Clit Chat

Authoress note:

Saga learned a new phrase from me the other day: "Chit-chat" she got this thoughtful look on her face after I explained it (by not explaining it, she always has wikipedia open when I'm around), then boldly suggested we replace the 'h' in 'Chit' with 'l', and asked if I wanted to do some 'clit-chat.'

You should have seen how bright red her face turned when she realized how brazen she was being, Saga, my little sex-starved fem.

Well, being a knightess in shining armor, of course I had to oblige a fair damsel's request, and the below, a work 'entirely' of 'fiction' ... 'happened.'

There are study questions following the story for Saga to answer, as, after all, she is this Sweden-famous literary critic ... You, dear reader, can peek at them, too.

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I was bored.

No, seriously, I was bored out of my mind. Back home, everybody was eating turkey and stuffing themselves with stuffing and pumpkin pie, but here in lovely Stockholm, Sweden, (which I'm sure is a beautiful place, I suppose, if it weren't pitch black by 4 pm ... and vampires move to Forks, Washington, why?), they don't have Thanksgiving, and Saga was busy.

She had this big debate she was preparing for at school -- "The brain drain in the Middle East: Is Islam a Factor?" -- and she was sweating it big time, and with good reason. These days, picking a controversial topic like that and wanting to engage in genteel debate, instead of hurling epithets and engaging in demagoguery?

Good luck with that.

Not that I'm not terribly fascinated in the topic myself. Why? Because I'm from my family, and my family always takes on controversy, and dared to speak their mind, regardless, no: despite, what everybody else thinks.

And well, my big brother's Arabic. Half Arabic. And I'm not. So he got all the brains. I mean, the Arabs and the Indians were such innovators in mathematics, and so my brother's like, okay, I'm not supposed to say what he is, but he's on this like think tank and advising, you know, 'important people' in Government on ... 'policy.'

Me, I'm an sbux barista. A failed one. I quit my job last year ... when they found out about what I am. Sbux has a no-discrimination policy for people like me: a girl fag, but that doesn't mean that people don't talk, and tease, and ...

So I quit my job, and now I find myself here. With Saga pouring over her notes, for the 27th time.

Which is my fault. If you are mine, you have to be the absolutely best you you can be, and I do not tolerate you giving anything less than everything of yourself in your endeavors. You sign up for something, like school, then you damn well better give it your all. I expect nothing less than my all from me, and I expect that from you, too.

So Saga has a promise to herself: 'Business before pleasure,' so therefore the intense study session, and not by the stacks in the back of the library, as I'd fancy right now.

Not that Saga's studying Arabic math. I'm her math tutor (among other things), she's focusing on Islam, another terribly fascinating topic for me. I read the Noble Qu'ran once. It was a ... fascinating read: surreal and scary. You're supposed to convert to Islam once you read it.

Not for me, thanks: I'm a little Catholic girl, and ... well, ... if I were a Muslim, the first thing they would do to me would to stone me. "Welcome to Islam, ... oh, you're a lesbian?" Not that they'd do that here in Enlightened Sweden, but I have enough problems going to confession already, and Islam, frankly, doesn't speak to me, it speaks to many people, obviously, but ...

... but anyway.

But I'm fascinated with Arabic culture and Islam, so why am I bored out of my mind, and not helping Saga prepare for her debate?

Well, there's the language issue, first of all. You know the joke, right? It goes like this:

What do you call a person who speaks two languages?

Bilingual.

What do you call a person who speaks three languages?

Trilingual.

What do you call a person who speaks one language?

American.

And me, speaking Swedish? I'd like to say I know a bit of Swedish. Saga and I have been pen-pals for ... wow! almost two years now? More?

But when I say anything in Swedish, the only reaction from Saga is seizures: fits of laughter where I have to pick her up off the floor. I mean, really! I try to say 'Thanks' in Swedish, which is 'tack' but it comes out 'tak' which is Swedish word for 'roof.'

Saga points this out, and I quip right back: "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn! Burn, motherfucker, burn!"

Which, of course, causes another spasm of laughter.

It's recoverable. I know the cure.

Fuck her brains out, right there on the motherfucking floor.

You know when you stop a girl's giggles by sealing her mouth with yours ... and your lips are pressing down on hers? Both of your lips, on both of hers?

Well, the vibrations from the giggles feel really, really good when your clit's rubbing hers. 'Really, really good' as in 'cum in seconds,' and there's nothing like making your top scream one out when she's thrusting on top of giggling you.

That's just a tip for ya there, for future reference.

So, the language barrier. I mean, Saga's sweating bullets, and my help would be to make her laugh deliriously and then fuck her brains out, which, the debate being on Tuesday (or 'Thuesday' as Saga says), that's kinda the opposite of help.

So here I am, reading a scholarly work on early futhark inscriptions, ... it's written in Swedish, and ... well, I'm really pleased when I can pick out a word I understand, which is about every twelfth word ...

... As I said, bored out of my mind.

AND I can't play Guitar Hero. That wouldn't distract her, not at all!

That's irony, by the way.

But worst than that. When I first got here, and I was like 'ooh, you've got Guitar Hero!' and she was so proud to show me how it 'verked' ...

She 'played' a song on Easy. 'Played' as in barely struggled through. Then asked if I wanted to try.

I play Guitar Hero on Hard. I play some sets on Expert.

I said something about being embarrassed. But she pressed, so I said 'no way.' Something like 'no way' I could play like her.

Which was totally true.

And Saga ...

Saga is so ... I mean, she's hard and soft, she's like a mother I never had, like a lover I've never had. She so caring of me, and so sensitive about herself. If I had picked up that guitar, I would've crushed her spirit. And she already has issues around me.

Like, feeling she's too old, feeling she's too stupid, feeling she's no good for me.

Which is all bullshit.

Okay, so she took me to the pool once, and this matron came up to her, and asked if I were adopted.

The Swedish. I swear to God. They all feel they have a right to tell you how to live your life by 'oh, but I was just asking.'

So what if I look (barely) 14. So what if she's over 30. I'm of age. So is she. She picked me, and I picked her, that's good enough for us, so everybody else can go take a long hike off a short pier.

And her being stupid?

Okay. I'm a writer. Fine. I'm in Mensa. Fine, our family is, too, and deal with that. And I write awesome stuff (humble much, 'phfina? Yup, thanks for asking, Ms. Muse), but Saga?

I fell in love with her. And how? Because when she wrote to me about what I wrote, she saw things in what I wrote that nobody else did. And 'nobody' includes me, too.

And she thinks she's stupid.

If I could, I would fuck the 'stupid' out of her brain, and, Heaven knows, I try, very hard, every day, to do just that.

Besides, a girl can't go to school with her morning tea and toast and a Good Morning fuck to get her out of bed all bright and motivated for the coming day, right?

Works for me. Or 'verks' for me.

And, coming home from school, well, there's got to be a reason to come home, right? And a good job at school needs to be rewarded, with gnocci in a red sauce with meatballs, and ...

Well, as Saga told me, 'Fuck the gnocci; I think I'll fuck you instead!'

And people wonder how I keep my girlish figure and good muscle tone.

'It's DDR,' I tell them. And that's true, too: I have to work out every day to keep that girl satiated.

Because an unsatiated Saga is a terrifying thing to contemplate.

That girl is insatiable, by the way.

I'm not complaining, in case you're wondering.

Nor am I, for that matter. I mean I am insatiable.

It's a curse. Particularly now, when all Saga wants to do is to study, and all I want to do is fuck her brains out, ... and I have to be a good girl.

I really, really have to be a good girl.

I peek over the top of the book of blurred-together words. I'm reading about the Rök runestone, but that can wait until later.

"How's it going?" I ask.

It's like 8 p.m., and It's not like she hasn't been studying all day, or anything.

"Hmmm? Fine." she responds distractedly, not even looking up from her notes.

Obviously it's not fine. And the last thing she 'ate' was a croissant with her tea at 4 pm. I say 'ate' because she left it aside, complaining of nausea.

Ridiculous, a person worrying herself sick over school and grades, and what other people think of her? I mean, seriously, it's just a fucking grade on a fucking piece of paper. Who goes nuts like that of something so meaningless?

Well, besides myself, obviously, who can't even leave her own flat in America to walk to work, scared sick that someone may look at her and say hello. Who raced through high school and college, and almost committed suicide, twice, because of stupid, fucking grades.

And then there was that whole six months when little miss lesbian had a nervous breakdown and ended up hospitalized because she couldn't answer a stupid question in class.

There was some homelife issues, perhaps with Dad leaving Mom, as he is wont to do when a daughter reaches puberty (so who's fault is it that Dad left us? Mine. That's what I said to myself over and over every time I looked in the mirror), but so what? Lots of kids come from divorced families, only one flames out like 'phfina does, so damn sensitive, and blaming herself for everything that happens around her.

I pity Saga, having me to look after. I warned her about me. And it's not that she doesn't have enough to worry about already, but adding me to her list?

What is she? Florence Nightingale?

But Saga is Saga, so damn insistent and stubborn: 'I'll have you as long as you'll have me,' she says, and how can I refuse her ... well, anything, even if that anything is 'me.'

And those big puppydog pleading eyes of hers really shortcircuit my brains. I tend to stop thinking and start fucking any and every part of her that I can get a hold of.

And it's hard to say, 'Save yourself and turn me away,' when you're cumming hard on her butt cheeks and into ass crack, rubbing her clit and grabbing that globe of flesh you're going to be suckling at as she rocks you to sleep.

Fuck. 'Mommy time.' I'm wet now.

I'm wet. And she's going to be up all night, wasting away from worry over her debate that i know she's going to ace, anyway.

Something needs to be done. Somebody has to make an intervention, to save her.

Yeah, that's right. I have to save that poor girl.

Even if she doesn't want to be saved.

"Saga, ..." I say, calling, and I feel it in me: the change, and I feel the tendrils of me reaching out to her, to take her.

"Hmmm?" she says, absently.

I will not be absented.

"Saga, put the pen down," I say, trying to control the beast in me.

I scare myself. In me is this monster, if let go, she would ravish, and rage, and ... and rape, and hurt, and and draw blood, and kill. I don't know if this creature is in anybody else, but I know it's in me: this thing that wants to satisfy herself, by domination and subjugation, and she takes an awful pleasure in hearing the fearful whimpers of her prey.

But Saga is not my prey. No, Saga is mine, and I don't hurt what is mine, no: I care for what is mine.

I remind myself of that, and I remind my beast of that. 'Saga is mine,' I whisper into my soul, into my beast, 'and I will have her, but we will not hurt her. We will never hurt her.'

I hurt a girl once. I bit her, during our lovemaking. And I left a mark, and she said, 'ow!' and rubbed it, and tried to pretend that it didn't hurt that much.

But I saw it hurt her, and her hurt hurt me so badly I got sick as I fashioned an ice pack for her, and I had to be talked down, again, by her, because I let go, and put myself before my lover, and hurt somebody I loved.

I can hurt people, but when I let the beast go, she can be very ferocious, and she can hurt somebody, very, very badly.

As those three boys from high school who attacked me and my first love from high school, Julia, found out, the hard way.

Oh, yeah: there's hate crimes against dykes. You can read about them in the Washington Blade, and an angry girl with a mag light?

Well, it's a lucky thing for that boy he didn't get a concussion is all I'm saying.

And we didn't get attacked again. You go after me or mine, and I'll give it right back to you, I swear to God.

Saga can hear the commanding tone in my voice, and that finally does make her look up from her books.

Book worms so fucking turn me on, by the way.

"I...I vreally havft to get this homeverk done, Mel ..." she pleads.

I set the book aside and rise from the chair. Is my little fem Saga denying my command? I feel the beast in me snarl and coil to pounce, right for her jugular.

'Hush, now,' I tell my beast calmly. I can control her; I can control myself.

Saga sees my fight for self-control, and she turns white. My beast snarls in anticipation.

"Saga," I whisper into the dead silence of the apartment, "what you really have to do is to obey me, and get your ..."

I pant. I was self-controlled up to this point, but now I let go, just a little bit.

"... and get your FUCKING ASS on that table NAOW!"

Just a little bit. Saga turns whiter.

She begins to comply immediately, but my voice lashes out, stopping her.

"Oh, for God's sake, Saga, move your papers aside first!"

What do they teach children in school these days anyway?

Although I am the child, and Saga is the 'mommy' ... but you get my drift.

But seriously: is she going to be turning in her report covered in cum and expect to get a good grade, or even not expelled? Sure, when I first moved in with her, and she wasn't paying attention to her mistress because she complained she had to study, I hopped right on top of her papers on her table, spread my legs and commanded, 'Study this, biatch!' then grabbed her head and buried it in my cunt for a good long while until I really let one go, good, long and hard, all over her face and her papers, too.

I marked her as mine that night, oh, yes I did.

But as her mistress, she is mine, and my responsibility.

So, as she slept, I copied out her work, word by word.

You ever copy a cum-covered paper? Now copy it out correctly in Swedish.

Needless to say I was up all night long, and even though I hadn't yet adjusted to the time difference, I was a complete wreck the next day. A total zombie, and that's no fun for her or for me. So, as Saga says, 'business before pleasure,' which includes tidying up the loose ends, before I tidy up her loose ends.

Oh, God, yes, am I going to tidy up her loose ends.

Saga quickly and nervously collects her papers. But not quickly enough for Mistress 'phfina.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Saga! Hurry it up!" I bark impatiently, even though she is moving quickly enough, I suppose, for somebody who didn't need her lover cumming right fucking now on the table.

Saga runs to her bedroom with her papers and runs right back in a flash.

Or an eternity of waiting for me.

She stands nervously by her chair, indecisive.

I'm not.

"Ass, on table. Now." I command in clipped tones.

Saga's face was white, but now she's blushing hard, and she can look anywhere except me in the eye. She hops up on the table and looks away, her face a bright red cherry.

And she's ready. I can smell it, and I feel my nips tighten in anticipation.

I control my breath. I control my step. I control every muscle in my body as I place myself in the chair she was recently sitting in.

"Spread your legs, Saga," I whisper.

She obeys, not looking at me.

"Saga, ..." I begin, and wait.

She's forced to look at me.

My lips are pressed into a thin line, my eyes narrowed. I'm a pretty girl. A cute girl. A white little black Irish girl with eyes from my father that are bluer than the sea. And this cute, pretty waifish girl is now in full-on top mode.

"Skirt, up." I order. Why do I have to tell her these things?

Saga tentatively reaches down and lift her skirt above her knees, and I can see my prize, her sex hidden under the shadow of the folds of her skirt, if I wanted to look hard.

I don't.

"I want," I snarl, "I want your ass cheeks resting on the fucking cold table, not on your fucking woolen skirt, biatch!"

Saga whimpers in fear, but quickly complies, pulling up her skirt completely, and scooting forward, putting her cheeks onto the table, and putting her cunt right there in easy reach for me, my hands and mouth.

I deign to look down, and smile with pride and pleasure. Saga's purrfectly shaved cunt is flowering open, for me.

"Ah, Saga," I sigh, breathing in her essence, "you didn't wear panties!"

I look up to her and bring my hand to her cheek.

Saga reflexively flinches away in fear.

My touch on her cheek is soft, reassuring, and understanding. I haven't been hit, and I don't hit my girls.

In soft tones I continue, "... and for that, you are rewarded."

I ease up from the chair, and my seeking lips meet her surprised ones. We kiss, my hand on her cheek, holding her face to mine, her lips to mine.

Her arms reach up to encircle me in an embrace.

"Nnn-mmm," I hum warningly. Her arms fall obediently.

For now, she is mine. She is not to cage me, she doesn't call the shots: I do.

What she is to do is to relax, to let go, and to be mine.

I hold that kiss for a moment, then a moment longer, until I feel her tenseness ease, until I feel her start to begin to give herself to me.

I pull back, and feel her want to follow. She sighs, and her eyes are closed in contentment and relief.

I smile a little wicked pleased smile.

"You like?" I ask.

Saga hums her answer, and I can't help but snicker. If she only knew what's coming.

I think she does know what's coming. Her. In a mo'.

"Saga," I call softly.

She opens her eyes quizzically.

I smirk, then make a parting motion with my hands. "Your blouse," I say.

Saga quickly looks away and bites her lip, blushing.

Fuck, she can make me wet just by a demure aversion of her eyes.

She complies quickly, fumbling with the buttons and then pulling up and out her blouse from her skirt and then parting the blouse.

"Shall I ...?" I ask, looking down at her assets.

Still looking away, biting her lip, she nods, ever so slightly.

Saga, my virginal gf.

I reach into and behind her blouse and undo the clasp of her bra, and her bound breasts, now loosed, ease the bra down and out. My hands reach up the the straps and ease the bra off her shoulders, one at a time, massaging her shoulders and blades where the straps dug in.

She sighs contentedly under my touch, but I can feel her, tight as a drum, as if my massaging hands were electric, shocking her, stimulating her as they simultaneously comforted her. My face is right up to her face and I whisper into her ear, so softly, "Relax, honey, you really need to relax." Then I giggle, and add, "It would so kill the mood if you had a heart attack and died, okay? Relax."