Tender Afternoon Ch. 02

The story Tender Afternoon by my standards sucked. Fortunately, America is a country built on second chances. So, here's Tender Afternoon Ch 02.

All characters are aged 18 and older. Thank you for reading.

******

"Suck it, Evie. Suck it big. Oh. My. God."

Pamela goes silent, except for the rustling sound her writhing petite body makes on the bedsheets. My face is buried into her sweet pussy; I cannot suck Pamela's hot spot clit enough, enough for her, and enough, that is, as measured both by tonguing frequency and elapsed time.

Tonguing frequency and elapsed time.

Yeah, you heard that right.

I quantify everything. That's how I roll. I'm a mathematical economics major.

So, fucking sue me.

Pamela seems to like it.

My new friend says not a word as she grabs the back of my head and fucks my face. The Little Woman with the Enormous Knockers can pack a whollop with her hips; I hold my ground, figuring correctly - and selfishly - that if I give her enough orgasms, marked of course by the sheer number as well as the forcefulness registered on her core (Please see: So, fucking sue me), Evie here will earn some valuable Tit Time With Pamela.

And, Tit Time With Pamela's 32Gs is most desirable. I need Pamela to rest her hot slot on my navel and hang those 32Gs, that's G as in Gigonormous, into my awaiting lips. Any hand action I get with her fine ass will be a bonus.

My cunt's kinda damp just thinking about Pamela's traffic stoppers.

"Evie, my surprise expert lover," Pamela says, breathlessly emerging from her silence, "I dread being a selfish slut. Maybe you and I should trade places. In fact, I'd like that. Love it, actually. Or, swing your ass up here in my face. That might be hot."

Ass to face. That's like...what? I have never done that. That's what my disgusting uncle Ralph called sixty nine. Sixty nine? Why the fuck am I thinking of horn dog Ralph right now? Eww, Evie! Never wanted guy ass in my face. Think I'll just keep my ass down here. For now.

"Are you sure?" I ask after raising my head from Pamela's musky crotch. Love that aroma. "I mean, I'm fine right here, my lady. I'm probably good for another, oh, maybe, oh, a couple more orgasms. Or, one very long orgasm. What'd ya say, Pamela?"

Pamela hisses a breath through her teeth. I'm into earning a lot of Tit Credits with her. At 34D, I'm certainly no slouch in the Bouncing Buddhas department, but TIt Credits with Pamela's G-cup tits are at a valuable premium.

"Yeah, I've never done that, Evie. Forget about it. Didn't like dude ass anywhere near my lips. So, I say jam your tongue in my cunt and, while you're down there, suck the chrome off my hot clit," Pamela says with feeling, her hips already slowly gyrating in anticipation. "Just take good care of me, babe. I can't remember ever getting this much steamy orgasmic sex from a man."

"We women have a distinct advantage with sex," I say from the vantage point of Pamela's pussy. "We can simply go all day and all night because we don't pop off after a minute, become flaccid, and take a nap. That observation should appeal to both of us."

"No shit," she says. "A soft cock is pretty fucking ugly."

"And, your pussy is pretty fucking pretty," I say. My tongue feverishly enters Pamela's love canal. She's excited. Her juices flow like a bucket full of holes. I drink up as the residual drips down my chin and neck, then move again to suck Pamela's hot clit.

"Oh, fuck, Evie!" she squeals. "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Ohhhh, fuck, fuck, fuck! Damn, woman. I owe you! You have to have done this to a girl before."

"Nope," I reply. "Never been with a girl, carnally, of course. How about you?"

"You're my first girl, Evie," Pamela says with confidence. "I gotta say I like it. Or, perhaps, I like you doing it to me. How about you? Do you like my cunt? Do you? You two have been up close and personal for hours. I'm jealous. I'm envious of my own cunt."

I laugh as I leave my post and crawl up to face Pamela eye-to-eye. This is a great opportunity to wet kiss her as a preface to all my answers.

Pamela wet kisses back. We exchange tongues, mine saturated with the extra flow from her nuclear Slot Machine. We floss each other's teeth. The kiss is so crazy our uvulas are facing off to do battle.

We break this awesome kiss with a loud smack full of spit and saliva. My chin is still dripping.

"Pamela, before today I was strictly all men. Didn't really think about women. Well, men haven't gone so well this academic year, so sometime early afternoon after I discharged my Glock 9 millimeter near asshole Trevor with the amazing 13 inch cock, I resigned my sex life to be one of maintenance masturbation. It was either that or become a nun. Maybe a nun who masturbates.

"Anyway, I met you. We endured a dangerous ordeal or two on the order that brings people closely together. Like when I kicked you out of my house because I thought you fucked my boyfriend Trevor with the amazing 13 inch cock. That was us, Pamela. Danger. Danger. That's how we got started. Weird. Yet, our skin touched when you returned to my front door, and I was physically attracted to you immediately. I mean, like lightning.

"Men be damned.

"I stood back and looked you over, again. You turned out to be even more beautiful than you were at first sight naked in Comedy Carter's townhouse. I fucking zoomed right through the 'confused' stage, simply saying to myself, 'Evie, you've never been with a woman sexually, but if you don't do this gorgeous Pamela creature like right the fuck now, just what the fuck are you waiting for?'

"So, finally, my Pamela, the short answers are, a) no, you're the only one, b) yes, I do love your cunt, yours and only yours, c) that means, yes, I'll expertly suck your swollen hot spot clit whenever you need your swollen hot spot clit expertly sucked, d) yes, I do believe now we're at least bisexual, but probably more accurately classified as lesbians, and that's okay so far because I'm the monogamous type, and that's good and bad, e) why the fuck should I waste time looking around for another woman when I have your perfection, Pamela, and finally f) we're talking about lips, tongues, tits, asses, legs, and pussies here, my lover; just how difficult can this girl-on-girl action be if we really care for each other?"

I see Pamela's eyes well up with tears.

"God, Evie," she says through sniffles. "I didn't know you cared. I thought you just wanted to do anything to suck my volleyball tits again!"

"Pamela, don't get me wrong," I say. "I do want to suck your volleyball tits again. Really bad. But, I do care. I care about you, I care for you, even though we've never seen the dark of night together."

Pamela smiles into my eyes. "You're the first, too, Evie. It just seemed so easy with you, so I went with it. I care about you, too, and I care for you, even beyond all the times I came hard while you sucked my cunt. I do care about you. In a big way.

"And, me, too, Evie! Yes! I know! I'm kind of monogamous. I'll have to work on it, you understand. We have indeed moved fast. I chalk it up to our men coming too soon and leaving us in the lurch for way too long. I can commit to you now, though; your round tits are awesome and your legs go on forever. Comparing us, you do seem to like my lack of height; I'm, what, six inches shorter? That has its advantages. Sorry. I'm rambling on. Final analysis, Evie: if I want a woman, I'd say stick with you. Why the fuck not?

"Why look around? You're nice, brilliant, hot, compassionate, you know how to handle firearms, and did I mention you're so hot?"

"Me? Brilliant?" I exclaim. "You were astronomical on the SAT. I could only manage ionospheric. Yet, we're hot together, Pamela. Two of the most beautiful fucking novice lesbians to enter the lifestyle today on this day. And, that's not too shabby."

"Not too shabby, Evie, my love."

"Love?" I say, pleasantly surprised. "Love, Ms. Work-On-Monogamous?

"Yeah," she replies. "As I said earlier: why the fuck not? I'm not loving anyone else now."

We're entwined, arm in arm, legs in legs. Pamela's legs are long, slender, and lean, a perfect match to her extra-large flotation devices. She and I are cuddling after the strangest professions of romance which I've ever been a part of. This afternoon is one for the books. If today ended here and we both exited to dreamland like a couple of men, I would be okay. Just as long as we awoke tomorrow morning with each other.

"A lesbian friend from New Hampshire told me this joke a few months ago, Evie, so it's okay because it applies to us now," Pamela says, her legs in knots with mine.

"Go ahead," I reply, accepting her legs knots.

"What does a lesbian bring on the second date?" she asks.

"I give."

"A U-Haul."

I laugh hard. At myself.

"Fuck, that's rich!" I reply. "How about I predictably walk you to your place so you can pack a bag for the next few days?

"Great idea!" Pamela says cheerfully. "You have the best shower, anyway. All I have to wear now are the Aigner raincoat and the fucking ridiculous peep toes, though. You wear that, too, Evie, and let's grab a beer at Boney's before we head over to my house. Sound good, my lover?"

"How risqué, my lover!" I exclaim. "I'm up for that!"

******

Boney's is a dive tavern two blocks from our respective houses. It's frequented by an eclectic crew: college athletes, poets, sketch artists, frustrated screenwriters, gay men, off-duty female strippers, Chippendales, and, presently, two gorgeous young lesbians who have chosen Boney's to host their Out beers.

"Couldn't be in a better place with better company," Pamela says, sitting right beside me to my left. "Cheers, my friend!"

I raise my pint of 312 Urban Wheat draft to Pamela's 312 Urban Wheat draft. We clink glass and drink our first sips as women who love a woman.

"We like the same beer," I say. "That's either meaningful or random."

"Or, somewhere on the spectrum," Pamela says. She downs her second sip like a man. In turn, I do, also.

"Fuck, woman!" I say. "We're drinking like we want to get the other one drunk!"

"Yeah. I guess we quickly vaulted way beyond that drunk aspect of courtship," Pamela says. "To the shower and to bed. Record time."

"That's us, Pamela. I never liked the uncertainty of courtship. I'm not much of a fucking gamesman when it comes to...coming? I just want to come without the fuss." I hoist another one. Down the gullet. "Repeatedly."

"Yeah," Pamela replies, "and, you shall when I get a hold of you. But, ya know? I'm pretty comfortable with our up-tempo pace, Evie. It's Formula One and I'm digging it! Fucking A!" She's thirsty. Half of Pamela's pint has disappeared. I've matched her ounce for ounce.

Did she just say Fucking A?

"So," I say, "we're in agreement. It looks like I have the romantic hots for you and you have the romantic hots for me. I'm looking forward to the sucking cunt action you're going to pay me back with. I'm moist just thinking about it. And, we think that's wonderful. Question, though: why are we so fucking nervous right now?"

"Well," Pamela says, "to begin, we're barely dressed in matching rainwear and come fuck me peep-toes. And, that's it. If two buttons pop, my golden globes are on the table. Secondly, even though I'm personally okay with that and the wet spot on the raincoat on which I'm sitting, thanks to you and your long line of D-cup tit cleavage, I don't want to stand quite yet since the two high jumpers over there to my left are essentially...looking us over a time or two."

I scan the Boney's crowd, past the three beatnik throwbacks, beyond a couple of dressed-to-fuck strippers talking to a Chippendale, to find the elongated blondeness of a pair of college woman athletes in red sleeveless half shirts and matching low-riding compression bottoms. They nod to each other, stand up, and head our way.

Fuck!

"Showtime!" Pamela hisses.

"You're the actress. You handle it," I whisper back.

"I got this," she says.

I pride myself on my supreme confidence in all situations. I'm aware, always analyzing and thinking one step ahead as I deftly handle the pressure of the present. However, I have no fucking idea what to do here and I've therefore placed my immediate future in the hands of a woman whom I just met this morning and just this afternoon had oral sex with her electric cunt. I'm certain I love Pamela, but I don't know how much street cred she carries with the high jumpers because she's unfortunately a) short, b) petite, and c) looks like a beautiful big-breasted bimbo sporting her black circa 2001 Winona Ryder bob.

If these high jumpers kill us, I deserve to die.

"Hi," the one on the left says. "Hello," she repeats, an OCD ritual. "I'm Sally. This is Rosie."

"Hello," says Rosie.

They could be twins. Sally and Rosie are each six feet tall and blue-eyed pretty with the aforementioned long blonde locks and legs all the way up to their athletic asses that are nicely placed into the low-rider compression bottoms. The sleeveless half shirts accentuate the tininess of those bottoms. It's Swimsuit Edition time with Sally and Rosie. I don't really know who's more barely dressed: our prospective new friends in their hint of track gear or Pamela and me naked in rainwear.

I'm a newbie gay woman and therefore qualified to say both Sally and Rosie are fucking ultra-desirable in those tightass compression shorts that resemble bikini swimsuit bottoms painted on the butt and at the terminus point of their forever legs, commonly referred to as a pussy. They're what women track athletes wear in this the second decade of the twenty-first century; undoubtedly, the bottoms make these two high jumpers look as if they are naked, which, of course, is okay by me.

If Sally and Rosie comprise a lesbian test pop quiz, I have nailed a perfect score, and it's only my first day on the job.

It's more than that, however. I love the way Sally and Rosie each carry themselves. It's perfect posture combined with swagger. The gorgeous high jumper babes have the swaggers of women who are comfortable in her powerful bodies; they're so beautiful in their strength, able to deadlift a Buick, squat a Fiat, and work the catwalk.

I'm the 2012 New York State Class AA high school 400 meters champion. I'm five eight, shorter than Sally and Rosie yet possessing legs that are also endless. I still have the strength and the stride it took to sprint the one lap faster than any of the other seven girls with whom I shared the track. My tits are much bigger now, thankfully, so I couldn't have run that fast with my current 34Ds, but I still know where Sally and Rosie come from. I'm not quite there; I'd be running the D-1 400 if I were, yet I know.

So, I have relinquished my life to my bimbo girlfriend who has no apparent athletic skills and therefore has not the fucking faintest idea of what is fucking taking place here and is dependent solely upon her acumen as an actress (aka she lives in fantasyland) to steer us through what I imagine to be our nascent lesbian crisis.

If there is a Roman Catholic patron saint of homosexual women, perhaps a Mary Magdalene, please step forward and guide my lover with the 32Gs before the high jumpers chew us up and spit us out.

"Well, hi, Sally and Rosie. My name is Pamela, and my hot-to-trot lover here is Evie."

"Hello, Ladies," I say, cheerfully as Pamela stakes her claim from the get-go.

"You guys just met, am I right?" Sally says with a sly, knowing grin.

"Yes," Pamela says. "About eight this morning. Am I accurate, girlfriend?"

"Yes, Pamela," I say. "Eight o'clock. And it's been some day."

"Tell us about your day, Evie," Rosie says, issuing the challenge.

"Well," says Pamela, "have a seat, Sally and Rosie."

They do.

By the way my lover was furtively glancing at Sally's firm high jumper ass before the long one placed it in the chair, I don't have to ask her if she agrees with me about Sally's and Rosie's tightass red bikini track shorts and the miles of midriff skin exposed by the half shirts with the bikinis.

The tall girls are that fucking hot.

Pamela resumes. "I met my boyfriend, air quotes, at his townhouse around 8 this morning and went directly to the head. There, I discovered Evie here taking a piss in Boyfriend's squatty potty. Evie thought Boyfriend was her boyfriend, so we scuffled immediately. We had each other's hair in a death grip as fighting women are wont to do, then we suddenly realized Boyfriend was playing us for fools and we stopped the fight. I turned loose of her brown bangs and a flip right before she decided to not slam my Winona face into the vanity."

"I love Winona," Sally says softly, as she plays for Pamela. Sally's smile and gaze at Pamela remain too long.

"Which one of you would have won the fight?" Rosie asks, smiling at me.

"Her," Pamela and I simultaneously say. "Me," we say together.

Sally and Rosie laugh. Are we really funny or are the blondes setting us up for whatever? That's difficult to know at this point among the four of us.

I catch a glimpse of Rosie's cameltoe. She catches me, then smiles. I smile back. Busted. The red there looks a tad darker.

"Anyway, Evie and I were standing in the bathroom completely naked. We both liked that a lot, I could tell, but many things had to happen before we would seriously admit to it."

"This is becoming one of those long stories," Sally says, still smiling at Pamela.

"Do you want to hear it or not?" I ask with an athlete's aggression.

"By all means," Rosie says. "Continue." She and Sally do a double take.

A generous portion of my right thigh makes an appearance through the slit of my raincoat. I'm talking all the way up to the shaven area. Rosie has I'm sure correctly confirmed I'm nude, barely covered, and that's all.

You can officially cut the sexual tension here with a butter knife. And, now it's obvious to the girls Pamela is our spokeschick paired with Sally and I'm the feisty bitch with Rosie.

"Anyway, naked," Pamela says, "at which time we decided we together will confront Boyfriend. We exited the bathroom, starkly in the buff, and grabbed our respective Aigner raincoats, these coats here, and our come fuck me peep toes here, put them on, and collectively told Boyfriend to go pound sand up his ass."

"Hip, hip, hooray!" Rosie says.

"Are you being sarcastic?" I the feisty one asks.

"Absolutely not," Rosie replies. "Not a sarcastic bone in my long sexy body."

The bodies are sexy, especially the parts in the tightass bikini bottoms and exposed by the half shirts, but I'm not ready to feed their egos. Yet. Sally and Rosie are indeed sexy, though.

"Okay," Pamela says, probably assuming Sally and Rosie want us to take this story to its conclusion. "Okay. As we walked out Boyfriend's front door, Evie handed him a small towel. And, Evie, you said..."

"'This should well cover your shriveled scrotum, you small cock asshole,'" I recount.

Sally issues a big smile and a stare. Rosie laughs.

"Seriously, girls," Pamela says, "his soft cock was wrinkled and tiny. Very ugly. What Evie said was spot on in context."

"And, did you get together then?" Sally asks.

"No, more shit still to go through," Pamela says. "So, we walk, Evie and I, wearing the raincoats and peep toes, fucking naked otherwise, walking kinda aimlessly, until we decide it's early morning and we need caffeine. We find ourselves at Coffee House - "

"Wait a minute," Rosie says, interrupting. "you're almost naked at Coffee House? Jesus, I'm there twice a day and I've never been so fortunate to find two hot women in nothing but raincoats and CFM pumps."

That confirms it. Four lesbians are sitting at a table in Boney's just shooting the shit.

First for me.

"Well, maybe we'll let you know the next time," Pamela says.