The Firs Ch. 02

Timberline is beautiful, as always. Snow still lines the road, and the surface is tricky as we wind up the slope of Mount Hood. Alana takes it slow and confidently until the Lodge appears from amongst the trees.

I tell my family that Timberline was a WPA project in the '30s, extravagantly ornamented with hand-carvings by local craftsmen out of work during the Depression, although its real claim to pop culture fame is that it was featured in Stanley Kubrick's The Shining for the exterior shots of the Overlook Hotel. My grandmother oohs and aahs over the former, my sister the latter. My parents just seem distracted.

We take in the Lodge and the views over the Cascades below us and have an early dinner before wandering the halls one last time. Alana and I find ourselves alone in a game room surrounded by murals, and I recognize a wicked look in her eyes.

She backs me up to the solid-wood ping-pong table, lifts me onto it, and presses her hungry lips to mine. I'm instantly lost as her tongue slips over mine and her hands wander down my sides. She grips my ass, pulling me roughly to her, and I wrap my legs around her hips. Without breaking our kiss, she pins my arms behind me, pressing my breasts to hers.

When her lips do leave mine, it is only to slide over my jaw and down my neck, kissing and gently biting until she reaches my collarbone. My head falls back in surrender as she peppers her lips along the sensitive skin toward my shoulder.

My body is on fire when we both hear someone clearing their throat. We snap apart, and I turn to see my grandmother standing at the doorway, looking remarkably unfazed. I start to speak, to defend myself, to say it's not what it looks like, but she stops me cold with a simple raised hand.

"Yeah, that's about what I figured," she says calmly. "Your parents won't like it, but they'll get over it. You should probably tell them though."

"Wait, you're not upset?" I ask.

"Kid, I don't give a damn who you love, just that you love and are loved in return. Now, get out here before your parents come looking for you. This place is really beautiful, by the way." She turns and walks out, leaving us shocked and breathless.

"Hey, you just came out to someone!" Alana says with a smile, and it calms the roiling in my stomach just a touch. "Come on, babe. Let's get back to town." I climb off the table and we touch hands briefly before leaving the room.

We find my parents near the entrance and all depart together. The drive back to Portland is eerily quiet. I don't imagine my grandmother would have said anything, but I'm on edge nonetheless. We drop my family off before heading back to our apartment. The evening fades away, and it isn't until we're undressed and sitting on the edge of our bed that the words finally rise out of me.

"I'm sorry again, 'Lana. For every time I dropped your hand; for every time I moved a couple of inches further away; and for every time I took a breath to say what I needed to say to them before the words caught in my throat. I just don't know how to do it. My legs tremble and

my head swims. What do I do? I feel so weak."

"Look," she says. "I know this is going to sound flippant, but when I'm nervous about a big presentation or interview or test, I always use the same trick to trigger my confidence."

"What's that?"

"I go full Domme, of course," she says with a smirk. I bark out a laugh.

"Please, Alana. I'm being serious here."

"I am too," she rebuts. "I wear my best lingerie, my favorite skirt. I wing my eyeliner like a menace and wear those boots you love to lick so much. Hell, when I took the GRE, I wore a corset and hung a small flogger from my bag. I had ass to kick, so I dressed the part." She flashes a wry grin.

"And that works?" I ask her, unsure.

"Every fucking time."

"Show me." Now I'm the one with the grin.

She takes me by the hand and leads me to our playroom. It was once my bedroom before we found our feelings for each other. Now the walls are lined with mirrors and an array of toys. She opens the closet door where we keep our special pieces, most of which are hers. Shining black boots with silver toes, leather corsets, and latex dresses hang loosely. Ouvert undies and strappy bodysuits sit in drawers, all meticulously organized and kept. Alana is nothing if not deliberate. Her pieces are not just stored, but displayed. I've seen all this before, but something is definitely different this time. I'm not imagining her in all her Domme glory but how it might feel to wear it myself.

She pulls out a leather underbust corset and a fishnet bodysuit, and I am wet at the sight. Or is it the adrenaline beginning to pulse through my body? She helps me into the bodysuit, gliding her hands over my curves to straighten the mesh, lingering over those spots she knows I like best. The feeling though is deliciously different tonight. I've never seen her on her knees before me unless I'm hanging helpless with her face between my legs. She wraps the corset around my torso and begins cinching it down, bracing against me by pressing her hips and legs to mine while she peppers kisses over my neck and shoulders.

She then turns back to the closet, reaches into the back, and retrieves a pair of knee-high, leather stiletto boots, shined to a gloriously rich black. The supple texture is like cream sliding up my legs, or maybe that's her hands sliding up my thighs.

"Perfect," she purrs. I didn't realize my eyes were closed until she spoke. And then, something deep inside me clicks. I look down on her upturned eyes, hazy with arousal, her ruby lips parted, her hands clinging to my legs; and I feel it. Power. Strength. The ability to impose my will on the world around me. And I want her, want to show her the power she's inspired in me.

I reach down, petting her hair and along her jaw until my fingers rest beneath her chin. And I lift, ever so softly. It's all that's needed. She rises obediently, never letting her eyes drift from mine.

With the most intoxicating ease, I guide her toward me and lift her chin until our lips hover millimeters apart. Her breath is a shallow pant, and I kiss each of her parted lips in turn, savoring their fullness, nipping each between my teeth, feeling them swell with wanting. I'm enjoying the reversal of our height difference; she normally towers above me, tall and statuesque, her long legs often accentuated by high boots. It's a strange sensation, leaning down over her, her neck extended to reach me.

I grip her ass to pull her tight against me. Her body melts into mine, like she'd slide down into a puddle if I didn't hold her up. I hold her all the tighter, our bodies pressed together from nose to toes. Our kiss intensifies, our tongues caressing and snaking over each other's. She's clawing at me, scratching down my back and over my ass.

Finally, I break our kiss, shoving her forcefully on the bed. She lands on her back and I hurriedly climb over her, stifling her yelp with my mouth. She wraps her legs around me, pulling my hips to hers. I reach between us and find her dripping with arousal.

I stroke between her thighs, lubricating my fingers in her ample wetness. I watch the flush rise, bright red, from her chest up her neck and into her cheeks before reversing its path with my lips, kissing her neck, over her clavicle, down her chest until I find her nipples. I encircle each in turn with my tongue, raising them into towers -- a testament to my efforts -- as my fingers begin circling her clit.

She's panting now, head thrown back, hands grasping at whatever they find -- the sheets, my back, my ass, my hair. She is moaning, nearly howling when I finally plunge my fingers into her. She's a torrent of sound and fury, thrashing under my ministrations as I enter her over and again, my fingers an extension of my hips pounding against hers. I stroke her clit with my thumb while our bodies lash together, my full hand delving into her warm pussy. She grips my hips with her legs, pulling me wrist deep. I watch her face freeze, beautifully contorted by her pleasure, her mouth open, eyes wide, as her orgasm takes her. I feel the flood of liquid wash over my hand and hips, soaking the bed.

***

Alana is right. My ensemble feels like a suit of armor. The style I've chosen channels Beverly D'Angelo from Christmas Vacation with my white peekaboo blouse and flared green skirt, but underneath, Alana's long-line overbust corset is hugging me tight and the cool metal of the garter clips holding white lace stockings brings me warm comfort. My black thigh-high boots make me feel eight feet tall.

Soon enough though, my armor takes its first beating as my mother insists on trying to make me feel small and weak. She states with absolute certainty, "No, you need a man. How else are you going to take care of yourself?"

I battle back, "Mom, I can take care of myself just fine. I have a good job. I have Alana. I don't need anyone else."

"Seriously, Sophie, you're going to be old and alone one day if you think that your roommate..." Her mouth snaps shut as Alana returns. "Alana, tell Sophie how important it is to find a man."

I can't make out the expression on Alana's face before she answers. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask about that."

My mom sighs. "You ladies today, never thinking about the future. And how do you expect to find someone if you spend all of your time together?"

I bristle, and I've finally had enough. I feel the squeeze of the corset, and I know it's time. The words are out of my mouth before I have any more time to second guess myself. "Mom, we don't need a man because we have each other."

"What is that supposed to mean, dear?" my mother asks.

"Mom, we're together. I'm bisexual. Alana's my girlfriend. We've been together for over a year now, and I love her more than I've ever loved anyone before." The words are out in one strident breath, and I realize the entire restaurant is silent and half the room is staring at us.

"No, that can't be. My daughter isn't gay. You just haven't found the right man yet."

"Oh hush, Marie," my grandmother interjects. "If Sophie wants to munch rug, that's her damn prerogative." Brigid spits out her drink, but my grandmother continues, "Alana, you love my granddaughter?"

"Yes, ma'am," she answers with genuine tenderness and a soft smile.

"And you'll take care of her when she needs it?" my grandmother continues.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well Sophie, that's more than that last jackass you dated could say. You have my blessing," she states plainly before wandering off to look at some decoration on the wall.

My mother is stuttering and my dad's face is blazing red as the tears start streaming down my face. Alana pecks me on the cheek and my sister is beaming. I don't know what comes next, but I have Alana -- and my family didn't disown me on the spot. Whether and how they come around, only time will tell, but I'm in love and I don't have to hide it anymore.