Did You Ever Get Stung? Ch. 04

Siân smiled, wicked and knowing. She astonished Jenna by snapping the second cuff over her own wrist. They were linked together, bound as much by the shared tight bite of surprisingly cold steel as by three inches of chain. She reached up to cup Jenna's cheek in her palm, dragging Jenna's hand in her wake.

Jenna opened her mouth to Siân's, felt Siân's other arm wrap protectively around her waist and take her bum under splay-fingered command. The chain was up under her chin, pulling her hand up to her own face, and without any thought she realised she was touching it. She was held between two palms as Siân's tongue caressed inside her mouth, feeling the motion of her own jaw and cheek in her fingers as she sucked on it. Siân's middle finger was pressing lightly along the line of her bum crack, making her stomach somersault with darkly seductive thoughts and pushing her groin to rub against the thick denim welt of Siân's fly. She buried her fingers in the sparse stubbly hair at the nape of Siân's neck and moaned over her tongue.

They were dancing, moving in locked unison as Siân broke the kiss and turned Jenna slowly under the arch of their chained arms. Siân bent her forward, making her left hand reach for the sofa to balance. The tug at her wrist put her back into a shallow S-curve, tensing her body as Siân's fingers pushed between her legs and took possession of what was so wet and desperate for them. The touch of cold chain against her lips made Jenna gasp out loud, her wrist and the steel band around it were pulled tight were Siân's possessive hand had been two minutes earlier. That hand was now cupping her throat, loose and light as the collar of a blouse, but just as controlling. She could hear the chain react to Siân's deep gentle stroking, feel her hand being rubbed rhythmically against her backside.

"Giving you dirty ideas, isn't it?"

Oh God yes! Filthy dirty, shameless and depraved ideas that Siân made seem both entirely normal and even nastier at one and the same time. Ideas that Jenna wanted to admit as much as she wanted to do.

"Yes ..."

"You do know you won't be able to stop me playing with your arse whenever I want?"

"Jesus, Siân!"

"Oooh yeah, you can say my name as often as you want in that voice."

She did want to; wanted to say it again and again; wanted to forget all the silly 'Miss' and 'Sir' nonsense to just grunt out Siân's name all thick and wanton, acknowledging that it was Siân's fingers doing wonderful things inside her and Siân's imagination fucking her slowly and indulgently every possible way.

"Siân."

She let herself go limp to Siân's command, let herself be turned and laid along the sofa. She opened her legs to welcome Siân's hand back where it belonged; accepted that her own followed everywhere in Siân's wake. Siân's left hand settled over her eyes, shutting her away in the safe non-judgemental dark with Siân's voice and the sensations flowing through her own body.

"Say it, honey, say my name as we make you come."

They merged into one being: Siân's mind conducting Jenna's reactions; the thumb that was circling Jenna's clit as subject to Siân's will as the fingers that were delving inside her; the hand toying with her left nipple as much Siân's as the lips sucking on her right. Except that a part of her still knew that hand was on her own, and that Siân must be getting a kick of her own from seeing what it was doing inches from her face. That was nice too, that was almost as deliciously naughty as raising her hips and offering that last and forbidden prize to Siân's dominant hand as she rubbed ever more frantically on herself.

"Siân ... Oh please Siân!"

*****

Liz carries the plates through into the kitchen and reflects on an evening well spent in good company. That counts for a lot these days, and she realises for the twentieth time how fortunate she is that Jenna decided to move up here. She likes Siân too, both for her own company and because she is so very obviously what Jenna needs. Liz trusts her, in fact she trusts her so much that she has just about decided to come out to the woman when they next meet up. It's not fair on Jenna to be burdened with all that secret identity nonsense, even if Liz has been determined ever since the beginning that it stays that way. Siân, she is quite certain, can keep a confidence.

It's nice to have them around, to see the love growing between them and let it rouse all those bittersweet memories of how she and Martine were at that age. God, sometimes they seem so young - like today when they came round and the music she had been listening to meant nothing to them. Jenna likes her cabaret standards, which is unquestionably very cool, and both of them are into all that dance stuff as befits their age. She does her best to accept the generation gap and not wax fondly lyrical about what it meant to be fifteen and feel Gloria break over her like a tidal wave of pure selfish woman to woman lust. It doesn't translate to their world, she'd end up sounding like the Three Yorkshire Lesbians 'call that deprived, when I were a lass we had nowt to watch but Cell Block H and glad of it'.

She has rarely seen two people more obviously meant for each other, and that too reminds her of her younger self. Weeks ago - one sultry disturbed night about the time Siân and Jenna met - she had the most bizarrely inappropriate dream. The details have faded, the way they always do almost as soon as she wakes, but she's still aware enough that it happened that she almost wants to apologise to Jenna about it. Weird and unsuitable, not to mention that she's not interested in Jenna like that - lovely girl and as good a friend as she has; and she's certainly not ugly - but it simply wouldn't be right. Not for Liz nor Jenna, nor for Siân; not for Martine's memory.

There's a germ of an idea in it though, one that calls seductively out to her as she thinks back over the hellishly slow progress of the last few weeks. She needs to write, it keeps her mind more or less together, gives her something to think about beyond the empty hopelessness of reality. When she can't write - and the novel is currently stalled like a wagon up to its axles in winter mud - she doesn't feel right. Perhaps it's time for a little tangent quickie to kick-start her creativity; and what's rattling round her head at the moment is a weird mix of autobiography, fantasy, and that silly film that had been on again recently.

She leaves the plates to soak, pours herself the last of the wine from dinner, and sits down at her laptop. After a moment's thought, she begins to type

Tessa had no intention of crumpling her interview suit in standard class for two and a quarter hours, so instead she stretched out her legs in first and took as much advantage of the complementary toast and drinks as her nervous stomach allowed ...