deeper draught. He nearly choked. It was only water. Stunned, he turned to the bed and lifted the netting away, and stretched out a quavering hand to his wife’s prone figure beneath the bedcovers. Grasping the sheets, he pulled them away suddenly. Beneath them were nothing but pillows, rolls of clothing—and her wedding ring. His wife was gone.

** * *

Miles away at that moment, Elspeth sprinted past fields of wildflowers and splashed across rivulets, lungs on fire and muscles aching, hoping (now in vain) that her escape was still unnoticed. She had been terrified slipping out of the bedroom and skulking around her own house in only her nightgown, scarcely believing that her clumsy ruses had worked and certain she would be discovered at any moment. She had to crouch for two hellish minutes at the base of the stairs while two of the maids puttered around the corner. From a closet she quickly snatched breeches and a pair of Clive’s big riding boots. Then carrying them she made her way to Clive’s study and closed the door behind her. Her mind was racing to devise a plan. Quickly she pulled on the pants and stepped into the boots, then frantically ripped away the bottom of her nightgown to fashion a shirt.

She scanned the roll top desk for money, the keys to the carriage house, clues to Vijaya’s whereabouts, anything that could help her now. In the top drawer she found a scattering of erotic postcards featuring Parisian courtesans, and a black, coiled shape that for an instant she took for a scorpion. It was a service revolver. Elspeth jerked her hand away as if it might bite her.

She frantically rifled about the rest of the room, all the while desperately trying to think where Vijaya would go, how she could get a horse from the stables or somehow seize control of the carriage…

Movement from outside made her duck out of sight. She crept to the window and cracked it open. She could hear Clive’s voice. “She is called Vijaya…” She listened in rapt horror.

Minutes later, she chose the simplest option: she waited until the coast was clear and darted from the front door and into the trees. Then she bolted for all her heart was worth. She knew taking the dirt road to the village would eventually lead her to the old caravan route and Lakshmi’s shrine. But she knew the lay of the land well enough now to realize that if she cut through the hill meadows and streams, and cut through the neck of the forest, she might reach the old shrine in time.

But she did not reach it in time. When at last she glimpsed the peak of its little stone roof she bounded down the hill, whipped by branches, and out of breath, and charged through the underbrush into the roadside sanctuary, she came to an ungainly abrupt, jarring halt against a stone pillar, transfixed with shock. The killers had already found Vijaya.

The giant and the hatchet-faced man had seized Vijaya, stretching her arms apart between them. The giant also clutched her neck in an iron grip, forcing her to kneel, forcing her head down as she wept and pleaded. Their leader stood before her, emptying a jar of lamp oil upon her. She shrieked with each douse. The greybeard turned at Elspeth’s intrusion, a furious gleam in his eye. He held a lit lantern in his other hand.

Elspeth had no time to think of her hasty plan, only to react. She drew herself up and affected her most imperious manner. “Release her!” she commanded. “I am the Memsahib Godfrey!”

The one-eyed man’s evil glare did not waver for an instant. “We know well who you are, woman. Get back to your husband or we will drag you back to him ourselves.”

Elspeth matched his awful gaze, rooted to the spot. Her false exterior became something else, something true and even darker. She hunched her shoulders and bent forward in a slightly predatory crouch. “Let her go now…or I will kill you all.” The three were dumbfounded at this transformation, then their shock smoldered into low mocking laughter. She began to raise her hands.

There was a rumble and flash of movement that caught the grey-beard from his side and dashed him across the room into the side wall. Lantern and oil jar shattered and he burst into screaming flame, illuminating the room.

A tiger wheeled to face them all, his eyes blazing in the fire-light like a god’s. The great animal snarled, and stalked rapidly towards the two men. He batted at the shrieking hatchet-faced man like a cat playing with a mouse. With a single swipe, the man fell twisting away, clutching what remained of his throat and face. The big Rajasthani released Vijaya and held out his arms in pure raw fear, cornered. The tiger crouched and leapt, catching the turbaned giant in an embrace, and clamped his jaws on him. His smothered scream was cut off by a soft wet crunch, and he collapsed to the flagstones.

At length the tiger released his prey, and nonchalantly circled to regard the two women. He raised his head, sniffed the air, and made a deep chuffing sound. He observed them for a brief eternity; then, without warning, padded out past them and bolted away into the jungle, gone again.

The entire affair had lasted no more than a dozen heartbeats. Elspeth stared after him for long disbelieving moments, then came to her senses again and ran over to Vijaya, now gasping on the floor. She cradled her head and stroked her hair, sobbing and kissing her drenched forehead. Vijaya trembled. “Oh, Elspeth, I was so terrified, so sure they were—they would...” She looked up at her and beamed. “But then you were there, so brave…become the wargoddess…Mother Durga, riding on a tiger.” Elspeth looked at her, eyes wet with tears, wordless, full of love, her heart bursting.

How long they remained there on the stone floor holding one another, no one could say. But at last Elspeth peered around anxiously, suddenly aware of the terrible stench of blood and burned flesh. “We must get away from here, darling,” she said, lifting them to their feet. She anxiously looked out at the road, the jungle, the sky. What now? She had no idea. “But where can we go?”

Vijaya raised her head from Elspeth’s shoulder. “I know.”

* * * *

In the branches overhead, langur monkeys leaped and chatter-barked at them. Now Vijaya had taken the lead, and Elspeth’s hand, leading her deeper into the jungle. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“We are following my tiger.” Vijaya smiled, as if this were the most natural explanation in the world.

Elspeth went along in a daze, her exhaustion finally taking its toll. This is a dream, she thought, too much laudanum elixir.

“Bahanji, trust me a little longer. We are nearly there. Pray to the moon now. She is a goddess and understands. She smiles on lovers and thieves, and those who must travel by night.”

Elspeth smiled at the thought.

She was very nearly asleep on her feet when Vijaya whispered into her ear. “Beloved, look—we are here.”

She focused her bleary eyes on great masonry blocks, stone turrets adorned with intricate pendants and finials. They had arrived at the ruins of a temple courtyard adjoining an enormous pool of water ringed with fragrant pale lotus flowers. The crumbling stone walls were clutched by banyan tree roots and overgrown with flowered garlands of creeping liana vines, but on their ancient panels, bas-relief gods and nymphs could still be seen coupling in series of acrobatic exuberance. Night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air. Tiny frogs and cicadas serenaded them. Twilight was dyeing the sky, from cerulean to peacock teal to star-studded indigo. Above it all, the silver-tinged ring of the moon shone like a diamond necklace. “A honey-scented love-bower…” Elspeth marveled.

“Come,” said Vijaya, pulling her by the hand with a smile.

The moon waited for them in the water, beckoning them to join her. They undressed and hand in hand, lightly stepped down the flights of baked brick steps into the cool water. This must be how the selkie felt, Elspeth thought, throwing off her human shape to return home.

They laughed and squealed; it felt delicious to wash off the sweat, grime and oil. Elspeth watched as Vijaya wiped the excess water from her face, then met her gaze with a coy half-smile. Treading water, they drew closer to each other, reaching out to touch fingertips, then grasp hands. They pulled one another in close until their hungry bodies touched; then tentatively, slowly, leaned in until their lips met as well. Elspeth felt dizzy, electrified, transcendent, and kissed her with a passion she scarcely knew was possible.

They released hands to embrace each other all the tighter; Elspeth clasped Vijaya’s sweet face with both hands to kiss her, and Vijaya in turn wrapped her arms around Elspeth and held her tight. They spun round and round this way, then Vijaya broke free and swum to the stone steps. She left the pool and knelt on the steps, turning to entice Elspeth out with a beckoning finger and a lascivious look. The Scotswoman followed her gladly, and Vijaya tugged her up and over to the mossy flagstones. They felt soft as a velvet carpet when Vijaya sat down and pulled Elspeth down after her.

“Lean back,” she urged, and cradled Elspeth in her arms. With her left hand she tenderly pulled Elspeth’s forehead back until Elspeth’s head rested on her shoulder, then nuzzled her neck with abandon. Her right hand snaked around to caress her lover’s breast and slyly play with her firm nipples. Elspeth closed her eyes and moaned. Vijaya continued to ravish her neck, but let her right hand trail down her torso, and slip the fingers between her legs. Elspeth shuddered, she reached back to grasp Vijaya’s head, latched on to her bronze leg with the other hand for dear life. As Vijaya continued her ministrations, Elspeth eyes clamped tight, her mouth opened involuntarily, she began to writhe and tremble, shaken by the first orgasm of her life.

Vijaya cooed softly and shushed her, gently kissed and stroked her hair, bringing her back down again. She rested her head on Elspeth’s and looked up at the jewel-glazed moon, thoughtful. “We must go to somewhere without crucifixes or karma, my love.” She mused. “Somewhere beautiful and disreputable on the other side of the world…Tahiti? Hawaii…San Francisco, perhaps. But first I must make an offering here.” She reached around and hugged Elspeth tightly, squeezing her in a firm grip. “You must not be frightened now, Bahanji. Open your eyes. Can you see them?”

Elspeth felt a prick of unease, and gasped. Across the pond, bright eyes at the water’s edge glowed and long, dark shapes moved. Tigers. “Do not be afraid,” Vijaya reassured her in a firm voice. “He is coming.”

From the dark of the temple ruins, a great shape approached them. It crossed the pillared courtyard through alternating bands of moonlight and blackness like a Kinetescopic show. It appeared low and powerful at first, striding silently on all fours. In the crafty half-light, now it was a tiger—their tiger—no, now something else, then a tiger again, but when at last it emerged before them it was a no beast at all, but a man. His hair was wild and comely; his skin was the darkest shade of dusk. He was naked and unashamed, with a lean, powerful build that spoke of strength and feline grace. His handsome face was both ancient and ageless, his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “They call him Vaghadeva,” Vijaya murmured reverently. “He is the Tiger God, and my lover.” He drew closer still.

Elspeth never felt such a potent mix of fear and wonder. “What does he want of us?” she asked softly.

Vijaya held her tighter. “He hungers, and I must make an offering to him. But you have both saved my life this day, so you are my gift to him. And he is my gift to you.”

Vaghadeva said nothing, but took another step, standing before them. The dark shaft of his penis rose in an offering of his own. Vijaya reached forth a hand to cradle it, and with her other gently raised Elspeth’s chin to it. “Now open, and take him in your mouth,” she instructed. Elspeth obeyed, and opened wide to let Vijaya feed her. His phallus tasted musky and delicious.

Elspeth kept her arms locked at her side, using no hands but Vijaya’s to sheath him in her mouth, while Vijaya supported her chin and worked the shaft back and forth. The god raised his head and growled his pleasure. He reached down to stroke both their heads with sacred carnality. The temple dancer directed the formerly respectable colonial lady how to make her obeisance to the idol before her, kissing and sucking upon the head, licking slowly up and down the shaft, tenderly kissing the testes, as Vijaya cupped them for her.

Then, responding to some unspoken command, Vijaya pulled Eslpeth’s mouth away. “It is time,” she whispered, and took her place behind her mistress. She sat supporting Elspeth’s body as before, but this time had Elspeth hike up onto her lap, and lifted Elspeth’s legs up and apart.

Vaghadeva knelt down, locking eyes with her, and took hold of her ankles, setting them on his broad shoulders. Elspeth gave a swift intake of breath as she felt Vijaya’s fingers on her vulva, opening her for him completely. She was lost in his unearthly eyes as he bore down and filled her, Vijaya’s hands guiding him in. The sensation made her eyelids flutter like butterflies; her breathing turned to gasps, then groans and a low animal growl. Vijaya brought her wet fingers to Elspeth’s mouth and she suckled on them between gasps, tasting her own juices. Vaghadeva brought his face closer as he thrust into her with a deep, steady rhythm. He did not kiss her but seized her neck with his teeth, making her cry out with pleasure and clutch his head with both hands. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled himself into her deeper still, while the two women covered his neck and cheeks with their kisses. Elspeth’s head arched back as her body was wracked with her climax.

But the god wanted more sport. He allowed her legs down again and without warning stood and hoisted her entire body, effortlessly turning her around in his arms until she faced down and away from him, her legs splayed out behind him. Vijaya came up to support her and Elspeth wrapped her arms around her neck, and they kissed fiercely while he suspended her by her hips and took her. When he finally deigned to let her down again, it was with surprising gentleness, placing her carefully down on her hands and knees. He placed his hand on her neck and carefully pressed her down, running his other hand beneath her to lift her rear. He laid his hands on her hips and entered her again.

Vijaya moved forward placing her lap below Elspeth’s head, cradling her face in her hands. Then she spread her legs, and worked two fingers into her own exposed slit. She pleasured herself for a few moments, then brought her honeyed fingers to Elspeth’s lips, rubbing them there and inserting them into her eager mouth. Elspeth sucked her lover’s nectar as readily as she had her own. Then Vijaya hooked her hand into Elspeth’s auburn hair and tenderly but insistently pulled her face down into her waiting sex.

She first whispered soft, urgent directions to Elspeth: “Now kiss me, use your tongue, lick me. Yes, that’s it, my love, just like that,” then just sighed and bit her lip as instructions simply became unnecessary.

Loud menacing growls came from the jungle behind them, interrupting their lovers’ games. Two bristling, rippling muscular shapes with black coats and devils’ eyes tore out of the undergrowth; teeth bared, snarling and vicious. It was Samson and Goliath, Clive’s prized hunting dogs, and their master emerged behind them, rifle at his hip. The women scrambled to grab their clothing. Vaghadeva stood like a statue, glaring his displeasure. If he recognized what a gun was, he gave no sign.

The Englishman strode forward, barely able to speak his rage through clenched teeth. “You’ve made a fool of me…sapphist! Fornicator! Filthy harlot!” He spat the words.

Vijaya and Elspeth clutched their clothes, knelling on the flagstones. The Indian woman said nothing, trembling with fear, but Elspeth looked up and met his gaze with defiance. “Return home, Clive. You and I are finished.”

“You are my wife!”

“I am nothing of yours any longer!”

His wet bloodshot eyes reflected pure pain. “I loved you…”

“You misspeak, sir. I was never the object of your love. You do not love me—you admire me, in the way of a useful, well-crafted tool or a handsome conversation piece on the mantel. You made me a porcelain doll in a curio cabinet and called it love.”

“That Jezebel has stolen your reason and made you play the whore with this black bastard—and degrade yourself with her sinful filthiness!”

Vijaya clung to Elspeth, wide-eyed.

“She did nothing but love me,” Elspeth said, “and for that you would had have her killed.”

His voice was steady, soft, and deathly calm. “I would follow the scriptures…and deliver such a one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus…Deliver all of you…” He raised his rifle and trained it on Vaghadeva’s heart. “You first, you black devil, then your concubine. And you shall be last, Elspeth.”

Elspeth withdrew her hand from her bundle of clothes, pulling from the breeches pocket the item she had borne with her throughout the long day’s ordeal: his service revolver. She aimed it at his head with a resolute grip. “Clive, this business is at an end now. Put down that rifle and return home. We shall not trouble one another again.”

Clive blinked, hesitating. His arm did not waver, but tiny rivulets of sweat tracked down his forehead. Vaghadeva’s eyes locked in on the Englishman, unwavering and unafraid, but his stance dropped almost imperceptibly into a fighting crouch. As he did, his dark handsome form changed and broadened, hands became claws, and his dark skin and mane of onyx hair became a fiery red-gold coat shot with black flames. Warrior became beast, man became god.

“Devilry!” hissed Clive.

The Tiger God leaped at his adversary. A thunderclap and lightning flash split the night and echoed off the ancient stone courtyard, sending blossoms of wild parakeets to flight.

* * * *

Three weeks later, the Nagpur Colonial-Telegraph ran a small item reporting the tragic circumstances of the Godfrey incident. A local colonial administrator had gone into the jungle to rescue his wife, who had run into native trouble of some kind. Lamentably, his salutary ordeal would end in a most pyrrhic victory. He never found his beloved wife. His hunting dogs returned home without their master. His body was never found, only tatters of his bloody jacket. It was believed he was killed by a rogue tiger, a large male Bengal also responsible for the deaths of three natives earlier that day.

Happily, his sacrifice was not entirely in vain. Mrs. Godfrey emerged from the jungle the next morning, shaken but alive and well. Understandably however, the loss of her husband affected her greatly, and the widow Godfrey announced her plans to sell the house and depart the subcontinent in short order.

The wealthy young widow discouraged many a would-be suitor by declaring earnestly that after her husband, she could never love another man. But in a rare display of Christian forgiveness, the now quite wealthy young widow spent a sizable sum to purchase one hundred thousand acres of jungle-forest and prohibited the hunting of tigers there. That business complete, she left India to begin a new life somewhere in the Americas, some said San Francisco, accompanied only by a loyal servant.

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Passions, Like Storms

by Nola Erus

Twilight on campus, and Heather knew she should prepare to leave. The walk home would be comforting at this hour, but in minutes day would slip away completely, and a moonless night would make the walk frightening, dangerous.

Prudent by nature, Heather considered her mother's warning to be safe on this little campus, but a new sense of experimentation grew within her, and she sought something more dangerous. She yearned for something with possibilities, which had not yet (perhaps never would) occurred to her mother. Heather sought Amber, the tiny redhead who helped catalogue books in the International Studies Department, the girl with the sassy way about her, whose eyes delivered devilish suggestion every time they gazed at Heather. Heather had felt them on her, had spurned the glances in the beginning, but every day she allowed herself a better glimpse back at the diminutive vamp in tall black boots.

Tonight, as always, Amber moved in and out among the stacks of magazines and books, decades of dust collectors, her dyed bob bouncing as she passed, spewing obscenities the likes of which Heather had rarely heard, certainly not from other women. As she worked, Heather watched or listened, grunted agreement or confusion, as Jason, Amber's dark shadow of a boyfriend, dozed on the sofa in the center of the room. It was Jason whom Heather had noticed first, tall and lean, dark and brooding, his sensuality like a primal come hither, and she had detected a connection there, but every day that she worked in close proximity with Amber, Jason fell deeper into the shadows of her fantastic hopes. Where once she had dreamed of his hands on her shoulders pulling her to him, his lips to suck her plump cushion smile, his hands on her breasts, now she thought about Amber. While she had entertained virginal hopes of his taking her in various positions she'd heard described by her friends, Heather now envisioned falling, rolling, oozing into new positions with Amber, the girl light enough for her to lift yet made to be in charge.

Heather smiled to think of how they would look to Jason, each with her own attributes to share. At five feet, ten inches, Heather was a giant in the eyes of some men. In the minds of others, Heather’s body elicited daydreams of models drunk on vodka willing to enact sordid fantasies. Coupled with her alluring height, Heather’s quiet disposition caused some men to presume her a snob while others imagined her stupid, but everyone she knew treated Amber with a certain reverence. Heather could stand like a statue, be treated with as much compassion, but Amber, like a rocket in miniature, commanded attention, and—though many were dismayed by her filterless approach to life and conversation—none would ever presume she did not know exactly what she was talking about. Heather, willowy tree of a girl, was the perfect submissive, and Amber, the shrub, was dominant in all she did.

Concentrating proved nearly impossible as images of Amber standing over her piqued fantasies within Heather. Sometimes Heather reminded herself to consider moral avenues, the need for feminine companionship rather than shared ecstasy, everything her parents had taught her. Other times, she asked herself what they could possibly have known, the two of them only with each other for twenty years; never another lover for either, never a lover to share between them. "Heather bores so easily," her mother often said, and Heather knew it was true. Amber represented more than danger—she represented purest, unadulterated pleasure.

"Are you even listening to me?" Amber's smoker's rasp at her shoulder caused a prickle across Heather's skin that pushed itself up and across her chest, peaked nipples imagining breath there. "You haven't given so much of a grunt in at least five minutes."

Heather smiled back at her, nodded and cleared her throat, “Every word. Everything between your lips beckons me." She'd meant it as poetic parody, but as soon as it had escaped her mouth, Heather cringed a little even as she grew dewy and taut at Amber’s smile, a devil's curl at the corner of her mouth.

"You should stop flirting with danger, Heather. You'll get burned." Moving to the window, past the tall shelves that divided the room, she added, "I was saying we should all head out. The weather looks bad." And as if to punctuate her words, a loud boom of thunder struck and shook as Baron Hall responded to Nature's wrath. Another boom, in the distance, and then total darkness. These buildings, old and weathered, were scary denizens on any night, but on a night like this, they would be absolutely sinister.

Sensing her distress, Amber rescued Heather, "We'll walk with you. We'd drive you if we could, but you know us, always on foot." That was the way it usually was on this rural campus, little luck for a ride, but Heather would be happier for the company. Especially Amber's. In the dark, a glint from lightning outside, Heather saw blue flashes across Amber's pale skin, ached to touch and stroke it, wondered if what happened in the dark, unexpected and confusing, could be brushed away, never broached again.

Did Amber feel eyes on her? Moving closer to Heather, she said, "You could come over, you know. There's safety in numbers. Jason would protect us." A sly giggle at this, and Heather thought she felt the brush of fingers at her thighs. She never saw the motion, but suddenly Jason was awake and talking to them both.

"Oh yeah, it'll be great, Heather, but let's get out of here now before the bottom falls out. We might beat the flood home."

And with that, the stage was set: Heather, Amber, and Jason headed out together into the night, tumultuous skies overhead, heat and pressure in the air, and a hint of possibility like a fragrance on the night.

Six blocks from the building to the edge of campus, and another six from that edge to the house on the hill, restored by an art professor, Victorian in period pink. Heather shivered to see it, a glow of lightning behind. In the dark, it rose out of the hill like a movie set, Norman's house in Psycho, but in the daylight it would be warm and inviting. How often had Heather imagined stepping in, finding her way upstairs, fingers trailing the banister, listening for the sound of Amber's sleeping breaths, finding her way into Amber's room, her refuge, peeling sheets back to expose pert breasts, that flat tummy, the ring at her navel? Heather knew the shiver that ran up her spine could not be described as fear so much as anticipation.

Opening the door with a shove of his shoulder, Jason smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming in the dark. "You can stay the night, if you want. We'll put candles out, play some music. You play?" His eyes at her neck, her chest, caused Heather to halt her breathing just a moment. Such an interloper to her fantasy, but always she remembered need for him, however slight.

And Amber was pushing against her now, her chest at Heather's back, beneath shoulder blades. "Y'all let me in. I'm not standing out here all night." Heather turned to let her pass, and the breath that passed through her was forceful, labored as the breasts she had fantasized about stroked just beneath her own, and it seemed that Amber slowed them there, her eyes searching Heather's for invitation.

Broad pine panels, glossy in the dark. Shining hardwood floors. Billowing pillows substituted for sofas and chairs throughout the room. Candles everywhere. The room was not so different from how Heather had imagined it. On the looped rug in the center, fireplace to his back, Jason lowered himself to the floor, pulled Heather's hand to guide her down to sit, too, as Amber stepped behind her, fell to her knees with a slow rubbing caress across Heather's torso.

"Jason'll keep you company while I make the tea, light the candles. He plays acoustic. You'll like it. It'll help you relax." Brush of fingers, childlike hands in her hair, lips at her cheek, just below her left ear, and a sudden thud of fear in her chest.

Go now, Heather thought, leave and this all goes away. Stay and you've made a bed to lie in. Heather set a challenge for herself: five minutes and she'd be gone, but if she hadn't left by then, whatever happened would be retribution or reward. She thought about her father's lectures, near sermons: "The company you keep builds your reputation." Her heart counted moments in the minutes.

Five minutes came and went as Jason began to play the Fender he carried everywhere. A song Heather recognized from childhood, something her uncle had played, by REM. Jason's eyes on her, she panicked to think of Travis, her boyfriend, at work, expecting to call her when he came home, perhaps check on her early in the storm. Jason's lips, glossy in the glow of candles, each lit by Amber's delicate hand, as he sang were like conjure magic to her, "You don't really love that guy you make it with, now do you? I know you don't love that guy ’cause I can see right through you." It was as if Heather were on trial, yet Jason smiled—sweet, low thing.

Amber was near her in minutes. "We've thought of inviting you before." Just that. No more invitation than this to a house, but a low pulse pushed through Heather, beat in her heart, flared through her chest, heated at hips, the meeting of thighs, in her tight jeans. Insistent, pulsing need at her clit. Taut aching at her nipples. Beautiful, seductive fear in her heart. Need, all-consuming, everywhere.

Amber slid to position in front of Heather, and just over that shoulder, tank top revealing crimson bra strap, satin silky beckoning, Heather saw Jason as he saw her, a show in the making, an actor in a role, this a new scene for each of them, and clearly, Amber was the star. "You have no idea how wonderful this can be." Flat statement of fact, but her touch was pure, dynamic energy as Amber reached to cup Heather's face, pull it to her for one deep vanilla-flavored kiss. "But I bet you've thought about it."

The glitter of night and candle in Amber's eyes was pure ignition for Heather; her lips moving in were kindling, and now they were kissing each other. Deep, wet, lustful suckles, Heather tugging at Amber's sweet cupid bow mouth, and Amber trailing fingers to breasts well larger than her hands.

"Oh my God." Breathless exclamation, and Heather wasn't sure which of them had said it, but she reveled in the vibration passing through them with its utterance. Heather's hands at Amber's thighs, mysterious electricity. She'd run her hands over her own thighs countless times, moved her fingers up and under, found delight between soft, wet petals so often hidden beneath girlish panties, but never had Heather felt the thighs of another girl so intently, with such passion, with such purpose. Smooth, warm, firm things, naked to her touch, short denim skirt pleading for Heather's exploration.

Amber breathed deeply, sucked the moment in, whispered, "Heather, find me." She pulled her hand down Heather's arm to force that hand up her skirt, to say do as you please. Fingers following instruction, Heather gasped to feel a wetness there at the tops of Amber's thighs, then the secret so poorly hidden that Amber wore nothing to keep her sweet, juicy peach from the world. A giggle in Amber's chest to see the surprise on Heather's face. "I never wear panties when we work together, baby, just in case."

And Heather could no longer pace herself, hold back from her desires. Dark as they were, forbidden, frightening, she plunged her fingers into the wet crevice at the meeting of Amber's firm legs, felt Amber from the inside out, explored deeply, then retreated to find that precious pearl at the gate, to stroke and tease and fluster Amber, to have more of Amber than she had yet dreamed.

From his place on the floor, Jason watched as the two made love, Amber opening her thighs wide, motion that pushed her skirt to her hips. Heather falling back to the pillows behind her, her hair—an auburn cascade he longed to touch. Amber's fingers at Heather's buttons, jeans opening slightly, then Heather's kitten-like crawl from them. Amber's hands pulling them, her bottom, round pretty thing, in the air so that he could see her pink, wet, smooth-as-silk pussy. He could kiss it now, surprise her with his tongue, but he knew this was not for him yet, knew these two meant to discover one another before he joined the party. Patiently, he sat and watched as Amber stripped.

A gasp as she looked down at Heather's pussy, soft thing with curls, such a virginal offering, and there a tongue peeking through to surprise and tease her. Again, "Oh God," and they both laughed, right before Amber lowered her tongue to find her groove in Heather's haven, sweet solace of her wet, peaceful shore. Amber's tongue like waves in lapping need. Heather's coos met in time with her unfastening of buttons on the shirt that belonged to Travis. She shivered to think no one had kissed her here before he had, no one else since until now. And sweet as he was, Heather was thrilled to discover how much better Amber was at this than Travis. Her tongue in practiced motion. Her hands sliding up Heather's torso to push the shirt from her shoulders. Her fingers resting there on puckering nipples, then pressing, and pinching, and teasing them.

Heather found herself in motion too, new response to growing, evolving feelings, sexuality in development, sensuality only now tapped by this sweet key, the tongue in twisting, hopeful motion. Lifting hips, rolling motion, Heather pushing herself up to find Amber who sought her, and all the while Jason's rise a pressure there between his thighs, a need insistent to his core, his hands finding flesh all his own to stroke in time as they created harmony with moans and coos in lust.

Heather now nude as Eve on the pillows hummed low ecstasy, long legs pleading for something more than just a tongue on her clit, pushing high to pull Amber in, and Amber wondered if she could drown here, intoxicated in this ecstasy. "You're beautiful," she whispered in the dark, candle flames inspiring reflections in dance across Heather's body. And Heather rose, her heavy chest bouncing as she reached to pull Amber's black T-shirt from her narrow body.

"Let me see you, pretty girl," Heather purred, and for a moment Amber wasn't sure she was Heather's first, but then she realized from the expression on Heather's face—part shy expectation, part bold inspiration—that Heather was completely drunk on something she had never tasted before. Arms high above her head as Heather pulled that shirt from her, Amber awaited other kisses at her nipples, breasts firm but not large, inviting in their perky youth, and when those lips and teeth, that tongue, touched her nipple for the very first time, Amber felt her lust growing to orgasm, knew she'd come soon from just this, the build and suckle, the feeling having Heather gave her, the perfect unity of their beautiful bodies on this storming, dark night. A thrill, too, to know that Jason watched in lust, his hands on his flesh, stroking ecstasy from his shaft, his head, his cock in rhythm even as he ached to join them.

And now their mouths, searching each other, Amber's tongue across Heather's teeth, straight from braces, one slightly turned out, Heather's in Amber's cheek, there to the right, and both of them swooning into each other, falling into decadent loving, lust for each other. Amber in Heather's lap, legs tightly crossed at the feet, and Heather rolling Amber to the floor to show her the pleasure she had shown her, just a hint of times they could have together. "I've never done this before." Shy blue eyes peeked at Amber from beneath long auburn hair, wisps like a curtain between them. "But I have dreamed about it."

"Heather, you don't have to do anything you don't want to, but you shouldn't be shy either. Do to me what makes you feel good—it'll be so good for me, too," and Amber fell back then, her skirt exposing her swelling pink petals. Heather sat there for a moment, amazed to have this opportunity unfold in front of her. Her fingers there now, touched tentatively to watch shivers pass through Amber.

"Seeing your sweet pussy is very different from touching it in complete darkness or in my dreams." And with that Heather kissed this girl, her sweet Amber, fully on her pretty lips, there between her thighs, felt her tongue offer its virginity to that hardened jewel there, that clit pulsing for her, wrapped her tongue around it to suck it into her mouth, to pull sweet nectar from her. Amber's smile ran deep within her, played along her arms, at her elbows, at her rising nipples, found its way to frolic at each stroke of Heather's hungry tongue.

"Touch yourself, Heather." Jason offered his insight into the situation, knew Heather might not do for herself what she would do for Amber.

But Heather replied quite simply, "Come closer, Jason. Look again. I am touching myself, and so are you. Come closer.” Jason rose to join them, having ached for this invitation, and Heather raised herself to kiss his cock sweetly, one plump kiss to the head, the soft sweet stroking tongue to the shaft, as she moved her hand to stroke Amber's tight pussy.

"You've got such a lovely cock, too," Heather said, a hint of tease in her voice, "and I've dreamed of having it in me." She looked over her shoulder coyly, subtle hint that Jason followed as he lowered his jeans to the ground, slid out of them, and took his spot behind her, "I do play, Jason, and I'll be so happy to play with you, but this is Amber's night."

Jason halted though he ached to touch her, and then Heather reached behind to touch his throbbing flesh, "Come play, Jason, but save the best for Amber, my pretty, pretty girl."

And now she leaned forward, resumed kissing Amber's sweet clit, stroking her own, as Jason pushed himself into her. Heather felt a shudder build in her, slowed her pace to focus on Amber, knew she would wait to come until Amber did again, and then she and Jason would show Amber, their girl, her sweetest rewards, flowing them to her.

Amber's growing need pushed her hips to Heather's mouth, and as Jason pushed his cock into Heather's tight pussy, she returned the favor by squeezing her tongue into that angel's space, sweet nectar, fragrant pool between Amber's twitching legs, in and out, in and out, as Heather enjoyed tantalizing new sensation at the tip of her tongue. Amber moaned to feel such joy, to know she had inspired something new in Heather. And Heather moaned to feel how tight Amber could close sugared walls on such a slim thing as this cherry red tongue. Flash of lightning at the windows, splashing rain in puddles on the porch, and now thunder that echoed their rising need.

Jason's hands at Heather's hips, then slow circle to her own flushed jewel where he rubbed faster and harder as she licked more furiously at Amber's fiery clit, and Amber reached to twist nipples that swayed against her thighs, each stretch of her arms seemingly making her pussy tighter, tighter, tighter like a vise. Jason's hand in Heather's hair, so tempting to him before, as he twisted her locks to make reins, to pull her head back, but she pulled forward tenaciously, more determined than ever to feel Amber's kiss flow into her mouth, spread across her face, her cheeks, drip to her chest, bobbing there against Amber's thighs.

"Oh my God." A cry across the thunderous night, part joy, part howl, and Heather felt it echo through her, sensed it spreading through Jason as he bucked and thrust into her, Amber trembling beneath that ecstatic tongue, and now Heather could contain herself no longer, purred deep growling need against Amber's sweet wetness, moaned, collapsed, and suckled as her pussy tightened against the deep, needful drill of Jason's cock, his hands at her shoulders to keep her there as her body tightened to squeeze him out, and Amber rose to come to her, sweet Heather, her new lover.

Amber's bucking thrusts subsiding to coos and flutters, her body pouring ecstasy into Heather's sweet mouth, and Heather's responding with sweetest flow was more than Jason could bear and now he exploded into Heather, she who had instructed him to save the best, gave her everything he had in the moment, and together their howls and coos were echoed by the thunder, reflected in the lightning, and drowned—as they were in each other—in the rain.

Crawling up to Amber's shoulder, exhausted but joyful, Heather laid her head there, closed her eyes and rested, as Amber stroked her pretty hair and Jason leaned back on his knees to watch the friends. He would lie beside them soon, but just now he wanted to enjoy their peace. And as Amber kissed Heather's forehead, then her lips, Jason thanked the stars for storms.

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When I Taste Like a Waste I Breathe

by Farrah J. Phoenix

More and more, the office building roof is becoming my refuge. An escape from the consistent inconsistency of a failing company and the constant droning of incompetent co-workers. It is hard enough dealing with my own negative distortions without dealing with the onslaught of idiocy from power-tripping bitches who have no hope in hell of excelling.

Up on the roof I am free to slip into the mindlessness of my fantasies. Up here I am relaxing in the sun on a beach in Maui. A deliciously tanned surfer massages my feet while I read a magazine. The article is about my ex-husband undergoing a radical penis-ectomy after contracting a flesh-eating disease from the snatch of the redheaded bitch he ran away with. Surfer boy and I laugh together before folding into each other’s embrace under the watchful eye of Mother Nature.

Up on the roof, everything is possible.

I unbutton my blouse, exposing the smooth curvature of my voluptuous breasts. The sun caresses my yearning skin like a lover’s seductive touch. I’ve been craving warmth, my body aching daily from its absence. Closing my eyes, I give in, allowing the rays to enfold me as a lover should.

I am just thinking of heading back to the office when I hear the squeak of a rusty hinge behind me. Turning in place, I see her. I have seen her a few dozen times in the building hallways, the elevator, and the ladies’ washroom, and each time I couldn’t help but stare.

She is the image of sensuality, with dark flowing hair that caresses her neck softly. Her eyes are deep and dark with a devilish twinkle that speaks dirty desires to me. Her skin is smooth and tanned—breasts, perfectly perky. Everything about this mesmerizing creature draws me to her, but I can’t speak. I want to tell her how beautiful she is, how captivating, but when she smiles at me my body burns, and I can’t find the words.

Each time I see her, an intense craving to touch her bubbles up from my tummy. Running my hands along her curves, feeling the heat from her soft skin as I press my mouth to hers; the thought sends a chill up my spine. I yearn for an opportunity to know the feeling of her skin against my lips, her body urging me to continue. Tracing a slow line down her stomach, my hands delicately following along, eliciting cries from her honey sweet lips. Watching her gasping breaths as I discover a world unknown between her smooth, responsive thighs. Exploring every inch of her goddess form, becoming as one as we respond to each other’s touch, a sweet yet foreign desire constructed from the mere sight of her.

* * * *

“You discovered my secret,” she purrs.

Watching her walk towards me is like watching an exotic dance. Her tight body moves rhythmically. The bounce in her tits, the swing of her hips, invoke tiny eruptions deep within me. With every step, I become more aroused. How could a woman cause such a reaction? I have been with men all my life and have enjoyed all the pleasures a penis can offer. Yet I desire her.

“This would be a great place for a midday fuck, don’t you think?” she poses with a laugh. “That would definitely help me through the rest of the day.”

I laugh nervously, nodding in agreement; visions of her naked form start to build.

“Smoke?” she offers.

“Oh, no, thanks.” I watch as her soft, wet lips wrap around the end of the cigarette. Her breasts heave as she inhales. My body aches.

“So, how do you make it through the day here?” Her eyes bore into mine. I feel exposed. Like she can see the dirty thoughts I have about her. I turn my gaze away and start to talk. I can feel her watching me, the movement of my lips, my breath, my breasts. My body blushes.

No more than a few sentences escape before they are silenced by the luscious lips of my desire against mine. Shocked, I go numb. When I taste, like a waste, I breathe and the moment is gone. Her warm, wet lips pull away from mine.

I want her. I want to sample her, to feel her.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.” She nibbles her lower lip, staring deep into my stunned eyes.

Intense heat rises up from inside me like a raging inferno of repressed sexual desire.

I grab her by the back of her neck, pulling her close. Our mouths devour each other. Her lips are soft and sweet, like nothing I’ve experienced before. The fire blazes.

I feel her hands on me. My face, my neck, shoulders, breasts. Blood surges like lava flow between my legs. I draw deeper into her mouth.

Our lips release. She traces her tongue around my jaw bone, behind my ear. I moan as my body responds.

Frantically, she rips at my blouse, exposing bountiful bosom.

We paw at each other like lionesses at war, removing clothes, caressing curves, indulging in our sensual desires.

Exposed, we rise to our knees, drawing our bodies together.

Hard nipples and soft breasts meet.

I run my hands over her arching back. Cries of pleasure escape my mouth as her lips and tongue discover.

She grinds her hips towards me, pressing her velvety sweetness against mine.

My body erupts.

Grabbing her ass, I pull her to me. Our mouths meet again. She presses forcefully against me, pushing me to the ground. Her hand slides between my legs. Spine tingling vibrations burst forth, enveloping my body in pure, erotic bliss.

Echoes of intense passion reverberate off neighboring buildings as she explores the inches of my body. The strands of her hair dance over my naked skin, fueling my veins with electricity. Slowly, she ventures across my stomach, over my hips and back to center, her tongue landing softly on the wet velvet her fingers have been massaging. The warmth of her tongue against my clit, the movement of her fingers on my g-spot, set my body ablaze.

My heart beats faster than it ever has. Muscles in my back, thighs and pussy twitch and contract. Each flick of her tongue drives me wild. I want to hold on to the moment. My mind fights with my body to resist the urge to overflow in ecstasy.

Her moans of excitement increase the passion, increase my desire, increase my bravery.

I caress her head and guide her back to my lips. My arms wrap around her slim, silky form. I inhale every delicious taste of her mouth. I have never felt so connected to someone. I want to taste more.

Rolling her on to her back, I straddle her, grinding our throbbing desires against each other. Her eyes close, her lips part as she breathes in our lust. I run my hand softly down the center of her chest, watching as small goose bumps follow.

Leaning down, I kiss along her breastbone, squeezing her gorgeous tits at the same time. I trace the outline of her breasts with my tongue. Her hard nipples beacon me. I close my lips around the peaks of her breasts, gently licking and sucking as the beautiful body beneath me writhes with joy.

Her blissful cries entice me to continue.

I want to please her. I want to feel her ecstasy flow out all over me.

Slowly, I spread her legs with mine. Nestling my head between her heaving thighs, my tongue teases her clit as gasps of breath emanate from her parted lips.

Liquid joy mixes with my saliva as my tongue darts out to brush her nerve endings. Her taste is sweet…clit full and throbbing. My fingers creep inside her tight, wet pussy while I continue to probe her with my tongue. Fingers and tongue work in tandem to send her into sensory overload.

When her body tightens, my fingers squeeze; she cries out in sheer bliss. I kiss her tummy as it twitches rapidly from her orgasm.

I am overwhelmed with desire as hers subsides. Grabbing me, she frantically rubs my clit until my insides surge with rapturous delight. We lay together in our euphoria, waiting for our bodies to cease shuttering.

Sunbeams caress our skin as our breath slows back to normal. I smell the scent of unbridled, passionate sex. Images of our bodies entwined flash through my mind. My desire continues to twitch as a reminder that this fantasy was real.

Silently we collect our clothes, slip our panties on, secure our bras, and cover up the evidence of this afternoon’s frolic.

Slipping my arms into my blouse, a pain rises from my stomach. Then a thought: Could I love this goddess? She could not possibly love me. My mind races, pain growing stronger, eyes starting to moisten. I feel silly. How could I feel this way about a woman?

The touch of delicate hands on my body pulls me out of the rampage of negative distortions shooting through my head. It’s her, standing in front of me, buttoning my blouse slowly. She takes her time, purposefully running her fingers over my skin as each little button is put in place. My body shivers; my breaths become erratic.

Her beautifully radiant eyes meet mine. She smiles sweetly before placing her lips on mine once again.

“So, would you like to come over tonight?” she asks sheepishly as she grabs my hand and guides me to the roof door. My mind and body explode with joy.

“I would love to.”

Quietly we leave our secret place, entering a new world of possibilities, eager to discover.

PAGEBREAK

My New Roommate

by Jen Bluekissed

Joelynn, my dorm’s resident assistant, pulled me aside. “Lenora may not have mentioned it to you, but she’s gonna move out next semester. She’s having trouble coping with school and losing her father at the same time.”

“Oh?” I sat on the couch adjacent to where the RAs watched TV when not helping the dorm residents sort out issues. Crossing my legs and forcing down a gleeful grin, I said, “So I get to have a double-sized room all to myself next semester?” Lenora’s quirky habits coupled with her erratic behavior had been bothering me for months.

“It depends. If you want to pay the higher single-room rate, the university’ll let you stay where you’re living now with only you in the room. If you can find yourself a roommate, then you’ll keep the double rate.” She reached for her mouth. Joelynn quit smoking two weeks ago. She smiled when she realized I was watching her pretend to reach for the cigarette she didn’t have.

“And if I can’t find a roommate but can’t afford to pay the higher cost for a single room?” A sensation akin to heartburn welled up within me. Everyone I knew who wanted a roommate already had one. My student loans were already taken out for the whole year. I couldn’t afford to pay the single-room rate.

“Then the university will match you up with someone in a situation similar to yourself. You may not get to stay in this dorm. It’s likely you’ll have to move into another girl’s room. Or maybe she’ll have to move into your room.”

“Will I know if the university has put me up with another girl before winter break if I don’t pay the additional money for a single room?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I really don’t know,” Joelynn said.

* * * *

“Hi. I’m Ruby, but everybody calls me Ru,” I said to my new roommate’s father. Extending my hand, I forced my lips upward in a polite gesture.

Even though it was January and bitterly cold outside, the trips up the stairs with Cami’s fridge, microwave, and boxes caused droplets to form near the top of his balding head. I had already introduced myself to Cami, but she was somewhere near the ground floor carrying a box.

“Hi. I hope you have early classes.”

I didn’t know what to say while Mr. Stydle caught his breath. After an extended awkward silence, I climbed the ladder to my loft and sat on my bed. “No, not really. After three years of college, I know better than to sign up for morning classes. The earliest one starts at eleven. I have a couple of night classes that get out at nine.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “So you’re a night owl, then.” It wasn’t exactly a statement, but the words didn’t hold the right inflection for a question either. I didn’t feel I needed to justify my choice of class schedule to a stranger’s father, so I allowed silence to fill the room until he left to carry the next load of boxes up the four flights of stairs to the dorm room. If Cami was half as anal about stuff as her dad seemed, the semester would drag. Only after I sat alone for a few minutes until my new roommate returned with another box did I realize that they hadn’t hauled any lumber up the stairs yet. I hoped she also planned on hoisting her bed onto a loft. The room would feel too cramped if her bed stayed where it was, low to the ground.

The morning wore on with Cami and her dad lugging her possessions to our dorm room. Not only were both of them sweating, but I was overly warm too. The hot water heat our building used caused the temperature to rise as the day progressed. I was used to the heat in the wintertime, as most of the girls in the building were, but I wondered if Cami knew how ungodly hot our room would get. For her sake, I opened a window. The cold air felt good as I walked back to my loft and climbed the ladder.

* * * *

“You were in one of my freshman English courses, right?” Cami said. She flicked her long blond hair behind her shoulder.

“Yep.” I dangled my legs over the side of the loft. “Don’t think we’ve ever actually had a conversation, though.”

“I was sure I knew you from somewhere.” She locked the dorm door before continuing the conversation. “My dad says you have late classes. Mine start at eight every morning. Organic Chemistry kicked my ass last semester. I hope I don’t seem like a bitch, but if I’m going to pass Organic Chemistry II this semester, I’m going to have no life. I’ll live in the room and the library if I have to.”

Cami’s voice flattened as she droned on and on about how much she hated the professor. She rolled her eyes and sat on her bed. I silently sulked because she hadn’t lofted her bed, but I wasn’t sure she noticed I didn’t care about Dr. Wildaguarde. My attention was on myself until I saw her lift her tank top above her head. After removing her tank top she wore nothing above the waist except a black sports bra. The window was still open, but it felt like ninety inside our room. I wanted to take my shirt off too, but I wasn’t sure how she’d respond. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Everybody talks about how this building’s heat is all out of whack, but this is ridiculous,” Cami said, wiping away the sweat. Mascara and eye shadow smeared across her face in an ugly line.

“You might want to look in the mirror,” I said. Her appearance helped brighten my mood.

Cami walked to the sink and washed her face. A sloppy amount of water splashed onto her sports bra and down the front of her jeans. I continued watching her without saying much. “I usually stay up pretty late,” I finally said when she turned to face me.

Without explaining herself, she removed her shoes and unzipped her jeans. I guessed she was removing them because they were damp, but she didn’t replace them. Cami was quick about undressing. Her skin was light and freckled. She wore pink cotton underwear, the black sports bra, and socks. I didn’t want to stare; we’d both have to change in front of each other over the course of the semester, but my eyes remained fixed on her pink underwear. Her legs looked freshly shaven, and I felt both comfortable and awkward while she stood in front of me. What a tease.

“How do you concentrate in here? It’s horrible how hot the room is,” she said. “If I’d have known how bad it was, I’da asked my dad to pack me an extra fan before he drove out here to help me move.” Cami’s nipples were erect and poking through the bra. Maybe a new roommate wouldn’t be such a drag after all.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Seeing Cami stand below me almost naked sent a bolt of desire through me. My hands wanted to busy themselves. “Do you care if I take my shirt off too? You’re right, it’s oppressive in here.”

My hands trembled as I lifted the knit shirt over my head. Thank the stars I’d worn a decent bra. My old, yucky ones were in the bottom of my underwear drawer for when I really, really needed to pay the laundry gods. One long brown ringlet of hair fell between my breasts. It tickled, but I didn’t remove it. My heart beat rapidly in my chest while she watched me remove the shirt, but then she turned away and leaned over and clutched her Organic Chemistry book. “I’ve got to study before class begins on Monday. I felt like I was always a chapter behind last semester.” She trudged to her small, wooden desk and sat. Her body was opposite the open window, and I could see her reflection against the glass as well as her live profile from where I sat on my loft.

“Oh,” I said. “You mean you’re going to study now? It’s Friday night. Don’t you want to hang out or something? Unpack your stuff? Watch a movie?” I felt like saying, Invite me to take my pants off too?

She combed her straight, sleek hair with her fingers before tying it into a ponytail above her neck. “Maybe tomorrow. When organic chemistry is on the brain, I gotta study. If I don’t, I’ll be kicking myself on Monday.”

I regretted removing my shirt once I realized Cami meant business. Was she freaking kidding me? Even if I wasn’t attracted to her, a get-to-know-your-roommate session should have been first and foremost on the schedule. I turned down offers from my friends to party that night because I wanted to be nice and offer to help Cami get to know the other girls on the floor. “Okay, but I have to ask you a few questions before you really get serious about the studying,” I said. “My last roommate, Lenora, drove me batty because she had a few habits that drove me nuts. I need to know you’re different,” I said.

Cami opened the drawer to the desk. Her expression was odd, like she expected something to be in the drawer, but she hadn’t unpacked any of her stuff yet. “Okay, so what’s your big pet peeve, then?” she said as she furrowed her brow at me.

“Well, Lenora’s boyfriend used to hang out here all the time. It was like he lived in the room too. It got super old.” I leaned against the wall and stopped dangling my feet over the side of the loft. “Do you have a guy?” I tried to be as cool about the question as I could, but the sound of my own voice as I asked the question sounded odd. My voice held a nervousness I hadn’t anticipated with Cami.

“Nope. The last relationship went sour, and I’ve sworn them off altogether.”

What kind of an answer was that? Throw me a bone here. I glanced at the clock and regretted I hadn’t asked all my friends where they were going for the night. Some of them were out bar-hopping, but my twenty-first birthday wasn’t for another two weeks. I thought about calling a few of the others, but found my butt glued to the top of the loft. It was as if Cami held me there even though she was trying to study. “Okay, well, if you’re going to study, I might as well pop my ear buds in and catch a few tunes.” I turned up the volume to my iPod and climbed down the ladder alongside the loft. On second thought, maybe I would pay a visit to one of the other girls’ rooms down the hall. This chick was hot, but she was boring as hell.

“Where ya going?” Cami said as she raised her nose out of her organic chemistry book.

“To Stacy’s room. She usually has a movie on the tube on Friday nights.”

I watched Cami as her face revealed her desire to tag along with me. She scrunched her nose up and opened her mouth without saying much of anything. Then she returned to organic chem.

“You wanna meet Stacy and the other girls on the floor who don’t get wasted on Friday nights? We’re not as lame as you might think. The movies are usually pretty fun, and normally there’s popcorn.” I wondered where Cami’s friends were, but then I remembered she’d told me while her dad had been down a flight of stairs that most of her good friends had a house away from campus. Her dad was pretty strict and wouldn’t help her buy a car, so she was grounded on campus unless her friends wanted to pick her up. If they were anything like the rumors circulating around school, they would already be drunk by this hour. From what I’d heard, she ran with a pretty wild group.

Cami tapped the eraser of her pencil against her cheek three or four times before wrestling herself away from the textbook. “I guess a little fun time won’t hurt.” Turning her head and scanning the room for the location of her shirt and pants, Cami smiled. “What movies do y’all watch?”

“Just about anything.”

* * * *

Sunday night, Cami insisted she needed to go to bed early. I wasn’t ready to sleep, so I allowed her to turn the lights out and listened to my mp3 player while I thought about the upcoming semester. Most of my professors were known for being easy, but one of them was notorious for giving huge research projects. I’d seen a copy of last semester’s syllabus, and my mind rolled through the possible topics. I didn’t want to pick anything too time consuming, but I did want to learn something in the process. Homoeroticism in Shakespeare’s plays was one possibility. Maybe the influence of the Greeks on Shakespeare’s works? Losing myself in Elizabethan England, I removed my ear buds and pictured the Globe Theater of Shakespeare’s day.

What brought me out of my daydream was the sound of quiet, heavy breathing. Cami’s inhaling and exhaling sounded too rapid for her to be asleep. My ears perked when I realized Cami obviously thought I was asleep or couldn’t hear her over my music. She was touching herself. The moonlight through the open window lit the shadows in the room, and even though I could barely see her, I knew she was reaching between her legs. Having lived with other roommates before Cami, I wasn’t naïve enough to think she’d never reach for herself when she assumed I wouldn’t notice. This time, though, realizing my roommate was pleasuring herself affected me differently.

I knew all the other girls were straight. With Cami, I wasn’t positive. I wasn’t sure if she was maybe bi or what, but she just gave me different vibes. Although she hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend, I was fairly certain I had seen her on the arm of a guy once or twice around school, but not in a long time. What was Cami thinking about as she stroked her clit and pressed her finger into her slit? Who was she thinking about? In that moment, I hoped she was thinking about me. Cami hadn’t been shy when removing her clothes earlier, and she still slept in her sports bra and underwear. Our room’s temperature stayed inhumanely warm. I was hot, and I wanted to taste her.

Cami whimpered as she climaxed. I pictured her soft lips, how moist and gentle they would feel against mine. How wonderful it would be if I could part her folds with my tongue and explore. I wanted to be the one to cause those quiet sounds. The sheets rustled across the room, and I assumed she was about to turn over and fall asleep. Instead, I watched as Cami reached under her bed for a toy. Once she was on her back again, the toy disappeared under the sheet. There was more movement from her bed as she used the object. I assumed it was a dildo, because the toy was silent as her figure pulsed, shrouded in the moonlight from the open window.

Figuring she wouldn’t notice, I removed my bra, then slowly glided my fingers down my body while I listened to her whimpers resume. Closing my eyes and imagining her nipple in my mouth, I licked my lips and parted my sex with my fingertips. Cami’s noises became louder while she thrust the toy into her flesh, and I clamped my own lips tightly so I wouldn’t be tempted to join her in sounding out my pleasure. Gently squeezing my clit between my fingers, I felt the warm and slick moisture against my hand. Just as I almost reached orgasm, a jolting, obnoxious noise caused me to bolt upright in bed. Cami did the same.

“What drunk asshole pulled the fire alarm in the middle of the night?” I said in a mutter as Cami flipped the switch to her bedside lamp.

She stared at my exposed breasts. With a smile, Cami’s face gleamed an expression similar to how I imaged she'd look when opening the first present on Christmas morning. From below me, her eyes remained on my breasts while the fire alarm continued blaring. In a quick movement, she dropped the sheet draped over her chest. When had she removed her bra? Cami stood slowly, hunting for a robe. I was surprised she hadn’t slipped her underwear back on like I had before standing. Even though the fire alarm still rang loudly, all I wanted was to touch her. Still highly aroused from nearing orgasm a moment earlier, I would have given anything to take a hammer and smash the fire alarm to pieces.

“Damn freshman,” I said while climbing down the ladder from the loft. “The RAs will be here any minute to make sure everyone’s okay.” I found my clothes and dressed quickly while I watched Cami cover herself with the robe and her winter coat. I found mine and bundled up.

“I know.”

We walked into the hall together and then down the stairs with the other girls living on our floor. Within moments we were outside. At least a half hour would pass before we’d be allowed to return to our room. The temperature outside was around zero before wind chill, and I felt my arousal disappear. I regretted not finding a hat and gloves before leaving our room. Cami had been smarter; she was bundled head to toe. “Put your hands in the pockets of my coat,” she said. “How’d you find a winter coat without pockets?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. Her pockets didn’t help the temperature of my hands much, but they did keep my exposed skin from the wind. I could smell the fruity shampoo she used in her hair, and I showed my gratitude by smiling. “Thanks.” Taking a step closer to her, I pressed my pelvis against her butt while I stood behind her.

Another girl from our floor tapped me on the shoulder. “I have a spare set of gloves in my pocket if you want to use them.” She held the gloves in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep the sourness out of my voice. Not wanting to offend this chick, I removed my hands from Cami’s pockets and filled the gloves with my hands. Cami frowned when she turned to face me. Her lips looked disappointed, and her eyes held a wanton expression.

Once we were back inside the room, both Cami and I removed our winter gear. I closed the open window and sat on her bed. “Did you really swear off guys?” I said after she sat next to me. Rubbing my hands together to warm them, I waited for her response. She looked at her shoes and drew in the corners of her mouth in a tight line.

“That question was pretty random,” she said. Fumbling with her shoelaces, Cami didn’t look at me.

“Well, I want to know,” I said. “The thing is…I’m attracted to you. I don’t want you to be weirded out or anything, and if the feeling isn’t mutual, that’s cool.”

She finally returned her gaze and looked me in the eye. “I think we both know what we were doing before that fire alarm went off.” Cami’s face flushed as she continued talking with me. “I don’t really have to study organic chemistry as much as I’ve let on. When you’re in the room with me, I feel different. I saw how you were looking at me, and when I closed my eyes in the dark and thought about you, I just wanted to imagine you and feel the electricity in the air that I felt when you watched me remove my shirt earlier.”

She was making sense, but in her own way she was babbling. I touched her jaw and leaned toward her. The scent of the aloe lotion she used earlier in the morning on her face and neck mixed with the scent of her arousal as I moved in closer. I closed my eyes and held my breath as I pressed my mouth against her moist lips. Cami stopped talking mid-syllable, and she pressed her lips against mine. I felt giddy when Cami’s tongue touched mine, and I knew she wanted the kiss as much as I did. A big chunk of me wanted it to stop. What if we hit it off okay right now, but then in a month or two we broke it off and still had to live in the same dorm room together? When Cami tugged gently on one of my long, brown ringlets of hair, I stomped my apprehension back into my gut and kissed her back.

Cami’s breathing changed, and just as I was about to pull away from the kiss, she lifted her other hand from her side. Touching my breast through my clothing, Cami explored my mouth more deeply. Neither of us was wearing a bra from the sudden jolt of the fire alarm, so I could feel the warmth of her hand through my shirt. I wanted to keep going, to return her touch, to wind up in a full-fledged romp on her bed. Instead, I stood up and stepped away from her.

“What’s wrong, Ru?” she said, suddenly looking hurt.

“Nothing.” I stepped back a little further. “It’s three in the morning, and you have an eight o’clock class. We have all semester to get to know each other. I don’t want you to be exhausted all morning. You don’t have the luxury of sleeping in like I do.” Winking at her, I turned away and flipped the light switch so that the room was flooded with darkness. “If you fail Organic Chemistry on account of me, your dad’ll really flip.”

Cami whined under her breath, and I recognized the sound as the same one she emitted earlier in the night while touching herself. I climbed up into my loft, and she lay back onto her bed and turned off her lamp. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed awake while listening to her breathe. My mind raced through what just happened.

I kissed a girl.

We both liked it, and now we had the rest of the night and the rest of the semester to deal with it. The feeling of my hands in the pockets of Cami’s jacket, the softness of her lips against mine, and the sound of her breathing filled my consciousness until I fell asleep.

* * * *

Her alarm clock rang loudly at six thirty the following morning. With my pillow over my ears, I drowned out the sound of the buzzer and groaned. I could learn to love Cami as long as she wasn’t one of those chicks who hit snooze twenty times before finally getting out of bed. I sighed in relief when I heard her shuffle out the room with her shower supplies in hand. Smiling as I drifted back to sleep, I remembered I’d kissed a girl. Her last words before leaving the dorm for the shower were, “Ru, it’s gonna be a long day while I wait to see you again. I want to finish what we started.” I was instantly horny.

During all the new semester’s classes that day, I thought of nothing but being with her.

* * * *

After both of us finished classes, Cami and I sat inside the dorm room and faced each other. She flashed me a wicked grin and said, “I want to explore you.” I felt her tug at one of my long, brown ringlets before she broke it apart with her fingertips. Throughout my life people pulled on my curls, especially in elementary school. I usually batted people’s hands away from my hair. This time was different. I wanted her fingers in my hair. The little twirling motion she made with her fingertips reminded me of the other curls I wanted her to explore.

I lifted my shirt over my head and watched as Cami mirrored my action. She unhooked my bra, and I unhooked hers. My heartbeat thumped in my chest as I felt the heat rise up into my cheeks. Cami’s mouth found mine, and she lightly kissed my neck as she cupped my breast. I reached into the elastic of her lounger pants, pushing the waistband over her full hips. She unbuttoned my jeans before freeing me of them. With a flurry of activity I was naked, and she was in nothing but her panties, lying on her back. I straddled her as soon as she lifted her hips off the bed, pushing her panties away from her pelvis. Grabbing onto them with my toes, I yanked her panties down her smooth thighs and took her nipple into my mouth. It was hard against my tongue, and I lightly nibbled it, enjoying how it hardened in my mouth.

As I opened my legs and rubbed my open, moist flesh against her mound, she whispered in my ear. “I’m so glad you’re my new roommate. Don’t stop.” She inhaled quickly, and I liked feeling her body move against mine. I slipped my tongue into her mouth, paying attention to how her body tensed under mine. She began panting. “You’re good with your mouth. I want it.”

We were both sweating. Cami drew arousal out of my shy personality, and I felt like I was in heat. “Stay like this,” I said as I turned my body around. I needed her to lick me as I sucked her. Too eager to take turns, I handed her a small pillow and knelt over her head. Burying my tongue in her fuzzy mound, I found her clit. My lips kissed her inner lips, then I sucked her. I almost forgot about how badly I needed her until she reciprocated, and we sixty-nined.

If my mouth hadn’t been busy pleasuring her, I would have told her then and there how good it felt. Cami knew just where to lick. It was as if I was instructing her, but she didn’t need instructions. I moaned while continuing to suck her clit. Chemistry, my ass. She’d been studying how to pleasure me. Oh. My. How many fingers was she plunging into me?

I used one of my fingers to explore inside her wetness, but I couldn’t concentrate on what I was doing. Cami’s mouth and fingers rocked the orgasm through my body before I could even try to hold it back.

Stopping the sucking, I changed to flicking gently at her clit while trying to replicate what she had done with her fingers. She moaned as I found the right spot inside her. I teased her clit with my tongue once I realized what Cami liked. My pleasure over, she began speaking softly. I could barely hear her.

“I want it. Don’t tease me anymore,” she said.

Cami’s thighs moved on either side of my head as she came. She moaned her gratitude while I changed positions again and lay over her face to face. Our slow kiss tasted a little like me and a little like her.

“I’m glad you’re my new roommate too,” I said before catching my breath.

PAGEBREAK

The End of the World

by L.A. Mistral

Katherine knew only one part of her was fragile. The rest of her was tough. She knew that too. She’d been riding horses for about five years. She’d started with a course in college and continued after she graduated. There was just something about the sweaty, svelte power of the horse and the earthy musk of hay that slipped inside Katherine and stayed there, keenkeen keen to come out.

She rode Western style, took to the training immediately and could now ride with the best of them. She loved sitting on the horse as it galloped around barrels or gathered calves for penning. She felt she would fly with just one more puff of air. Many of the other girls were afraid of it, for the risk and the loss of control. But that’s exactly what Katherine liked about it.

Katherine was ready for something new. She just didn’t know what.

The risk and uncertainty made her weak in the knees. Sometimes the thrill of barrel racing did that. One time just the power of a glance almost broke her bones. That glance came from Dora. Dora, “of auburn hair and alabaster skin,” as Katherine liked to call her. Dora’s skin was so translucent that it had just a slight tinge of blue, like you could see inside her. But you couldn’t, really. Dora was quiet. She hardly ever looked anyone straight with her hazel, half-opened eyes. Like the color of the Ionian Sea just before a storm, Katherine thought. She’d cruised there once and stood for a long time on the balcony lost in the lazy flow of the amethyst and emerald contours of the waves. Katherine had felt like she was at the end of the world. Dora’s translucent skin perfectly complemented Katherine’s own olive-tan complexion and eyes as dark as her Arabian horse.

She’d never recognized these feelings so clearly before, and they were so different from what both excited and bored her about men. Most of them talked endlessly about business or sports or both simultaneously. Their bodies were different, but she always felt they were an alien presence. What was worse, men treated her body like a football—grabbing instead of fondling and forcing when she was most willing to surrender. When push came to shove, she’d take grace over strength any day.

But that was not to say she didn’t enjoy fucking men. She liked it just fine and had the swollen, extravagant, permanently polished pussy to prove it. Yet Dora didn’t exhibit gentleness. She could be rough. Katherine had seen how Dora used the crop against the flanks of the horse. Dora was sweet-tempered but firm. She took control of eight hundred pounds of muscle and instinct with the flick of her wrist and the snap of a tooled leather crop. It’s not the crop, Katherine thought. It’s who holds it.

Dora had skin like the inside of an almond, and Katherine’s skin was like the brazen, bronze of the outside. Sometimes, just for an instant, Katherine imagined how Dora’s skin might look and feel pressed against her own. If she’d let her mind wander, she imagined what her skin might taste like. She sucked an almond in her mouth once just to think about it and was scared to feel how she trembled.

Katherine drew in her breath like she did when she was excited and reached down to smooth between her legs. She was wet already, and her pussy lips felt all pure and puffy. By now, Katherine could slide the width of her hand inside there. She slid the side of her hand back and forth, harder and harder. Angels ascended and descended into her own wide-open, reddening wings. Katherine sucked air between her teeth to keep from screaming. As she opened her mouth in the middle of one silent scream, something snapped inside her, not in her body but like the ancient Mayan calendar prophesy, one era giving way into another—the end of the world, the beginning of something new.

The next day she watched Dora again, bouncing up and down on a wide saddle, her spread legs fitting her blue jeans thin and tight as a breath. The chaps held her ass like a tanned-leather lover. Dora’s hair flowed like a dark, red bandanna. Then her horse faltered, confused by some command, and stopped. Dora’s momentum jolted her from the saddle and spilled her into the dirt. It all happened so suddenly that Katherine couldn’t react immediately. Other riders came over to check on her, and when Dora stood up, they all knew she was okay. Dora limped out of the corral to wipe herself off, and Katherine met her at the dressing rooms. Relief made Katherine less cautious.

Katherine hugged Dora lightly and was glad when Dora responded by pressing back, just slightly, like she was answering a hard question on a test. After splashing water on her face, Dora glanced up at Katherine. It was just a glance. But Dora’s emerald, oceanic eyes stared one moment too long, one moment with too much longing. Dora’s glance asked a question and Katherine answered back.

Katherine took a hand towel and wiped the remaining mud off Dora’s face. It was more like a face massage than a cleansing. “You look like a raccoon,” Katherine said, caressing Dora’s cheek all the way down to the bottom of her throat, “but a lovely raccoon, a very lovely….”

Dora leaned into Katherine’s shoulder and started to tremble. Katherine could feel Dora shake and her voice crack, “It’s just the f…fall,” Dora stuttered, “It was so startling.”

Katherine held Dora, her head falling into Katherine’s breasts and Dora’s long auburn hair covering her face like a shawl. Dora breathed harder and harder against Katherine’s nipples and she felt herself stiffen. Soon, she too, was panting. She began to kiss the top of Dora’s head. Each time she did, Katherine smelled the rich, malty smell of turf. Dora let out low whimpers, then lifted her head, took hold of Katherine’s shoulders, and drew her mouth into a kiss.

Dora’s kiss wasn’t timid, and it sucked Katherine’s soul out through each cell of her body and gave it back again. Her tits ached to be twisted. She felt the ache from beneath her belly all the way up to her throat. One feeling flowed into another: the love-gut-ache, the down-low-ache, the fear-thrill-ache, the suck-full-tongue-ache, the empty-pussy-ache, the skin-full-fuck-ache. Her mouth became dry, and she pulled Dora’s mouth even closer.

“Let me get dressed,” Dora said, “and we’ll take a walk.”

“I don’t want this to end.” It wasn’t a plea. It was a promise.

“Don’t you worry,” Dora answered, “it’s only beginning.” She slipped on a short, blue dress, her hips flaring out like fireworks, and tall cowboy boots. She still carried her riding whip. Katherine had on a skirt with a Western-style snap-buttoned shirt with long sleeves.

“The guys really go for a dress like this,” Dora said. “Do you think women are different?”

“I think men, or boys,” Katherine emphasized, “go for what is revealed. I think women like what is concealed.”

“Like my pendant?” asked Dora, touching the gold necklace she wore. The locket had slid slyly down between her breasts. “You can get it if you want.”

They both stopped near the end of the paddock where hardly anyone ever went at that hour. Dora wasn’t wearing a bra and Katherine bent over and kissed her breasts lower and lower until she found her large, dark nipples. They were as dark and stiff as Moroccan olives and then she sucked on them.

Dora flicked the riding whip carelessly against Katherine’s thigh, and it drew them to kiss again.

“Gee, you’d better be careful with that thing,” Katherine said, trying to be nonchalant. “Someone could get hurt.”

“Only if they want to get hurt,” she joked, her mischievous smile spread like a sunrise across Dora’s face. It was as if the whip was a language she used when she had no words. It was the way her skin spoke to skin.

Dora was exploring. Katherine could feel it. Only Dora was more sure of herself.

Katherine and Dora continued their walk through the empty paddocks, arm in arm. The slanting sun of a late summer sunset warmed Katherine’s legs, exposed by her short skirt. Dora urged Katherine into a stable door and kissed her there, then turned Katherine around. Katherine bent over and held onto the edge of a hay crib while Dora lifted up Katherine’s skirt with her riding crop and flipped it over hips.

“Umm, now I like this,” Dora crooned as she caressed her fingertips over Katherine’s panty-less crotch. Her fingers made circles, swirls, and secret Mayan signs. Katherine’s slick cunt was already evidence of an elegant openness for the play to come. The sunlight on her skin and the sting of the whip on her raw skin made her feel so ripe, so naughty, so wanton.

She wanted Dora to take her like that—rough, uneven, and raw. Katherine felt like she’d jumped off a cliff, so she might as well enjoy the fall. Dora bit on Katherine’s shoulder in slow sips and tapped her whip against Katherine’s thigh. The whip tapped a Morse code up and down the smooth slaloms of Katherine’s inner thigh. Dora tapped out long syllables of longing, and she tapped out staccato sentences of ache and desire. Katherine instinctively understood this new language and was dying to answer. She whirled around, grabbed each side of Dora’s face and plunged her tongue into Dora’s open lips where it swelled deep inside her mouth. Katherine’s whole body ached to be inside Dora now, skin for skin and soul for soul.

The whip’s tapping got harder as Katherine’s mouth got bolder and harder against Dora’s lips. Dora’s mouth felt like an incendiary device.

“Your wide lips, so red, so beautiful,” breathed Katherine. The whip awakened something strong and delicious, and Katherine reveled in her surrender. Dora seemed to be an expert in the unspeakable properties of leather. She was an expert in the teasing, pleasing and teaching that leather can bring in the right hands. “That feels good,” Katherine whispered heavily, “just like an extension of your hands. Please…” Katherine panting harder now, the words came out only in single syllables, “Please…take...me…now!”

Dora turned her around and pressed Katherine’s body against the half-filled grain trough next to the stable door. Then she pressed herself against Katherine’s back and bottom and kissed the back of her neck, breathing heavily into her ears. “I’m going to get your permission, okay?”

Just the fact that Dora asked got Katherine excited. She bent lower over the feeder and spread her thighs even further apart. Her full mouth formed a perfect “O” as she sighed heavily. Her ebony eyes shone like dark stars in an evening of arousal.

Katherine’s consent stoked Dora’s desire. A moment later, Katherine felt the smooth tongue of the leather whip ripple across the inside of her thigh.

“Okay?” Dora asked, still pressing against her backside and breathing in her ear.

“Yes!” Katherine chanted back, stretching out the syllable like she wished Dora would stretch her.

Dora did just that, brushing the lips of Katherine’s pussy with the wide handle of the whip, unfolding her cunt lips and teasing her with the thick end of the whip along the length of her pussy. Katherine’s cunt frothed and steamed. The closer Dora pressed the whip toward the opening of Katherine’s cunt, the more aroused she got. Katherine thrust her bottom back harder and harder. She wanted to cling to the whip, to feel the sharp, teasing lips of the whip nip and nibble, biting into her skin.

“Okay?” Dora asked again.

“No!” Katherine said. It wasn’t a protest. It was pleading.

Sweat pooled behind Katherine’s neck and shoulders and her own special syrup surged like the sun dawning between her legs. Warm rays flooded down her inner thighs as she tried to take the whip inside her. She wanted any part of Dora inside her now. Katherine’s whimpers and moans were the best prayers she could offer. No other words would do.

The whip peaked into her and her pussy opened like King Tutankhamen’s gold enshrined tomb when Howard Carter gazed into it for the first time. A new world unveiled for Katherine. Her body was a universe just awakening.

Dora felt something new too. She watched as Katherine’s pussy blossomed, then closed like the petals of some dew-drenched flower aching for light’s brilliant, blissful advance. They both felt the end of their old world and the beginning of a new one.

That was enough, at least for now. This adventure was not over, not by a long shot.

Dora withdrew the whip and lay against Katherine, kissing her over and over. “I wasn’t teasing you,” she said. “I needed to know what I liked too.”

“Did you find out?” Katherine asked her, turning around now to face Dora’s sultry, sea green eyes.

“We’ll find out together.”

Katherine didn’t need to answer. Their bodies said it all. They tasted each other even in their sleep…the only cure for ecstasy—exhaustion.

PAGEBREAK

Show Me Yours

by Lucy Felthouse

I felt I’d fallen on my feet with my university digs. Despite having a two-bedroom, I’d never had to share. I was incredibly lucky to have all that space to myself, and I’d always made the most of it. All that changed when Celeste arrived. She’d come over from France on a placement, gaining experience of the English language for her degree.

It was up to my university to find her somewhere to stay. Ever the cheapskates, their own property was the cheapest option; therefore, she ended up in my room. I knew it wasn’t like I had to give up my bed or anything, but I’d gotten so used to my own space that I felt affronted having anyone share it.

When she arrived, though, it wasn’t so bad. I was expecting a language barrier and awkwardness, speaking only the most basic French myself, but it turned out that she spoke better English than I did.

Celeste settled in quickly, and we got on famously. Just as well, since we were living in such close proximity. My main problem with the situation was the lack of privacy. I’d always been able to go to the loo with the door open, or wander around in the buff—difficult habits to break. Not to mention masturbation. I’d taken that totally for granted. No more slipping into bed with my Rampant Rabbit for a quick session before sleep time—even if Celeste was asleep, that damn noise would wake her up!

After a few frustrating wank-free weeks, I was at bursting point. As we were both always popping in and out of the dorms all day, there was no guarantee she wouldn’t come in any minute. Finally, I got so desperate I decided to take the risk. Having no boyfriend at the time, it was the only way I could get any relief. I was sure she had a lecture at twelve for an hour. I planned to do it.

I skipped over to the window and closed the curtains, but not before peeking out across the courtyard to make sure Celeste wasn’t around; I had visions of her coming back to collect a forgotten book or something. The coast was clear—excellent.

I drew back from the window and cursed as my top caught the handle of the dressing table drawer—Celeste’s dressing table. I untangled myself and went to shut the drawer, until I saw what was inside.

The saucy minx had a dildo! One of the thick, veiny lifelike things, complete with balls. I was astounded. Here was I, desperate to masturbate, and yet she was finding time to use this bad boy! Or was she? Just because it was there—after all, she was in the same predicament as me. Perhaps she used it in the shower, with the noise of the running water to drown out her cries.

I was lost in reverie—images of Celeste standing under the shower, stuffing herself with this monstrous synthetic cock when the door opened.

Startled, I shoved the dildo behind my back. I must have looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I suppose I was, in a way. Celeste walked into the room, frowning at the dimness and flipped on the light.

“Liz? What are you doing? Why are the curtains closed?”

“N-nothing,” I stuttered, mentally fumbling for an excuse, “I have a migraine coming on. I was going to have a lie down.”

Only a partial lie. The second part was true.

“Oh, okay,” she said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I just came back to change. I spilled juice on my jeans.”

Damn. She was going to come to the chest of drawers. I shuffled hastily out of the way, hoping she’d think it was she who had left the drawer open. No such luck. She hesitated as she noticed the drawer and turned to me.

“Why is that open, Liz? And what are you holding?”

Her face registered annoyance, then, after a beat, amusement, as she thought about what I could possibly be hiding. I thought desperately for an excuse, then gave up. After all, I hadn’t really done anything wrong. I hadn’t been snooping; the open drawer had been a genuine accident. It was just my curiosity that had gotten the better of me and left me holding the dildo.

I held out my hand. Celeste’s eyes widened. I held both hands up in surrender, not thinking how amusing my pose would look to a bystander.

“Look,” I began, casting around for the right words, “this looks bad, I admit. But it was an honest mistake.”

“An honest mistake resulting in you examining my dildo?”

Touché. “Celeste. Listen.” I explained what had happened, sticking to the migraine explanation, as opposed to the I’m-desperate-for-an-orgasm one. “…and when I saw your dildo, I was just curious. I’m nosy and I’m sorry. I never should have touched your stuff. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed and I tensed, believing she was about to start ranting and raving. Aren’t the French renowned for their tempers?

“Do you have a dildo of your own, Liz?”

Wondering where this was leading, I answered, “Not a dildo, no. A vibrator. A Rampant Rabbit.”

“Really?” she squeaked. “I have never seen one of those! Show me!”

It was all getting a bit weird, but I figured I wasn’t in a position to argue. I handed Celeste her dildo and went to fetch my own toy. I presented it to her, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl forced to turn out her pockets by a teacher. My vibrator fascinated Celeste. She turned it over in her hands, looking at the buttons and fingering the bunny ears.

“Show me how it works,” she demanded, handing it back to me. “If it is good, I may get one of my own.”

“Well,” I said, “you press this button here and the bunny ears vibrate, and this button here makes it faster —”

“No, I said show me, not tell me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied, though it was slowly dawning on me where this was going, “I’m not…”

“Come on Liz, don’t be scared. Show me.”

Celeste walked over to me, took my hand and led me to my bed where she pushed me down and sat beside me. By now, I was seriously panicking. I’d never had so much as a drunken snog with a girl before, and yet here I was about to use my Rampant Rabbit in front of her?

Of course, Celeste and I had seen each other naked; living in the same room it was kind of inevitable. But that wasn’t sexual. Or had it been for her? Despite her never mentioning a boyfriend, I’d never got the impression she was gay. Perhaps she’d kept it from me because she didn’t know how I’d react. Or maybe she felt she didn’t know me well enough yet. Could she be bi?

I didn’t get the chance to voice any of the questions flitting through my brain as Celeste spoke again.

“Liz.” She tucked her long dark hair behind her ears, looking at me through her lashes. “Come on. You’ve seen my passion, let me see yours.”

She was coming on to me! Her hand found mine, and she lifted it to her lips and began to kiss and nibble my fingertips. I was frozen to the spot. My brain struggled to keep up with all the information that was being thrown at it. I’d just processed the fact that Celeste was a lesbian, or at the very least bisexual, when I came across a question. Was I? I’d been with guys, though not very many, but I’d never really thought about girls in that way. Or had I? Reading magazines, I’d always appraised girls’ bodies, but in a more analytical way than a sexual one. So I thought.

As Celeste continued her ministrations on my fingers—she was now sucking them—I thought, what the hell? I wasn’t anti-girl, after all. Plenty of girls partake in lesbian encounters at university and then go on to have straight relationships for the rest of their lives. They just see it as experimentation, so why shouldn’t I?

I gently removed my fingers from Celeste’s grasp, put my vibrator down and began to unbutton my blouse. Following my lead, Celeste started to undress. Within seconds we were both down to our underwear. She was wearing a matching black set, which looked striking against her pale skin. Her figure was lithe, almost boyish, narrowed at the hips with small but perky breasts.

She pushed me so I was lying down on my bed, then began to tug at my pants, which didn’t match my bra. I rarely paid attention to such details. Celeste didn’t seem to mind and discarded my underwear without a second glance. Then she handed me my Rabbit.

Wow, I thought, this is it. My first girl-on-girl encounter, and I am totally unprepared! I tried to tell myself it would be fine. I was just using my vibrator in the same way I always did; it would just be in front of an audience, that’s all. By now, I was wet. Whereas I was worrying, my subconscious was obviously relishing the situation. My clit was tingling with anticipation, and my pussy lips were slick with juices, which squished as I parted my thighs.

I slid the head of the vibrator down between my folds, swirling it up and down my vulva, coating it in my juices. Celeste watched, enthralled. She was biting her lip and looked as though she was restraining herself. Did she want to touch herself? Touch me?

Seconds later I changed the angle of the toy and positioned it at my entrance. It was by now lubricated with my natural fluids. I pushed it inside, gasping as it stretched my vaginal walls and feeling it all the more keenly as it had been such a long time. When it was in as far as it would go, I pressed the button to switch on the vibrating ears. I positioned them on my sweet spot and groaned as the vibrations shook my clitoris into ecstasy.

I half-forgot that Celeste was there as I felt my orgasm approaching. She wasn’t trying to get involved, as I first thought. She was merely watching what I was doing. I slowed things down—not wanting to come too soon—by moving the ears temporarily from my clit and penetrating myself shallowly with the shaft of the toy.

I felt my orgasm subside a little, so I put the Rabbit back in its original position, not wanting to lose my climax altogether. This time it built up much more quickly, and I felt the familiar tingling building up in my abdomen. Celeste, clearly realizing what was happening, didn’t move a muscle. Only another woman can understand how fickle the female orgasm can be.

I began to twist my wrist back and forth, flicking the bunny ears across my clit and back, a surefire way to get me off. Sure enough, I felt the contractions begin, and the wave of intense feeling which signaled my climax. I tensed involuntarily as the waves rolled over me; then relaxed as they subsided, quickly tugging the toy off my clit, suddenly sensitive. As my breathing and heartbeat slowed, I opened my eyes.

Celeste was sitting at my feet, looking shell-shocked. Was she horrified? Disgusted? Our eyes met, and she grinned, dispelling my concerns.

“Liz, that was really sexy. That thing looks magnificent! I am definitely going to get one.”

Reaching into my bedside drawer for a condom, I replied, grinning, “Why don’t you test this one first?”

PAGEBREAK

Defining Lines

by Regina Perry

I’m not a sun goddess, but I do aim to keep my skin bronzed year round, so I frequent a tanning salon in my neighborhood. I also play for a girls’ fast pitch softball league, swim on the city team, and teach yoga. I pride myself on my athletic ability and toned muscles. I’m conscious of my body and want my physique and skin to be at its best in a swimsuit and leotard.

Entering the salon, I encounter shelves of tanning accelerators. The names of the various bronzers sounded like something from a brothel: Love Potion, Enchanted, Dark Secrets, Spellbound and Stolen Darkness. Enya croons Wild Child in surround sound as I search for the attendant. When I conclude the place has been abandoned, Ginger, the owner, pops around the corner, beaming her vivacious smile.

“Hey, Ava, how’s it going?”

“Great, except for this stupid shoulder injury I got from pitching in last week’s softball game. Now, I can’t even demonstrate downward-facing dog. Guess I’ll get a lot better at describing positions until it heals.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. How long did they say it would take?”

“Six to eight weeks,” I answer, rubbing my shoulder.

“So you’ll be out of softball that long too?”

“Unfortunately…guess I’ll catch up on my reading.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something entertaining to occupy yourself with.” She winks. “Been dating anyone interesting?”

“Nah, I don’t even get asked anymore.”

“What? A fit, gorgeous brunette like you! You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Well, Rusty was killed in Iraq, and after that, I just had no desire to be with anyone else. I’d try to go on a date, but the whole time all I could think about was Rusty. I guess word got out that I was one boring date.” I need to get over this. Everyone is sick of hearing me whine.

“Oh, Ava. I had no idea you’d had a loss like that. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, it’s been two years. It’s time I moved on.”

“You should go out with me and my girlfriends some night. Find someone new.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Pick-ups have never interested me much. Rusty and I started dating in high school. We were planning to get married as soon as he got back.”

“After all this time, you still don’t think you could fall for someone new?”

“Actually, I do think I’m ready now if the right person came along. Question is: How do you find that right one?”

“If you’re not willing to get out there and look for love, then I guess you just have to hope and pray it knocks on your door.”

“Doesn’t sound too promising, does it?”

“You never know…” She smiles. “The stand-up is ready for you.” Motioning with her head, she directs me toward the back hallway.

Entering the dressing room, I’m overwhelmed by a fresh coat of scarlet paint. The octagonal tanning booth fills half of the four-by-eight foot area. I set down my bags and turn toward a newly installed full-length mirror. The booth had been completely remodeled. A shelf stocked with tissues, wet wipes, and deodorant jutted out from the wall beside the door, with several hooks underneath for clothing. I inhale a fusion of tropical fruit, chocolate, and coconut.

I tune the radio to my favorite station, then undress as Usher sings Love in This Club like a serenade for me alone. I drape my clothes over the hooks and place my jewelry on the shelf. The new plush throw rug emblazoned with a brilliant red and gold sunburst cushions my feet. I slip on my bikini bottom and lather on the accelerator. Attempting to apply it to my back, I feel pain rack through my body. Yoga training had given me the flexibility to reach between my shoulder blades, but not with this shoulder injury. I crack the door and call for Ginger.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind helping me a minute?”

“Sure, no problem.” She skirts around the counter and moves toward me. Her five-foot, two-inch body literally bobs when she walks and her blond ponytail swishes from side to side. Perky describes her best, from her cute, freckled nose to her perfect little butt that sways with every step. Her nipples, poking through her thin cotton tank, slant upward.

“Whatcha need, Ava?”

“Do you think you could rub bronzer on my back? I can’t reach the middle with this bum shoulder,” I plead, standing behind the door.

“Of course.”

I turn away and open the door wide enough for her to enter. Facing the wall, I wait while she warms the bronzer in her hands. Slowly she massages it into my skin, beginning at my waist and inching her way upward. I’m surprised by the tingling sensation of her touch as she works my muscles.

“Oh Ginger, you should be a massage therapist. That feels so good.” I relax more with each swirl of her hands.

“Actually, I’m enrolled in the school of massage.”

“Great! You’re wonderful already. I’d say you’re ready to graduate.”

“Thanks. I really enjoy it too. I love the feel of skin and muscles beneath my fingers.”

“Mm.” I place my hands against the wall for support, relishing every moment. I’m acutely aware that my boobs have swung forward, dangling freely.

“Most people tan nude. Do you wear your bottoms?”

“Yeah, I want to see my progress. Gotta have something to compare it to, you know.”

“Cool. I think bikini lines can be so sexy—a piece of art, if done right.”

“Oh, yes.” I’m quick to agree.

“Just your bottoms? Not the top?”

“Right. I don’t want any strap lines. Besides, I love golden skin on my breasts. Do you tan nude?”

“No, I’m with you, Ava. I want to see my progress.”

“Top too?”

“Yes, but I tuck the straps inside the bra cups.”

“Oh, how clever.”

“May I sneak a peek?”

“What?” I tense, standing straight.

“I want to see your tan line. I’ll just pull down your bikini a little.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.” I relax into my previous stance.

It’s strange, being half-naked with a woman in this tight space. But it’s been so long since I’ve been naked with anyone, I’d probably feel strange with a man too.

Ginger slides her hands to my navel, working her fingers in small circles. Then she slides her thumbs inside the band of my bikini pushing it down about an inch, lowering the suit all the way around. I can’t believe my reaction. My groin contracts, and the sensation tingles all the way down my inner thighs. There’s a butterfly in my pussy that won’t go away, no matter how hard I fight it. What’s wrong with me?

“Mm…nice lines,” Ginger gushes, “and you take such good care of your skin. It’s so smooth and supple.”

“Th…anks,” I squeak. Can she tell I’m aroused?

She continues to massage me, concentrating on the newly revealed inch at the top of my bikini. She slithers her hands back to the front along my waist, then enlarges her circular motions upward until she’s brushing against the underside of my breasts. A moan escapes from my throat as I press my body into her hands.

“Did you get enough of the bronzer on your breasts?” she asks.

“Uh…I…I’m not sure.”

She pushes her buttocks against the door, and I hear the lock click. A trickle of wetness drips into my crotch. Ginger squeezes a few more drops of bronzer into her hands, then widens her circles on my stomach until she’s kneading my breasts. By reflex, I rest my back against her. She pulls me tighter to her chest, and I feel her nipples protruding against my back. Her hands cup my tits as her thumbs flick across my nipples, intensifying the pressure and speed. It has been so long since I’ve been touched, I’m near orgasm. My head falls back to her shoulder, my back arches and pelvis thrusts heavenward. I tingle with desire. When she slides her hand down my stomach and pushes inside my bikini, my inner thighs quiver and knees buckle.

Using the pressure of her fingers, she turns my body to face her. I peer at her through half-closed eyes and face my own bare-chested reflection in the mirror behind her. The shock of watching Ginger examine my nakedness titillates me even more. She rolls her tongue across her parted lips. The moisture makes them glisten. She grips me at the ribs, sliding her hands beneath my breasts, pushing them higher. She lowers her mouth and captures a nipple between her teeth before sucking it deep into her mouth. Her tongue circles my areola, around and around, then flips up and down across my nipple. I squirm in ecstasy. She moves to the other tit and equalizes the pleasure.

“You really have sensitive tits, Ava.”

“Yes,” I whisper, shaking.

Her hands move down my side, her fingers slip beneath the bikini’s waistband and push it downward. She pulls it down far enough to expose my pubic hair in front; the back of the suit cups beneath my butt cheeks. She teases me, tickling my bush with her fingers while she sucks from one breast to the other. The pressure of the bikini excites me. I savor the suspense of waiting, anticipating what Ginger will do next.

Her hands move to my backside and my glutes tighten as she molds them in her hands. Her flawless round ass juts into the reflection of the mirror. I consider touching her private parts. Desire builds within my groin; I want to explore her naked.

I begin to pant when she grips the bikini and pulls it down. Coolness hits my exposed pussy, and I suck in air. She slings my bottoms to the side, positioning herself under me. Sliding her arms between my thighs, she spreads them as my back slides down the wall far enough for her to reach me with her mouth. I hear her groan as she comes within eye-level of my small triangular bush—the only hair remaining after a Brazilian. I can’t believe how hungry I am for her touch, for the warm moisture of her mouth. She teases me with her hot breath expelling against my twat. I shove my hips forward, trying to reach her darting tongue.

Her hands clutch my ass again. I whimper and bounce my hips forward and back, returning her tease. At my next forward push, her tongue connects with my nether lips, and I freeze. She twitters her tongue up and down my wet creases. I whimper my delight and push lower into her mouth increasing the pressure. When she discovers my swollen clit, she curls her tongue around it, then flicks back and forth until I’m near delirium. My juices drip between my folds and fill her mouth. I hear her slurping as her tongue swirls and darts in and out.

She slips her middle finger inside me and steadily begins to wiggle it. “You like that, Ava?”

I groan in response, too embarrassed to speak.

“You want me to finger-fuck you, Ava?”

Again, I moan.

“Talk to me, Ava. You’ve got to say that you want it.”

“Yes,” I mouth.

“Louder, Ava. I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” I pant.

“What?”

“Yes!” I shout.

She inserts a second finger and pumps me hard in rhythm with my rocking. Her mouth latches onto my clit, sucking and raking her tongue back and forth while she finger-fucks me. In my excitement, my arm flings to the side and knocks the jewelry and deodorant from the shelf. The commotion only exhilarates me more. The pace of my hips matches my ecstasy, building again and again to climax. Vibrations convulse the length of my body, all the way to the throb in my head. I look down and see Ginger’s face covered in my slippery fluid. The sight is more than I can take and my knees give way. I slide to the floor in front of her, and then I reach for the support of the jeans hanging from the shelf hook.

Ginger sits forward, and I’m amazed by the tangy taste as I begin to lick her face. Tasting my own come for the first time, my appetite becomes insatiable as I slurp her cheeks, devouring every drop.

“Oh yes, baby. Eat it up. Clean me.”

I obey, sucking her face. I never thought I could kiss a woman, but now I’m overcome with desire to bond with her mouth. I grab her face with both hands and lock onto open, waiting lips. Her tongue wraps around mine; her arms embrace my back and pull me closer. My hands slide to encircle her narrow shoulders, her frame so tiny within my grip. She tastes and smells clean and fresh, like spring rain. My passion flames.

I grope at her waistline searching for the bottom of her tank top. Lifting it over her head, I gasp at my first glimpse of her naked bosom. Tiny triangles of white skin frame her nipples, creating the most seductive portrait. Touching her bare flesh, I tremble as I enclose my hands over her perky mounds. I can’t believe the pleasure that pulses through my whole body. Leaning toward her, I draw her nipple into my mouth. I support her as she arches her back into my arms. I suck one taut peak to the other before moving to the crevice between her breasts and licking my way downward. I begin to pull down her shorts, and she rises to her knees. I think she’s going to help me remove her pants, but instead she stands, puts her top on and backs away.

I shiver at the loss of her. Ravenous to taste her, I know disappointment shows in my eyes.

She adjusts her tank top, discreetly opens the door and slides through. Before pulling it shut, she pokes her head back inside. “I think your back is covered now.”

Startled, I stare at my reflection—dejected and exposed. The red carpet casts its hue over me, magnifying my humiliation. I crumple over in shock. What just happened?

It takes me twenty minutes to get myself together and climb into the booth. I turn up the music but don’t dance. I shudder. When the timer buzzes, I dress quickly. I can’t wait to get away from here.

As I leave, I attempt a smile as I scurry past her counter.

“Bye, Ava,” she calls as I push open the front door, “I’ll look forward to your next visit. Can’t wait to see the progression of your tan lines.”

* * * *

I normally tan at least once a week. Two weeks pass, but I can’t muster the nerve to return to Ginger. She consumes my daydreams and stars in my night dreams. I analyze every possible motive why she pulled away from me. Was she teasing me? Toying with me? Wasn’t she aroused too?

Friday afternoon, I’m shocked when I answer the phone and hear her perky voice. “Hey, Ava, where ya been?”

“Oh…h-hi, Ginger. Just been busy, I guess. I’m planning to come next week.” Maybe I will…now.

“Super. A group of us are going to LeRoy’s Bar tonight. I thought maybe you’d join us.”

“Tonight? What time?”

“We’ll probably get there about nine. There’s a live band. Sure hope you can make it.”

“Yeah. I’ll see,” I equivocate. What if I’m subjecting myself to more embarrassment?

* * * *

It takes me two hours to decide what to wear. I try on every possible outfit in my closet. I’ve never done this for a man. What’s wrong with me? But Rusty cared very little about fashion. He’d say I looked good no matter what I wore.

My nerves jitter throughout the drive to Leroy’s. I arrive at 9:35, not wanting to appear too eager. Bodies jostle as I work my way through the crowd and scan faces for Ginger. The bass booms, vibrating my breastbone.

“Ava! Over here!”

I turn to see Ginger waving. Warmth permeates my body at the sight of her. I collide with a tall, lumberjack-type. “Hello there, Beautiful. What sign were you born under?”

“Do Not Enter,” I retort and keep moving.

I bulldoze my way to Ginger and throw my arms around her in relief. What am I thinking? She reciprocates, her hands lingering on my back and her breasts crushing against me. I sigh in relief.

“It’s great seeing you again, Ava,” she shouts over the music.

“You, too,” I yell.

She smiles. I smile. She pulls out a stool beside her for me to sit. Conversation is impossible, so we turn to watch the band and bop to the rhythm. When the next song begins, she grabs my hand and pulls me to the dance floor.

The band’s fusion of jazz, blues, hip-hop and pop, makes their rendition of Brick House better than the Commodores. We continue to gyrate with the crowd more than with each other until the band announces a break. Ginger leads me back to her group of friends and introduces me. They welcome me with hugs and kisses, including two men who have joined her group of buoyant females.

“Come here often?” Troy, the tall, curly-haired blond asks.

“First time,” I offer.

“First time for what?” he quizzes with a sly smile.

What does he know? “Damn, you’ve already figured out I’m a virgin.” I play his game.

He guffaws a hearty chuckle. “I’d be honored to be your guide.”

I smile and peer over his shoulder at Ginger, who seems to be eyeing me.

“Ava’s my favorite customer at the salon,” Ginger butts in.

“Ah, so that explains her luscious skin,” Troy compliments.

I blush and Ginger huffs. I enjoy her reaction—is it jealousy?—but decide to not risk pissing her off.

“Ginger takes very good care of me,” I brag, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her closer.

“I see…” Troy drops his chin and draws his head back, peering at both of us.

How well does he know Ginger? How well do I know her? Is she into chicks or men? Or both?

“I take care of all my customers.” Ginger smiles. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Troy. Whatcha’ been up to?”

I loosen my hold and let my arm return to my lap. “I was gone for a while on the herring runs,” Troy answers.

“Troy’s a commercial fisherman,” Ginger says.

I’m not surprised; it’s a common profession here in northwest Washington, and he possesses that rugged, tanned outdoorsman look.

The music starts up again, and Troy is first to ask me to dance. I glance back at Ginger who has turned her attention to the girl on the next stool.

Troy never takes his eyes from me; his virility draws me. I’m reassured that a man still finds me attractive and, strangely, also relieved that I’m attracted to him.

When we return to the group, I’m taken aback when I see Ginger flirting with a new man who has joined our crowd. “Meet Tom,” Ginger introduces him to me.

“Hey, Tom.”

He tips his cap and Ginger races on, “Tom and I have known one another since kindergarten. He’s always been there for me.” She leans on his arm and gazes up at his face.

He looks down at her tenderly, and I experience my first pangs of jealousy. Ginger beams.

The evening continues—dancing, drinking, friends sparring back and forth. I’m careful not to hang with Troy exclusively. Ginger and I dance a couple of times, flirt with our eyes and find small ways to touch inconspicuously. When the band announces their last song, Troy takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor for the first slow song of the night. He pulls me tight against him, his hand sliding down to my ass. He applies pressure, pushes my front into his crotch, and I feel his boner swelling. My pussy engages, reacting to his heat and size. His mouth grazes my neck, and I feel the moisture of his lips.

Congregating in the parking lot, the gang decides on a late-night breakfast. My quandary intensifies as Ginger takes my hand and coaxes me to join them at the all-night diner. “Okay,” I agree, part of me hoping Troy declines and the other part praying he doesn’t.

Walking to my car, Troy catches up to me. “I’ve got to beg off going to the diner. Leaving at dawn for Bristol Bay.”

“That’s a long way. I’m guessing you won’t be back for a while.”

“Probably a month. Depends…”

“Well, here’s to good fishing,” I say, raising my hand for a high five.

“Thanks,” he smiles as our hands smack. “Would you like to come back to my place while I finish packing?”

“Uh…sorry. I already told the others I’d see them at the diner.”

“That’s no problem. They’ll figure it out.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. “I know, but I just met you. Maybe we’ll see one another when you get back.”

“Can I get your number?”

“Sure.” Jotting it down on the back of his card, I catch a glimpse of Ginger watching me.

“See you later.” I open my car door and plop into the seat before he can kiss me. Not in front of Ginger. I wave, as I back the car out. In my rearview mirror, I see him watching me drive away; his eyes bug and his mouth gapes.

* * * *

Entering the diner, I spot Ginger and slide beside her while we wait for a table. She’s warm and tequila flirty. Ginger sits between Tom and me, her hands groping both of us. “What happened to Troy?” She suddenly seems to remember.

“He went home. He’s leaving early in the morning for Alaska.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to come home with him.”

“He did.”

She jerks her head and stares at me with questioning eyes before breaking into a smile.

When we rise to leave, Tom suggests he drive her home as she’s had a few too many. What else will he help her with? Before getting into his car, she pulls me aside and pleads, “Come to the salon tomorrow afternoon about four thirty. I close at five on Saturdays.”

* * * *

I check the clock as each hour passes until it’s time to go to the tanning salon. I teach three classes in the mornings, but Saturday afternoons are free. I try to read, watch episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on my DVR, and clean house, but time still moves in reverse. Did Tom spend the night with Ginger? Did they make love? At four o’clock I get in my car and drive, even though Ginger is only ten minutes away. I tour the neighborhood, the shopping/restaurant district, stop to get a soda, then change my mind. Don’t want to have to pee in the middle of my session.

Ginger is behind the counter when I enter. Her mouth spreads into a wide smile when she sees me walking through the door. “Ava!”

“Hey, Ginger.” I struggle to control the vibrato in my voice. I’ve got the jitters … bad.

“I’ve got a treat for you today!”

“Really?” I didn’t expect her to be so blatant.

“Just got a new steam shower delivered and set up. It’s awesome! When you finish tanning, you can try it out…on me.”

“Cool.”

“I have the stand-up ready for you.”

In the booth, I yank off my shirt, pull on my bottoms and apply bronzer. I’m almost finished when I hear a knock at the door.

“Yes?” I open a crack.

“I came to get the middle of your back,” Ginger announces.

I open a few more inches and turn to face the wall, like last time.

Same as before, Ginger warms the bronzer in her hands and smoothes it over my back.

“There, I think I’ve got it. I’ll get the steam unit ready.”

I shudder at the puff of air-conditioned air as she closes the door. Now what?

The twelve-minute tan seems like twenty-five before it shuts off. I remove my bikini bottom…Dress? Wrap a towel? What?

Another knock at the door. I crack it again and she slides a white, fluffy robe into my hand. “Oh thanks, Ginger.”

The steam shower is as high-tech as Star Trek. In a businesslike tone, she explains the buttons, knobs and symbols on the LED display. She leaves and I let the robe slither down my body, step into the chamber and slide the doors closed. I touch a knob, pull away and touch another. Which one does what? The steam is fogging the sides, and I can’t read the labels. I should have paid more attention to Ginger’s instructions, but it was hard to concentrate with her standing so close.

The music, new-age xylophone, chimes around me. Orange essence from the diffuser permeates my senses. Colored light shifts from blue to green to gold. The music, the oils, and the steam drift me into the zone. I reach out and turn the middle knob far left. Six nozzles spray my torso at different angles. The upper jets hit my nipples. I squirm. I redirect the bottom spouts to my mons. My nipples are hard and tingly. I run my hands up my stomach, encircle my breasts, then down between my legs. I slide the middle finger of both hands inside my slit and spread the folds. Tilting my pelvis at just the right slant, the spray engages my clit. I use my thumbs to lift the labia and get the full force of the water. My head falls back, and I shudder as the squirts propel me into nirvana.

I’m so engrossed in the ecstasy I don’t hear the double doors slide open and close. I don’t sense the bodily presence behind me until I feel arms encircle my waist. “I knew you’d know what to do with those jets,” Ginger says into my ear.

I collapse against her. She glides her hands over, around, up and down my stomach. She cups my breasts and squeezes my nipples with her thumbs and forefingers. I turn my head and nuzzle her neck. She tilts her head and latches onto my lips. I’m floating like those lopsided, billowy bubbles children blow through wands. She turns me around. I slide my arms behind her back and draw her close. I kiss her cheeks, down one side of her neck and up the other side to her mouth. Our lips lock, and I slide my hand up the back of her neck to hold her there. The automatic timer shuts down the unit.

I pull back and admire her perfect, petite body. I examine her pert tits and engulf one nipple, then another. I slide my hands down the sides of her hips and eye the previously forbidden territory. I brush my fingers through her bush, and she slides open the shower doors. Again? She’s going to abandon me again?

She clutches my hand and draws me into the dressing room. I step onto a cushion of layered blankets, which she must have spread on the floor. Ginger guides me downward until we’re sitting face to face on the blankets before she kisses me again. With our lips interlocked, she presses me onto my back landing on top of me. Our bodies fully engage—hands groping, legs entwining, knees pressing—as we roll from side to side. She wriggles down my body and tongues my slit, exaggerating the movement, as if she’s licking a giant lollipop from bottom to top. Her tongue explores my crevices up and down, in and out of every fold, every crease. I draw up my knees, spreading wide to allow her total access. Her hands slip beneath my buttocks, lifting me as she suckles me into oblivion. I moan and writhe side to side, then grab her hair with both hands before collapsing against the blankets.

With both arms I reach upward, beckoning her to my mouth. Kissing her, I reach between her legs and insert a finger. My movements are swift and to the point, or, more accurately, clit. I leave no space for her to change her mind. I pinch her round nub and roll it between my fingers before strumming it back and forth. She groans and arches her pelvis. I grasp the opportunity, and shift my lips from mouth to pussy. So intent on completing this mission, I slurp and suck and eat in crazed frenzy. She moans fly-me-to-the-moon encouragements and spreads her legs. Her body begins to buck and she screams her ecstasy. Her body goes limp. I caress her full length as I crawl to her face and kiss her trembling lips.

* * * *

We unwind, snuggled into one another’s arms.

“Ginger?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Why did you pull away from me before?” I have to know.

“Anyone can enjoy oral sex, regardless of who’s giving it,” she says, in an out-of-character tone. “But to give it, that’s crossing a line, a commitment, so to speak. I wasn’t sure you were ready for that.”

“You mean you were trying to protect me?”

“Yes. I didn’t want you to experience the angst, questioning what you’d done. I wanted you to be sure.”

“What makes you think I’m sure now?”

“You’ve had time to think about it. You weren’t just caught up in the moment. And…you didn’t go home with Troy last night.”

I hesitate with the next question, but I have to know. “You think I’m a lesbian?”

She laughs. “No. I think you’re exploring the possibilities…like me. I could sense Troy had an effect on you. I watched you closely. But you were curious enough that you chose to be with me instead of him.”

I rest my head on her chest and sigh contentment. At that moment I think I love her. All this time when I thought she’d rejected me, she was just giving me time to know my own heart.

We stand, and she rubs a towel over and between my legs. Then she runs her fingers along my tan line. “Mm, Ava. Look at that. Your lines are becoming more defined.”

PAGEBREAK

About the Authors

Louisa Bacio started reading A. N. Roquelaure’s Sleeping Beauty series at an impressionable age, and has been hooked on erotica ever since. She believes that everyone should have a little love and a lot of pleasure in their lives. Bacio lives in Long Beach, Calif., with her adoring husband, two wonderful and challenging daughters and a houseful of pets. In addition to writing, Bacio teaches college classes in English and journalism. Drop in for a visit at http://louisabacio.blogspot.com/, and catch her story “The Wait” in Rekindled Fire: An Anthology of Reunited Lovers http://ravenousromance.com

Jen Bluekissed lives in Tennessee with her husband. She is a recent transplant to the Volunteer State from Iowa. When she is not writing or blogging, Jen works contract positions. Most recently, she has worked in the insurance industry. Her favorite hobby, when she isn't getting lost in a good story, is playing word and strategy games. http://www.jenbluekissed.com http://jenbluekissederotica.blogspot.com/

Nola Erus, reared in a deeply sensual family which taught her to observe the evolving world around her in its most minute glory, comes to her love of language and communication naturally. An education in international/intercultural studies, diverse languages, and English composition and literature informs her insatiable quest for better understanding of her universe and her fellow humans. Her desire is to convey that understanding via storytelling. Through her stories she hopes to discover more about herself and to share a reverence for the erotic with the world community. She blogs at http://sensualstories.realaffection.com/ Her stories have been featured at http://www.sexologie.us and in Bunnie.

Lucy Felthouse is a graduate of the University of Derby, where she studied creative writing. During her first year, she was dared to write an erotic story—so she did. It went down a storm and she's never looked back. You'll find her writing online, and also in print magazines such as Scarlet, Desire and Forum. Lucy's stories have also been in print anthologies including Seriously Sexy 3, Ultimate Curves and Bunnie. Visit her at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk

Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a semi-famous TV journalist and sometime news anchor approaching her prime somewhere in Canada. She's handled her obligatory mid-life crisis by cutting her hair, buying a gunmetal-grey convertible Jaguar and writing a salacious memoir, My Life In The Great Sexual Window, from which this story is adapted. Samantha's into saving the environment, Szechuan food, Italian shoes and, most of all, sex and sensuality. www.SamanthaChantalJones.com

K. Ann Karlsson received a degree in international relations, then spent some time in the U.S. Navy. Among other less exciting experiences, she has stormed a beach with Marines, launched torpedoes from a submarine, and flown in various planes with aircraft carrier pilots. Even though she found the ratio of men to women in the military wildly favorable, she left the service several years ago to settle down with her own personal hero. Together they have traveled the world, lived in Europe and Asia, and returned home often enough to figure out that love really does make the world go ’round. When she’s not dreaming up new ways for her characters to challenge each other on the way to a loving commitment, she likes to ride her bike, play tennis and shop for shoes. Visit her at

http://www.kannkarlsson.com

C. Margery Kempe was born in King's Lynn, Norfolk, but traveled extensively throughout the first years of her life, including trips to Jerusalem and the Holy Lands. She graduated with a degree in religious studies from a small Catholic college, and now lives a quiet life with her husband and children in upstate New York, where she runs a small bakery.

Kilt Kilpatrick is the pen name of an Irish author sometimes called  “the Ferris Bueller of San Francisco.” When he’s not writing sexy stories for Ravenous Romance, he is a nonfiction writer, public speaker, Bay Area event organizer and, somewhat oxymoronically, a biblical historian and atheist activist. He is linguistically promiscuous; he is conversant in Irish Gaelic and bits and pieces of about two dozen other languages, including Welsh, Breton, Hungarian, Japanese, Arabic, American Sign Language, Cherokee, Klingon, and Elvish.  He loves reading, movies, dancing, sex, and has been a saber fencer for more than twenty-five years.  He lives in San Francisco with his steady girlfriend and number-one fencing partner Inara; also a writer.  And yes, he does wear kilts. If you know anybody like that, it’s probably him.

Inara LaVey is the romance-writing nom de plume of a San Francisco mystery writer and former B-movie actress who has lived many of the experiences she writes about in her sensuous fiction. She has traveled throughout Europe and worked in the uncharted wilds of Hollywood as a screenwriter, a script doctor, an award-winning documentary producer, a stunt woman (her background is in theatrical swordfighting), and actress in more than one cult classic. Along with her best friend, she created a mystery-oriented theatrical troupe in San Diego, which formed the basis for her Murder for Hire mysteries. She's written numerous published articles, essays and shorts, and is active in the Northern California chapter of Sisters in Crime. She has a deep passion for all things feline, and for many years has worked with her beloved tigers, leopards, jaguars and other exotic cats at an exotic feline conservation center. Another love is the sea; she adores living by the beach, surfing, strolling the strand and beachcombing. Her many friends know she can always be tempted by bad movies or good wine, preferably combined. When she is not hard at work writing or preparing for the coming zombie apocalypse, she can be found doting on her cats or swordfighting with her Irish lover. Check out Inara at: http://www.danafredsti.com/

L.A. Mistral is proud to have published previously with Ravenous Romance.

His short stories can be seen in print in the Cleis publications, B is for Bondage. Got a Minute? and Hide and See were included in Maria Isabel Pita’s, Bound to Love.  He publishes poetry and short stories at Ruthie’s Club, Clean Sheets and Oysters and Chocolate Web sites. He has also published five erotic novels with Renaissance eBooks at http://www.renebooks.com.

Regina Perry is pleased to edit this anthology, which explores love and passion beyond the opposite sex. Playgirl was her debut novel at Ravenous Romance. Growing up in conservative mid-America, she was forced to keep her fantasies hidden and experiences limited. After graduating from The University of Kansas, she taught middle and high school English before moving to Florida. Dorothy is now ready to slip into her new shoes and journey the yellow brink road of sexual discovery. Her stories can also be found in Bunnie, an erotic periodical from the U.K. Check out her shoes and “Double Life” blog: http://www.reginaperry.com

Farrah J. Phoenix was born in small-town Ontario, Canada, and grew up with a strong sense of imagination and a love of books, words, and writing. Farrah has always enjoyed putting pen to pad or fingers to keyboard to bring her imagination to life. In fifth grade, her teacher declared that she would grow up to be an author. Currently residing in the big city of Toronto, she aspires to one day find herself spending sunny afternoons with her pen and notebook on a beach in Europe, writing to inspire—physically and spiritually.