Did You Ever Get Stung? Ch. 02

Frankie's fingertips found her, peeled her easily open. She offered no resistance to the middle one probing at her with no ceremony or preamble; she was already wet for it. She was such a cheap fucking slut. Frankie touching her cunt made her gasp.

"No. Don't react. If you let it show, I'll stop."

"... We had sex. Really hot sex actually. All... ahhh... oh God, all weekend, and it felt like it really meant something but..."

She could feel a tear coming, without knowing whether it from the memory or having to talk about it like this.

"Hush, it's alright. You don't need to say if you'd rather not. Have a drink."

How pathetically grateful she felt for that. How totally she had let this person violate her privacy; in every - distractingly good and demeaning - way. She swallowed some orange juice, because Frankie had told her to. Frankie's finger flicked up to tickle her clit in passing and she almost choked. She could feel it in her nose. Dear God, she was this woman's sex doll - she'd let her do anything with her.

Frankie's hand emerged from under the table, from up Jenna's skirt. She stroked it slowly down her arm, the same sort of small physical endearment you might see from any couple in any pub. Frankie looked into Jenna's eyes and deliberately wiped her own juices along the inside of her wrist. Jenna recognised the sound of her own voice. It seemed to be as beyond her control as her legs had been, responding as demanded by Frankie's silent command.

"Thank you."

Thank you? Thank you for groping me in public and making me ashamed of myself. Did I really just say that? What an amazing fucking turn-on that was!

"Why don't you come back tomorrow, about eight. Don't dress like that: casual, trousers. Walk up to me and ask me very nicely to use you. Ask me nicely enough, and I might take you home and give you a seriously hard time. Like that?"

The music had stopped. She didn't know when, it suddenly wasn't there anymore and she could hear the general background murmur of conversation in its place. She looked down, away from Frankie's hypnotic face and towards her own half-finished orange juice.

"Yes."

*

Jenna's mind wandered badly at work, her imagination going through her wardrobe and trying every combination she could think of. She eventually settled on denim, which only left the question of what went underneath. Last Friday had just happened, accidental and spontaneous. It was a long time since she had set out with the conscious plan of having sex with a new woman. Difficult as it was to recall the exact details of her thoughts years before, she was sure she had never obsessed quite so much over choice of undies. Of course she knew she was hardly dressing to impress, and that made all the difference.

Nothing she wore would be good enough for Frankie, that much was more than clear. She had been promised a hard time and she believed that, as much as she wished for it. Frankie would find a way to turn how she dressed against her self-esteem. How did she want to be humiliated: cheap or desperate, perverted or frumpy? She closed her eyes and wondered how it might feel to pull her jeans down at Frankie's command and be caught wearing those filmy crotchless things that she'd bought as a laugh a while ago. Then she stopped imagining possibles and remembered last night and the way she had reacted to the trace of amused contempt in 'sensible and practical'. That feeling, carried from tease to consummation, would do very well.

She went home, got changed and decided that denim didn't look right in the mirror after all. It was a warm enough evening, and would still be light when she arrived at the pub, something summery and feminine would suit Frankie's victim. She went back to the wardrobe and selected light drawstring trousers and a blouse with buttons for someone to undo later.

As soon as she saw Frankie, she felt relief wash through her as a physical sensation. She was bent over the pool table, and the first thing Jenna noticed was her tight-jeaned backside. Strange that, she was here to be Frankie's sex object, head teeming with thoughts of feigned reluctance not far short of rape fantasy, and yet she could apparently objectify the woman in terms that would have made her very uncomfortable with anyone else. That girl had an arse on her. The thought of that powering the sort of things that Jenna dreamed of Frankie doing to her...

"Excuse me, Fra-"

Frankie didn't reply. She walked round the table for her next shot, holding the cue right at the butt end and pointing it casually towards Jenna's face: woman, know your place. What had got into her, that being insulted in public like that was such a thrill? She stood back out of the way and watched Frankie play.

It was the classic look this evening: leather jacket too clean and perfect ever to have fallen off a motorcycle; tight white T-shirt; faded jeans turned up at the cuffs. Thank God Jenna hadn't worn blue denim after all, hers would have looked ridiculously affected next to Frankie's, and that particular embarrassment didn't appeal in the least. Frankie was wearing the same black desert boots as the previous evening. They made Jenna smile with a surprisingly fond feeling: suede head and toe.

Frankie stepped away from the table. She didn't speak or smile, the only permission she gave Jenna to approach was a slight nod. Jenna walked up to her, standing close with her mouth in the protecting shadow of Frankie's jaw.

"Frankie, please. Please will you..."