Impact 06: of Annunciation

'Still, I'm her beast.' I think, remembering how she called for my mouth, pleading, then ordering me to suck.

I sit back and raise my glass to my lips and take a slow noisy sip of my wine, just like she had shown me. I am pursing my lips to make a tight 'o' - sucking in air within my sip. This, she's explained, aerates the wine. But I am imagining sucking on her. She smiles at me as if she can tell what I'm thinking.

The robe has fallen open, and I feel a thrill when I see she's staring at my breasts.

'Maybe not a total beast,' I think with pride.

"That's lovely," I tell her, shrugging my shoulders to open the robe more as I curl my feet under me, edging closer to her on the overstuffed sofa.

Her nose is straight with a bony Gallic elegance, her large child-like eyes are perfect almonds, thick lashes giving her expression a perpetual sultriness - not at all innocent. I imagine a man buying a painting from her, watching her talk the way I am.

"My favorite line is Tu es le verre je suis le vin," she explains, careful to look in my eyes. "You're the glass and I'm the wine."

She's so convincing, she must be an excellent saleswoman. There is a conviction in her manner, but also a playfulness. As she continues to explain the song, the corners of her mouth curve up, I think of her lips on mine.

"I mean who doesn't like wine?" I ask, my voice breathy. I'm flirting like a slut... the slut I'm with her... the slut she makes me... that I want to be and can be with her.

I had been thinking all week about the way Claire deployed the words "slut" and "whore" with such particularity. I've been reexamining our... encounter? Collision?

I've always been so afraid of being labeled a slut, more even than a whore, but I've been replaying Claire's words, over and over - her name calling excites me even as it scares me.

Part of it is how different the words are coming from her. She used them so carefully. She didn't use "slut" and "whore" interchangeably. I was a slut for making myself cum, for wanting to cum. I was a whore for making her cum, for wanting to make her cum. But I'm also not alone. She was clear: I am her slut, I am her whore.

The robe is almost off my shoulders displaying my breasts, just barely covering my nipples. But she doesn't look down, instead, her eyes flare with excitement, go wide with a passion that has nothing to do with my boobs.

"Non, il y a plus que ça! There's more to it than that. If someone is telling you that you are the glass and they are the wine, they are saying that they need each other. You need the glass to drink the wine, and at the same time the glass without the wine is empty, incomplete."

"You can drink wine right from the bottle," I tease.

"Quelle horreur! Now you're trying to make me angry! We're not animals," she sputters, feigning horror with her hand at her mouth. She laughs before her brow furrows a little giving way to a more serious expression. "Just as they make glasses in different shapes for different wines," she says, holding up her glass. It looks simultaneously beautifully fragile and comically large in her narrow hand, her fine thin fingers, the film of blown glass. Like a child playing with adult things. "These are for BIG reds, Bordeauxs, Sirahs, Malbecs... I like to think that it means that there's someone who is the perfect shape for each of us, our companion glass."

I remember the way Claire swore at me in French, commanding me to "stop fucking around" and eat her pussy, how I'd scrabbled to obey, desperate to do what she wanted, to make her cum.

"That's lovely," I say, knowing exactly which one of us is the powerful dark vintage, which one is the fragile bubble of glass, the container... who serves who.

'I'm the whore - her whore.'

"...such a beautiful image," I murmur, as she jumps up. Something is chiming in the kitchen, calling her away.

"It's true, yes?" she asks as she bangs the oven open with a yelp. Coming back, her hands wrapped in oven mitts, and carrying a piping hot casserole, she asks, "Do you know cassoulet?"

"No," I admit, "but oh my gosh, it smells delicious!"

The "cassoulet" was in a deep dish covered in a thick layer of toasted breadcrumbs. I could smell the aromas wafting around, rich with garlic and herbs.

"It's French comfort food," she says smiling. "Traditionally made with duck and sausage, but I've made you a vegetarian cassoulet!"

Waiting on the table is a green salad, another bottle of wine, a warmed baguette, a bouquet of antique roses and two long, unlit tapers.

She places the cassoulet on a trivet, and then pauses to strike a match, lighting two candles. I hadn't even noticed them or the fresh flowers when I came in - maybe they weren't on the table yet? For a moment, watching her fuss with the table, I'm overcome. I feel like I might cry and bat back the tears before she can notice.

"This is amazing! I love that you made this for me - I know how busy you are, you absolutely shouldn't have-"

"No, don't be silly," she says with a wry smile. "It's nothing at all."

"Claire, this is too much!" I say, my voice cracking, but I see that I am embarrassing her, so I push my voice and expression to make light; an ironic hyperbole. "You've gone too far!" I make myself laugh. "This is madness!"

"De rien,"she says shyly. "It's nothing for me. I want to do this for you."

We are being playful, and I can tell she is enjoying it, that she's proud and glad to see how happy I am. I want to say something romantic, to tell her how much I love this, that she is the perfect vintage to fill my glass, but I'm afraid, afraid that I'd be crossing a line. I think of us sitting at brunch, pretending nothing is happening, sharing a glass of water in the kitchen before bed as if nothing is happening. The image of her casting me aside seems to darken the room.

"It means everything to me," I tell her. "Thank you so much, Claire."

Dinner is wonderful, and we have fun talking about our weeks, making each other laugh. I scandalize her by telling her about Jen and Kathy calling Keith a nerd-diva and me a bitch. But I leave out the part about being naked and masturbating, and Claire doesn't mention it either. She begins to describe a show they are planning, but I start to fade before she can finish, much less serve dessert.

"Come," she tells me as she helps me up, pushing her hands under my arms and supporting me.

"I'll help clean up," I mumble.

"No," she says crisply, moving me away from the table.

I'm shuffling and moaning in protest but she guides me to the bedroom, untying the robe and slipping it off my shoulders as we reach her great big bed. Pulling back the duvet she makes soft appreciative sounds, her hands touching my naked body as I plop down and slump over on my side. She picks up my legs and puts them in the bed, covering me and tucking me in like I'm a little girl.

Claire turns off the lights, and I hear her clearing the table and moving around in the kitchen. At some point I must fall asleep because I wake up in the dark and the music is off.

I listen to the soft sounds of Claire undressing next to the bed. It strikes me how familiar and comforting this all is; how wonderfully domestic. Only a few weeks ago this room was all so strange and frightening; that first night in Claire's bed, waking up in the dark, pressed against her, pressing my face into her hair. How many nights have we shared this bed? How many nights have we just held each other in our sleep?

She had seduced me in my bed. The night I had watched her touch herself, and the night she asked me to touch myself, that was in my bed.

But it was in this bed that everything changed. Last weekend I had watched her climb into this bed naked, laying on her side, uncovered, knowing she was displaying herself for me. I had known what was happening. And while I hadn't known what was going to happen, I'd desperately wanted it to happen.

I feel a thrill at the memory, my body is still tired but my mind begins to whirl. My face buried in her pillow, I take a deep breath through my nose, pulling Claire's scent deep into my body. Thinking again about how it had felt to undress for her in the light that night, to have her see me naked, how pleased she had been to see my shaved pussy. It was in this bed Claire had asked to touch me, to feel my smooth hairless lips. I think again, for the hundredth time, how hard I came the moment she finally touched my clit. And it was in this bed that I went down on Claire, took her in her mouth and drank her cum.

I stretch, delighting in the feel of her clean sheets against my bare skin. The mattress shifts under her weight as Claire climbs into bed next to me, her naked body sliding against mine.

"I woke you" she whispers, draping her arm across my torso, my big spoon. I had been so tired, so entirely at the end of my rope, but now I'm wide awake and all I can think about is Claire's body touching mine. I feel a flush of heat spread up my abdomen as I remember feeling her fingertips grazing my labia, how she teased me, barely pressing in, refusing to go further... until I told her what I wanted.

"Is this good?" she asks, her voice high and quiet, her touch tentative. Her legs don't touch mine, she's left space between us. Her arm is resting over my waist, her hand on the back of my hand.

"This is more than good," I tell her, taking her hand in mine and wrapping her arm in tighter, pulling her body against me, smashing her breasts to my back. I want to say something, I need to. My breath is short; little sips of air.

"This is all I've wanted all day, all week," she admits, but she makes no move to be closer, to touch me. There have been so many nights we spent together just holding each other in our sleep - is that all she wants tonight? Is she pulling away from... what happened? I think of her warm, but maternal greeting, the quick peck on the lips before leaving me to undress by myself, of trying to show her my cleavage but not being able to distract her from talk of wine...

'She is the one who... initiates,' I think, feeling disappointed. I squeeze her hand to my belly, imagining her fingers in my hair forcing me down... I am unsure what to do, what she wants.

Her mouth is very close to my ear, her voice is soft as she tells me, "I liked last weekend very much-"

My mouth goes wet. This isn't all she wants. She wants me to eat her pussy... but why does she sound so unsure, so nervous. Is she afraid I'm pulling away? I try to think of anything I might have said or done to make her think that, that I might be having second thoughts... that I'd reject her. I've done everything, haven't I?

'What would it even be like to say no to Claire?" I wonder. "What would make me do that?'

I can't picture it.

Claire is curled up behind me, holding me tightly where I am, and all I can picture is her pushing me down the bed...

"I did too..." I whisper into the dark, thinking again of all last weekend's mayhem, how heightened and almost violent it had gotten. I jerk a little as I picture the fascist's fist crashing into my face for the thousandth time.

'I was lucky,' I think, remembering how, instead of punching me, his eyes had dropped, how he hadn't been able to look me in the eye.

Perhaps sensing my turn of thoughts, or mistaking them for something else, Claire adds, "but no name calling tonight..."

She seems so unsure, so tentative... is it contrition?

'Does she regret what happened?' I wonder, my heart beating faster. 'Is she afraid I have regrets? Does she doubt I'm her whore? There's nothing I wouldn't do...

I think again of how aroused both Claire and I had become. I'd been in a frenzy to do as she wanted, to obey. Her hysteria had been very different. She had been so wildly impatient, I'd been sure she was angry.

But then, all at once, the name calling and swearing had stopped. She had relaxed, gone soft - liquid even. Her body wet and giving to my touch, to my sucking and licking, she had been speechless in her pleasure, reduced to high tiny bird sounds that had grown louder and more insistent and finally entirely unbridled.

'Could I ever feel that way?'

I try to picture it, but I can't. I had cum masturbating between her thighs like a slut, slopping up her gush like a whore.

But my orgasm had been nothing like Claire's. She had seemed untethered from anything besides pleasure. As powerful as mine felt, it was a dry little thing in comparison.

'I want to cum the way Claire cums,' I think jealously. 'I want Claire to make me her slut, to make me cum.' The realization makes my body feel weightless; insubstantial.

"I liked the phone too," I tell her.

I was the one who had gushed while Kathy and Jen were just a few feet away. Cum had filled my hand and run down the insides of my thighs and spattered my shoes. And then we had cum together again the second time. With Kathy and Jen gone I had been less afraid of being heard, but still, Claire had done most of the talking - it had been different than the first time, though. She had whispered to me in French, had whispered about love and loving, repeating herself over and over, almost like a poem or song, while I mewled and huffed and sucked for her. I was shocked by how fast I came the second time, how hard I came. How much I gushed. I never cum twice, never imagined I could, or never had before I met Claire.

I wonder how many times Claire can cum, if there's a limit, she seems insatiable. How many times did I eat her out last weekend? Five? Six?

And it's been days. Does she masturbate or does she wait for me to take care of her?

Claire is holding me tight, fitting herself to me by means of tiny shifts, her knees behind mine, the tops of her feet against the soles of mine. Pulling my hips to seat my ass into the bowl of her lap, her hard nipples stabbing my back. Her warmth, her sweet breath, the safety I feel in her arms, these are all wonderfully real. This is how Claire feels.

'How would it feel to be Claire?'

I begin to do a tally in my mind, she came in my hand and then my mouth Friday night, then again in my mouth Saturday morning, twice,

Saturday night I ate her pussy twice, masturbating and cumming with her the second time. Two orgasms in a row, her fourth orgasm that day, and seventh inside of twenty-four hours! I had shocked myself in the bathroom stall by cuming a second time, but Claire can always go again.

I wonder what my tally is. Claire had made me cum with just a touch of her finger Friday, then Saturday night I had cum rubbing myself against Claire's leg while those girls watched. The third time was later that night...

I had been so worked up. The orders and harsh words were over, but their effect on me wasn't. I was still frantic. All she had called me then was "slut", and only once. She had murmured the word like it was a superlative, like the most beautiful thing in the world. I had cum with her that time. I had felt so proud to cum together. Something I'd never done with anyone before, but had always imagined.

I had wanted her to laugh and celebrate. But she hadn't.

"You need to do it yourself," she had said afterward; smiling but a little sad. I had let her down. She had wanted to do it for me, for me to be her slut.

I think of how she sounded when she had told me to finger myself on the phone.

"The way you like me touching you," she had insisted. And I'd done it, fingering myself, imagining it was her.

She had ordered me, had sounded so authoritative and strict. But there had also been something vulnerable in her voice, something a little desperate... was the moment her fingertip brushed my clit as intense for her as it was for me?

I listen to her breath in my ear as she finally settles in, as her small shifts towards me end, and she goes still. Her breathing is slow, but shaky. Is she as aroused as I am? Is she doing her own tally, waiting for me to make the first move? Is she still nervous? Have I made her doubt herself? Does she doubt me?

"I want to do this for you," she had told me before dinner, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"Dinner was wonderful," I whisper into the dark. "No one's ever made me a candlelight dinner..."

I put my hand over hers, it's cool against my belly. She moves it - just tiny changes, more pressure, less, pulling up, pulling down. I wonder if she can feel my belly growing warmer. My skin is prickling with damp heat.

I want Claire to push me down, to tell me what to do, to show me what she wants. But her hand on my belly, squeezing and petting, moving down by tiny degrees, is radiating a different need.

'The way she likes touching me...'

I'm starting to shake, but I can't make myself move. She wants her fingers in me, wantsme to ask, but I can't bring myself to.

'A better whore than a slut...'

But the truth is I want her so bad it feels like a hysteria. Ineed her.

'Did I ever need Danny to fuck me,' I wonder. 'Did I ever even want him to touch me, ever once?'

"Is this ok?" she asks, her voice in my ear. I'm thinking of that first orgasm, how still I'd held myself as she had touched me, how I'd cum almost instantly, the power of it had ambushed me. I'd been so totally unprepared for it crashing over me; for its force. I remember the way we had laughed and tumbled in celebration. She had been so happy with me. I want that again. I feel like I've never wanted anything more.

Something in me breaks free, something in me is finally able to move, something infinite and weak.

I'm making a whining noise for her, hardly a sound at all, as my hand begins to guide her hand down.

"Sarah..." she breathes as her fingertips touch the smooth skin of my mons. I feel a stab of guilt. She sounds so unsure, so hesitant.

We are so different. I consider Claire's wavering. She knows what she wants, she's so brave, unafraid to ask, to demand what she needs.

'She's doubting me,' I realize. 'Why is everything so scary for me? Why is it so hard to be bold?'

I push her fingers past my mons. Her nails against the puffy sensitive skin of my lips feel delicious. I want her to gouge me. I want her to tear me open. I lift my leg obligingly. Her breath is shaking in my ear, as I feel myself open to her touch.

"Please," I moan.

My hand is still over hers, my fingers over her fingers, I curl them inward forcing her fingers between my lips. I'm wet. I press her fingers into me.

"Take care of me," I plead.

Remembering the way she had me tell her what I wanted, ask for it, the confident way she tells me what she wants, what to do. I feel myself quail. I'm not Claire. Drawing my chin to my breast bone, I start to beg.

"Oh God please Claire, please put your fingers in me... in my pussy," I whisper, the words pouring out of me in a rush. "Please fuck me, Claire. Please."

Her breath hitches. Releasing her hand, and reaching up behind me, I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers.

"I need this, " I hiss, sliding my hand behind her head. "I need you," I cry, twisting my neck to face her and pulling her lips against mine, pushing my tongue into her mouth.

We kiss, her hand gripping me, fingers moving. Our lips sealed, tongues moving against each other, and nostrils flaring with hot breath pushing in and out. She's pushing her finger into me, she's going slow, gentle, and restrained, but behind it, I feel so much force. Keeping her tongue in my mouth Claire breaks the seal so we can both huff and catch our breaths. The sound of it, almost as if we share a single tangled mouth. The two of us breathing together like this is so erotic I imagine I might cum just listening to us, especially as Claire's breathing speeds up, driving my own breath to grow ragged from excitement. I've never kissed like this, never enjoyed kissing anywhere nearly as much. I bask in her attention, Claire's tongue in my mouth, her fingers moving in me.