rivers_bend

I was going to send this in to a magazine, but the magazine has been sold and the new editors do not have any contact information for fiction submissions. So I shall post it here instead.

I had editing help from karaokegal, tigertrapped, dontkickmycane and skyblue_reverie. Thank you all.

femslash
adult rating
1,264 words



I have my fingers inside you as I watch your lips close around my cock. It doesn't need the wet of your tongue, you are wet already, but your eyes are closed in pleasure and as the tip touches the back of your throat you spasm around my fingers. This part is always about you.

The first time shocked me a little, no one had ever done that before, but now I love to watch the stretch of your mouth and the way it makes you shiver.

Since the first time, you've sucked my dick strapped or held against my thigh, my cunt, my stomach and chest, and even my lips. But I love it best like this, when you hold it in your hands and I can lie close beside you, touching your wet, kissing your throat as you swallow. Ok, maybe it's not all about you anymore.

I curl my fingers deeper and close my teeth on your nipple and wonder if I could come just from watching you. I don't get the chance to find out because you show me how hot your mouth makes this toy, spreading my legs and sliding it into me, fucking me. You suck on my tongue and grind on my palm and I think, 'This is perfect.'

I want to take you out tonight, to the restaurant where we met. The one in Chinatown where everyone sits at long tables and it's so loud you can hardly talk. Where you watched me with those eyes that never stop smiling as I watched you licking your chopsticks. Between your practiced fingers and the pink of your tongue as you caught each grain of rice, I'm amazed I managed to get any food past my lips. You finished lunch before me and winked as you slid your card under the edge of my plate. The card was simple, ‘Catriona Wells, Graphic Design’ and a phone number.

I walked back to work thinking of the red of your lips, of the way they curved in a smile and slid against the faux ivory chopsticks. I got back to my desk and sat looking at your card, doing nothing. When I finally picked up the phone you answered, "Catriona, graphics."

I almost hung up, but said instead, "Hi, it's me, the -"

You interrupted, your low laugh thrilling me, "I know. Hi, I hope you enjoyed the rest of your lunch."

I said something inane about the food. You laughed again, said, "Call me Kit, what's your name?"

I laughed back, said, "I'm Evie," and accepted your invitation to a reception at the Museum of Modern Art that evening.

"Eight o'clock, I'll meet you out front. Oh, and wear something black. Gotta get back to work." You hung up before I could say goodbye.

I was useless for the rest of the day, but the phone hardly rang so I made it through. I got there early to find you standing near the doors in an emerald dress and shoes so tall they made me dizzy. You said my name like it was a secret only you knew, and ushered me inside where we drank champagne and ate canapés. I fell a little in love with some photographs of Sunset Boulevard taken the year I was born. You explained why Paul Klee was a genius and I wondered if you thought rusting car parts were art. When you drove me home you made sure I liked Elvis before you kissed me. I asked if you were allergic to goldfish and took you upstairs to my apartment.

You followed me to bed, whispering, "A little less conversation, a little more action," in my ear as you slipped off your shoes. "That's better," you sighed and stretched a toe towards the drawers next to my bed. "Anything in there you want to show me?"

I only nodded, giddy with champagne and your company. You took that as the invitation it was. As I stepped out of my dress, you found what you wanted. Your kisses were rich and deep and seemed to make promises. Your dress laced up the back with a ribbon. I untied it and kissed the pale mark the knot left on your skin. You draped your dress over mine on the back of a chair before pulling me down onto the bed.

Once you'd kissed me breathless, I ended up on my back, thigh harness on, with you kneeling beside me. I hoped you'd fuck me, thumb on my clit as you rocked against me. I didn't expect you to bow your head.

You looked at me with a question, 'Is this ok?' as you ran your tongue up the length of silicone. I could tell by the glitter in your gaze that you knew I wouldn't say no. I propped my head on my fist so I could see you better, and my breath came faster and faster as I watched you fill your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed as your chin touched my thigh. Your lips grew redder as you moved up and down the dildo's length. I swore I could feel the rhythm of your sucking on my clit and I longed for you to touch me.

I got my wish when you sat up, straddled me and grinned at the flush on my cheeks. "It's so hot," you said as you fucked yourself on mouth-warmed silicone. I could only whimper in response as you folded four fingers into me. Even that first night you fucked us both so neither one of us had to wait long for the other.

Now I'm watching you sleep in the late afternoon sun, wanting to tangle my fingers in your hair, which is far too many shades of gold and bronze and copper to be real, though it is. It curls onto your cheek just long enough that I'd bet anything sometime this week you'll say, 'Evie, it's time for a haircut. Do you want me to book you a pedicure?' You like to watch me in the mirror while Shawn cuts your hair and Rose paints my toes. I think Shawn likes to watch you watching. I wonder if that's what his boyfriend means when he calls you 'Shawn's guilty pleasure.'

I want to let you sleep but can't resist you. I tug at your curls until the curve of your neck is uppermost. You murmur in protest but I trace your muscle with my tongue anyway. Your protests become moans when I reach that spot under your ear, your hips shift against me and our legs intertwine. When my hair falls on your breasts, you squirm. "That tickles," you say, and you gather it up and tie it in a knot as I continue to map your collarbone with my lips.

I have to abandon my hold on your hair as I move down your body, but my hands find as much pleasure in the curve of your shoulders and the plane of your ribs as they did in the silk of your hair. My nose seeks the post-orgasm softness of the skin under your breasts. Nothing else makes you this soft; it's as though the blood that flushes your chest when you come is infused with almond oil.

I rub you with my cheeks like a cat. I can feel your laugh in the bones of my face.

"I'm starving," you say. "What will we eat?"

I tell you I plan to watch you eat with chopsticks tonight. You lick your lips in anticipation.