tagLesbian SexOne Night: Another Night

One Night: Another Night

byGethelred©

I am sitting within the eye of a storm.

People surround me; talking, eating, drinking, laughing, all loud, all vulgar. I feel sometimes as though I'm an old soul, surrounded by utter, utter children; yet I am younger than them, all of them. I used to think that you were like me, an old soul, but then it happened. You left.

You're here too, across the room. We never went public, never told everyone that we were together, never even tried to make you and I become an us. Tonight is one year on, since that one time, one night, and my god, I cannot help but still want you.

I don't understand theme parties. It seems that these days, one cannot throw a pea without hitting a theme party; an alien here, a M party there. Tonight is a Wild West theme, and I am not playing along. They say you should play like a joiner, but I can't be like that, even at a work thing.

You are sitting between two people, the two people most opposed to us. Your mother; as if she would have a lesbian for a daughter. And your boyfriend, a less than perfect rendition of what a girl might want.

You're an indian squaw, and a slutty one at that. Your dress is short, but not too bad; your hair is done in twin braids, and I would like to touch them, feel them. I imagine what doing so would be like, as I look away.

You keep looking at me; whenever I look, as much as I try to avoid it, you are. I drink, more than I should, looking back; whenever you see me watching, you get all lovey dovey with your boyfriend, which leads me to take another shot of vodka. Lucky the business doesn't skimp on alcohol, because I am intent on drinking myself under the table.

You come over to me, with him. You ask me, how I am; I say, good; my eyes say, how do you think, as they pointedly look at him, the boy. He is, as they mostly are, oblivious; smiling vacantly, his ears full of those stretching earrings, so large that one could fit a sausage through them. You flinch, a little; you always lived on the extreme outside of your skin, always saw how I felt within mine.

It wasn't really your fault, when we woke up the next day a year ago. When you smiled at me, and kissed me awake. When we made love again, and gasped the humid air of my apartment in the morning, and spoke of us.

I asked you, are you really interested, or; I let the question hang. You paused, your hands ceasing as they trailed my shape; you say you're curious. Before tonight, you said, I was only into boys.

Perfect, I said, rolling over; I didn't want you to see how hurt I was. I knew there were enough impediments between us without boys as well.

And that became a problem, for us. We dated, if one can call you coming over to my apartment and being shagged senseless dating. But I knew you weren't exclusive, never even tried to have that conversation with you.

How've you been, I ask you, smiling. You nod, and smile, but it doesn't reach to your eyes. Good, you say, but you don't mean it. You sit down; your beard finds another chair, and another conversation.

I forgot just how captivating you are, up close. You smell like cinnamon, your hair is glossy in the dimness. Your top is low cut; I want to sink myself lower, and to nibble between them, before pulling the material further down, and suckling you as you come.

I think my mood is contagious. Your eyes are huge, swollen as I have never seen them. Your nipples stand hard to your shirt; your finger flicks idly at my wrist, as you lean over to catch what I'm saying. You want to fuck me, I know it. I want it, but fuck you if I'm going to make it easy for you.

You ask me, like you did last year, do I want to get out of here. I respond, quickly, what about him, as I look over at the laughing man, and the other men gibbering away. You flush, and you look raw; you get up to leave, and I take your wrist, unable to stop myself. You look down at me; god help me, as I smile, and say yes.

You lead me outside, and drag me away, into welcome relief from the ruckus upstairs. It's late, and the street is poorly lit. Your eyes glow feverishly, your mouth open, as you push me none too gently up against the wall.

The impact is enough to wind me, but the air is caught, held from leaving my body by your lips. I could never have forgotten how you tasted, but the reality is an unfair comparison to memory.

For a moment, I'm lost. Lost in you, revelling in your shape, your touch, your desire as I hear you moan into my mouth.

Then, I'm angry.

I shove you off, and push you away, against the wall opposite. I can't be too loud; the walls are thin, and a screaming match would probably be overheard.

What the fuck, I ask you, as matter of factly as I can. You're still hot, and I can hear your breathing, and your taste is still in my mouth. You look a bit lost, as you ask why, was I not into it as well. I shake my head; not when you damn near assault me, scarce minutes after leaving your boyfriend.

You flush; even in the dim light, I can tell. You don't quite know what to say; you wanted simple, you begin with. We weren't simple. So you left, and went out, and forgot as best you could, I responded. I am so not turned on right now; it is as though you've upended a bucket of ice cold water over my head.

No, you say, almost plaintively. No, it's not like that. How long have you been seeing him, I ask in response. Fuck; my hurt is making me hurtful, the fractures in my heart too close for either of our comforts.

Almost since then, you say. I nod, and start to walk away. Nice knowing you, I say; you take my wrist, hard. You pull me back, and push me against the wall again. I'm not scared, until I see your face; I not anything, until I see your face.

You're desperate. I don't understand; you've been smiling, laughing, happy, all year, when I've seen you. I talked to the boy; he's actually alright, I think. I mean, a genuinely nice guy; or would be at least, if he wasn't yours.

I need to say something, you say, your voice a broken, ragged whisper. You lean in, and put your mouth close to my ear, so close I shiver, feeling the chill of your breath on my neck.

I've been a bitch, you say. I've tried, I've fought it, but I can't anymore. I love you. So much it hurts.

You draw back, your eyes glowing; I can see it, all of it, luminous.

It is as though I was carrying a great weight, such is the relief. Not just relief, triumph; I knew it, I fucking knew it.

You look scared, as though you're about to flee; I must've taken longer thinking than I thought. Slowly, I raise my hands; I place them at the back of your head. I lean you forwards, and draw you back towards me.

I love you too, I whisper to your nose, the only part of your face I can see. But you knew that already; I had come damn close to telling you when we tried, earlier on.

You almost laugh, a relieved sound, half a bark or a harsh breath.

You make a good indian, I say, lift my hands back up to your head, playing with your braids. Now you do laugh, and it is like the air got warmer around us; it feels good even to just refer to we two as us.

And you make a good... what are you exactly, you ask me, leaning back to look at me. I blush a bit; I only found out about the bloody thing three days ago, and I'm not the most proactive person you would meet. I'm wearing a tee shirt that clings to my chest, that's light metallic blue. It's got a symbol on the front, that kind of looks like a keyhole, and it's got a lower than normal neckline for a tee. Jeans for the bottom, that had nothing special to say for themselves; I had brought a hat, like a cowboy hat, but that was the only concession I made. I had left it inside.

I take your hand, and place it at the front of my shirt; shut and work, squaw, I say, affecting the worst western accent I have ever heard.

You snort, but you lower your head to my level, and you kiss me, softly. Your hands lift my shirt; I'm too happy to care, your fingers on my skin so hot, making me gasp. You bite my lower lip a little, your fingers inside my bra now, toying with my breast. Your fingernails are too long not to scratch me a little, but it doesn't hurt. I feel your shoulderblades through the fabric of your dress; you're a little thinner than you used to be. I feel every rib, before lowering myself, and kissing your collarbone, and spinning you around to plant you against the wall.

I hold your wrists by your sides, as I kiss you, hard. I want you, as though every missed opportunity, every fantasy unfulfilled welled within me. I lift your dress up; your eyes are glowing, mad. My hands look for your briefs, and find nothing but warmth and moisture. I look up at you, smirking.

"That sure of me, were you?"

I bite you, just above the knee. You gasp, but I soothe the marks with my tongue. I draw away, until only my lips are just touching you, teasing, tickling. Your hands are in my hair; you're not forcing me to rush, or directing me at all. I look up at you, and you look down, your mouth open. Your lips quirked, between one breath and the next.

"I'm meant to be seducing you, Rory, not the other way round."

I just looked up at you, completely satisfied in my time and place; I like my name in your mouth.

You stand up; the fringes of your outfit first brush, then press against my stupid teeshirt. Your hands found my stomach, as your lips find mine, and you turn us around again, me against the wall. You unbuckle my belt; you don't pull them down all the way, but just enough to get your fingers inside.

I am in my lips, then in the skin you kiss as you mouth my name into my flesh, making me yours by osmosis. Your body is shaking, whirring, purring, around me, and my awareness sinks lower, to where your fingers are ungently feeling their way into my underwear, but I don't mind, because I want you to be fierce, determined, animal. You can be soft later.

I'm trying to think, but I can see patches of red and white over my eyes, through my eyelids. I think I'm holding your wrist, gripping it; I'd be begging you not to stop, but the words are not adequate to the feeling; licking along my bones, swelling like pools of warm water, swirling. I'm moaning, or screaming, and I'm kissing into you, and I'm not sure it's your mouth. I might even be whispering, but such a whisper. I'm burnt ashes, twisting into dead coals, but the fire was so glorious that I simply didn't care.

You back off, and momentarily I'm scared; I'm too raw to see you leave. Even if I can intellectually realize that both of our parents are upstairs, I just can't. You smile; I can't see it, but you come to me as softly as I want you to.

"Let's fuck off," you whisper to me. "You still living in Clayton?"

I nodded, but I retreated a little.

"Can't be like last time. You need to actually be willing to come out, properly, and to do this right."

You sigh, and nod. "Do you want me to break up with him tonight?"

I smirk, picturing it; him, all hurt and angry, but surrounded by mine and your family, and our bosses, and their families. I even see your mother's face, when you tell her why. I can't help smiling.

"No; we'll do it tomorrow. Meanwhile, we can't go back to mine, at least not yet. He'll wonder where you went, as will everyone else, and they know I'm gay."

You nod, and groan. "Next few days are gonna be rough."

I open my eyes as wide as I can and, from my position - nestled between your breasts through your outfit - I flutter my eyes.

"Aren't I worth it, though?"

You laugh, mutter "smartass" at me, and take me back inside. We don't get looks, thankfully, except from my mother, but she always knows.

We don't talk much for the rest of the night; you play your role as much as you always do. We don't look across the room, like we did before. We be good children, like we are.

Before I leave, when leaving, you take my hand, and squeeze it.

"I'll be seeing you," you whisper; it's all I can do not to leap up into the air and shout out my happiness.

"Hope so," I say, before I call the cab and go back to mine.

***

It's been a week, and I haven't heard from you. I feel swollen. You wanted this, me, but you haven't called, haven't texted. I haven't seen you since, and I wish it didn't hurt.

I'm in my apartment, and I'm alone; all the others are at work, or at school, or somewhere else. I've had the last few days off; sick days and that. It really wasn't hard to argue when I really felt ill, broken. Fucking hell.

There's a knock on the door, and I wish that cliché's weren't true, and that if that is you I would tell you to fuck off, and to stop messing me around. I would find a nice pretty girl who wasn't such a fucking tease, who was sure that she wanted me, who actually could be with me without all the hangups.

But I open the door, and it is you. I back away from the entrance, and you follow me inside; you're tentative, as though you don't entirely know what you're doing. You sit opposite me; I'm not sure if I would welcome you next to me.

Fuck off. I can feel it; attraction, pooling in my stomach, forcing my eyes to bathe your frame, dwelling on your sallience. Excess is a word that would describe you well, for there is nothing on you that is not a little too much; your hips are too broad, just; your breasts too big, your lips too wide. Your eyes too huge, and black. Your skin is just a little too tanned, under the sun; you don't look orange, but you're very brown. I sigh, and tell myself to stop it.

"How've you been?" You start, smiling tremulously. I smirk at you, even though I feel nothing like smiling.

"You came all this way to offer me smalltalk?"

You sit up, and look at me properly.

"I came out. To everyone."

I was shocked, to the extreme. "Came out, as in bi, or came out as it gay?"

"Came out as in gay; Mum thinks it means bi, so whatever." You shrug, and I stop fighting the delicious warm feeling floating me upwards, all of which had nothing to do with sex. Maybe partly.

"I'm still mad at you; you couldn't call, or talk to me in any way?"

"Damn it, I'm sorry, Rory. Life's been difficult of late; I had to kick my boyfriend out, as well as tell him I'm into girls and that I cheated on him with you."

"Well, good; I'm glad he got told."

Your face hardened; I saw doubt in behind your eyes, before you got angry. "Is this what it's gonna be like, being with you?"

I let the silence ring for a bit, before I rose. I keep my face as expressionless as I can. I sit next to you on the couch.

"No, Vicky, this is what it will be like."

I straddle you, and pull your chin until you are facing upwards. I kiss you hard, fiercely; never letting go. We can fight, and argue, and scream at each other, but as long as I can screw you senseless after it doesn't matter. Make me hurt, make me sad, before making me cum.

I'm kissing you so hard I'm pulling your hair. Your hands are on me, but it's different to normal. You're not on my skin, you're inside; you're twisting me from within, twirling.

It's building slowly. I'm warm, safe; the knowledge that it's happening, actually, fucking going to be. It's what I wanted. It's breaking my heart. I'm not crying, but I am, so happy it hurts. Your lips curve into a smile, and my feelings recede in a good way; sometimes, emotional distance, difference, is a good thing. Let's you just enjoy the moment more.

The kiss softens, and I back away from you a little, but your hands find the junction of my waist and my hips, the spot which on you I want my hands to rest forever. They tighten, and I get your message; I won't move away.

You lift my singlet over my head, and unclasp my bra; I feel strange. I'm normally self conscious, at least about my nakedness, and the blinds are wide open. But I really, frankly, don't care, at all.

Your breaths fall on my chest; I feel their weight, each hitting me harder, making my skin bristle. I'm like a cat, as I lean forwards, into your mouth; I cup your head, your face, longing for you. Brushing up against you, purring, forcing. I will never cajole, never beg, unless that's what you want from me.

Your fingers are between my legs, and I thank all that exists in this world that I am wearing elastic shorts; you know, the kind that you can sleep in, that may be the least attractive thing I own, but it's good because you find your way into them, only too easily.

I gasp, as you rise; your hands leave my thighs as you lift me. You turn, and place me on the couch, spreading my legs.

I want to do this for the entirety of next week, you say. I nod, dimly thinking as lift my ankles together, and divest me of my remaining ugliness. I am bare, as bear as I have ever been; you have stripped me of my skin, and now you will devour me whole.

The oddest of thoughts, as you begin. Your mouth closes over my centre, and I cease knowing, cease being.

I don't exactly cum, at all. You spend ages, bringing me up, boiling me over and over, and not backing off so much as just moving to another place, and another sensation.

It was light when you began, and dimming when you stop. I pull you up, blind with need and want for you there.

I kiss you, your lips slick with my taste. You sigh into me, and melt into my arms. I fill my hands with your fantastic too large ass; you are fit, but you have too much medittaranien in you for your shape to be anything other than full.

We lie down, on the couch, and I thank whichever deity is watching at the time - the perves - that the couch is big enough for us both. I'm breathing you in, completely sated, over and over as you sink lower into sleep in my arms. I am so happy, I could die, I think as I fall asleep.

***

The last party I would attend at the company; you left six months ago. I'm smiling, even though you're not at this one; it would be too weird for everyone if you were. Your mum never forgave me for stealing her youngest, and seducing her away from her god, but we get on as well as we can. They have my resignation; I've already got a spot in a bank.

Another year, another theme; this one is twenties, and I actually bothered this time. I kept it as secret from you as I could; I'm wearing a long tight sleek length of black fabric, cut low between my breasts, with a black mesh front to a hat. I actually like the way I look tonight, and I want to surprise you when I get back. I have a fan and all.

It descriptively sounds quite funeral, but trust me, it wasn't. The men looked good, very dapper, and all the women lovely, in their finery. I'm younger than most, and so I take my leave early.

I drive back to my apartment, now ours. You moved in, roughly six weeks after that night. It's been better than good; a life that belonged to someone who must've done something good in their last one. I had a few girlfriends before you, but it was never easy with them. This is beyond easy, it's natural.

I knock on the door; you ask who it is.

I tell you, in as posh a voice I can muster, to open the door this very instant. You comply; you deep dark eyes widen, the pupils dilating visibly. You step back, as I stay in character, and hand her my purse with a flourish.

"Do be a dear, girl," I say, "and take my coat, and take a seat."

You are nonplussed, as you do as instructed. My lipstick is bright red, my skin as pale as can be, and I acted in school; I knew how to play a role, and tonight I will serve you well.

You are still wearing your work skirts, but your stockings and shoes are off; I see them nearby, kicked off onto the floor. I sit between you legs, on the coffee table, which is entirely too near for me to do without touching your inner thighs with my crossed legs. I stare at you relentlessly.

Tell me, my dear, I say to you. Tell me what you would like me to do.

You swallow; your eyes near pop out of your head. I smirk, and stand; I use the back of my calves to push back the table. I kneel between your legs, and raise your skirt. I look up at you, as I remove the cutest pair of pink underpants from your treasure - yes, I recognize the cliche of calling it that, but it is, oh it is.

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