by Sandy Lowe
I opened my mouth, prepared to utter the common platitudes: Can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’ve been and Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. On the tip of my tongue was garbage about critical thinking and being a good citizen and Maybe I’ll teach. But with Chiaki listening, I couldn’t say any of it. “I don’t know,” is what I said. “Just a major.”
“Right,” she replied, putting down her cup. Then she picked up a pile of mail from the table and flipped through it quickly. I just goggled. “So, neighbor, are you Gina Winston or Christina Corey?”
“Christina,” I said. “Christy.”
Chiaki held out her hand. I shook it, smiling.
“Good. I like Christy, much better than Gina.”
Before I could wallow in the first time anyone had ever preferred anything about me to everything about my ridiculously charismatic roomie, the rain began to fall. “Do you want to call your roommate?” I asked, even as I realized it was exactly the wrong question to continue moving toward the seduction I longed for.
“I suppose I should.” Her voice was quieter now, less playful, more real. “You walked right by me in the laundry room last week, you know.”
“I did?”
She nodded then shrugged it off. “You had a huge basket in your arms.”
I honestly had no memory of it, but then, when I did laundry, it was only as a last option and always put me in a bad mood. “I hate laundry.”
“Who doesn’t,” answered Chiaki, finishing her coffee and looking around for a trash can.
“I’ll take it.” I brought it into the kitchen and put it in the bin, along with my own, only half-finished. Way too sweet.
From the living room, Chiaki called to me. “Hey, Christy, what do you think of rain?”
“Rain?” I came back to stand beside her at the edge of the sofa.
She was gazing out the big window at the slow, steady fall. Her smile made her look young, even as her voice didn’t. I badly wanted to reach out and touch her face. “Yeah, rain,” she said. “I love it.” She rose and headed for the door, waving me to her. “Come on.”
“Out there?” Even as I balked at the rain, I enjoyed the view of her little waist and narrow hips in her baggy jeans.
She laughed. “You won’t melt.”
I shrugged, stopped asking stupid questions, and followed, pausing only to slip on my sneakers and grab an umbrella from the hall closet.
Once out the door, Chiaki headed directly for the little park across from the complex. I raised the little black canopy over us, Chiaki so close I could smell the cinnamon on her breath. As we crossed the empty street, I watched the swings swaying at the center of the park, and I commented that other, wiser people were snug in their nice warm homes. But I didn’t really mean it. I felt a flutter in my guts at being alone, here, with Chiaki—a kind stranger who might possibly become more. We walked to a bench but didn’t sit, the rain starting to fall in earnest. And then Chiaki made her request: “Kiss me.”
“We should go,” I found myself saying, the rain shifting to slash sideways across our bodies. My shirt rustled as the little metal carousel creaked and started to turn. I might have been creeped out by the abandoned playground coming to life in the wind if I hadn’t been so paralyzed by Chiaki’s words. A sheet of paper blew by. “It’s getting bad,” I fretted.
Chiaki rolled her eyes at me again, and I noticed a damp piece of her hair sticking to her cheek. I reached out and pulled it away, heart-poundingly grateful that she was ignoring my words. I swallowed hard, gazing at her mouth, listening to the rain pound the umbrella. I felt this wash of warmth over me, like if I didn’t take Chiaki up on her offer I’d regret it forever. I’d never had a type, but suddenly she was it, 100 percent it. All I wanted to do was throw my arms around her and kiss her so long and hard we’d both be drenched and light-headed, so high we could blow away like soggy paper in the wet, warm storm. But I was frozen to the spot by fear and inexperience.
Chiaki cocked her head with a smirk. “You want to.” Her eyebrows lifted, as though she’d never doubted herself for a single moment in this lifetime or any other. But I looked deeper and saw that her expression might also be a plea. My mom always told me that other people were as insecure as I was; I just needed to see it. And suddenly, I did. Chiaki wanted me to want to kiss her, to know I was as drawn to her and the excitement of the moment as much as she, miraculously, was drawn to me…or at least to this risk-taking adventure.
My throat closed and I couldn’t speak as I saw just over Chiaki’s head how the clouds blanketed the sky, low and menacing. A fluorescent street light flickered on to little effect. I shifted in my shoes, damp but not yet soaked. The only shelter in the park was my umbrella. Shelter I was making for me and a slender, boyish woman named Chiaki. The thought emboldened me.
I closed my eyes and tried to stop time as I listened again to the rain pelting the umbrella. Beneath my lids, past intimacies mocked me: awkward high school groping, drunken college fumbling, and the ghastly one-nighter with the married server at Chili’s. I fought back a groan of mortification, though no one but me was remembering. When I opened my eyes again—a second or a lifetime later—Chiaki was still standing beside me, studying my face. I searched hers for impatience or resignation as a droplet found its way down the back of my shirt and I shuddered.
“Christy,” murmured Chiaki, a wealth of emotion in two short syllables. She put an arm around me. I fumbled with the umbrella as she whispered hotly into my cold ear. “Kiss me.”
I basked in the warmth and the short, urgent words. I felt my pussy clench as I faced the desire for excitement and pleasure in her parted lips. She truly wanted me.
“Fuck,” I muttered, and crushed my mouth to hers, pulse racing in absurd worry that, despite all evidence to the contrary, she would reject me or I’d wake up to find this magical moment a dream. Her lips were cool against mine, and then warm as she opened to me and I let my tongue ease in to taste her. The pressure of our soft, hot mouths gave me chills as I took the initiative to deepen the embrace. With our bodies pressed together, Chiaki made a low sound of excitement, and I couldn’t help but echo it.
Though the wind and rain generously kept from growing into a storm, I was surprised when Chiaki pulled away and tossed the umbrella down. I bit my lip as she pulled me to the swings. The long chains hanging from the metal A-frame groaned as she led me to sit and climbed onto my lap, facing me. I steadied myself with my feet. Because she was smaller than me, her weight felt good, solid on my thighs. We kissed again, more hungrily now, and I wrapped my arms tightly around her. This was actually happening. I was having something—whatever it was—that showed I was desirable and even a risk-taker. I loved it as much as the tiny pain when Chiaki nipped my bottom lip and then dove back in to probe my mouth, curiosity leading to a sweet intensity that made the wet weather a stimulating counterpoint to the heat growing between us.
My hands grew as eager as my mouth for more. I reached down to squeeze her little round ass and she ground into me. I devoured her moan, but soon I was so dizzy I had to release a hand to hold the swing chain, afraid of falling. The wind picked up further, whipping rain through our hair, and I wondered whether we shouldn’t head back to my place. Just as quickly, however, I recognized the danger in the thought. The power might be back on, forcing me to consider that paper I was putting off. Gina might be home, or Chiaki’s Tim. And even if none of these were true, the magic that helped me to shed my inhibitions and take a chance with Chiaki might vanish if we found shelter. The icy thoughts chilled me more than any storm could.
“You okay?” asked Chiaki, voice thick.
I paused. My throat closed. I was going to ruin everything. I couldn’t seem to help it. I was cold and afraid and there was a hot woman sitting in my lap who might as well be a stranger and the rain was pouring down and I could hear my father tell me I was wasting my time in college if I wasn’t going to make something of myself.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and felt Chiaki’s weight lift from me like my soul leaving my body.
“Hey, Christy,” Chiaki said before her hand wrapped mine on the chain I was holding so tightly it hurt. “It’s cool, you know. Everything’s cool. We can just hang out, or we can go back home and try again another time…if you want.”
Those last three words felt like heartbreak, but I opened my eyes to find Chiaki smiling down at me in the rain. I tipped my face up and she kissed me gently. Her sincerity and patience spoke of experience and confidence that helped me wrestle my self-defeating brain from its morbid uncertainty. I blinked against the downpour, taking in just how lucky I was to have met this woman on this day when the power so kindly went out. I released my death grip on the swing and took her hand. Determined to be heedless of the weather and whatever came next, I walked us to a bench, half-shielded from the deluge by a spreading maple tree. Chiaki followed along silently.
I sat us down on the bench and held her close with one arm while I let the other stroke her thigh, then slip up to feel her small belly beneath her wet shirt. I was simultaneously petrified and determined, lost in my need to make this fantasy come true. We kissed again and Chiaki slid into my lap, arching against me as she placed a hand over mine. She pushed my fingers up beneath her sports bra and I squeezed her breast gently.
Chiaki reached to slip her bra up over both breasts. Then she reached behind my head to weave her fingers through my wet, messy hair and pull my mouth to her neck. I licked and kissed her hairline as I let my fingers roam over the warm, damp skin beneath her shirt. I squeezed her belly, tickled her ribs, and kneaded her breasts until she gave a long, deep sigh. “Chiaki,” I said, tasting her name and her flesh. Cupping her breasts, I rubbed a thumb across each nipple and made her moan again.
Releasing my head, Chiaki sat up and impatiently yanked off both her shirt and bra. I looked around hastily, unable not to worry about being seen. But soon she was arching in my arms again, still turned away and shivering as the rain trickled over her. I reached out to smooth over her soft shoulders and down her arms. She turned to face me for a moment, eyes glittering in the semi-dark. I held her breasts again and pinched each nipple. She pushed forward into my hands and ground her ass into my lap.
As she grabbed one of my hands and put it between her legs, I mumbled, “I’ve never done anything like this.” I felt like an idiot, though I continued to grip and squeeze her breast with one hand and the denim that covered her pussy with the other.
“Everybody’s gotta have a first time,” Chiaki answered, rocking into my grip.
I guessed she thought I meant in the rain, or outside, where we could be caught. And I did mean that, but more too. I’d never wanted someone like this—not drunk, not cheating, not just for kicks. I didn’t know Chiaki at all. But I wanted to. Every bit of her.
Chiaki looked at me, a hard, searching look, and then stood before me. Suddenly, she reached out to pull my shirt over my head. And I let her.
“Voilà!” she said.
I sat there in my old racer-back bra, getting wet. I felt entirely foolish. I grinned.
Chiaki licked her wet lips. “You want to show me those tits, Christy. You really do.”
I nodded and felt my face flush. “And you really want me to.”
Chiaki laughed and nodded back.
“Right,” I said, and whipped off my bra, releasing the weight of my entirely average breasts. I was grateful for the dark that hid the beet-red blush I knew had spread across my face.
“Nice,” appraised Chiaki, reaching out greedy hands to weigh and fondle them. “Yum,” she added. She punctuated her appreciation with a noisy kiss to each hardening nipple, and then another. And then she began to suck.
When my mouth dropped open to tell her I couldn’t handle being on display like this a moment longer—even if it was only her and me in the rain—she pulled her mouth away and plopped back into my lap, then crushed our bodies together in a wet, warm embrace. Tits-to-tits. She rubbed and wriggled against me, arms holding me tight. It was simultaneously childlike and deeply adult, sensual and ticklish and utterly ridiculous.
“Mmm, you feel good,” Chiaki enthused.
“So do you,” I echoed.
I reached up to take her face in my hands and we kissed again, topless and exposed in the rain, two strangers who weren’t strangers anymore.
“Shit.” Chiaki’s startled exclamation as she peered over my shoulder made me turn around and look, too. I kept her body pressed to mine as we both saw dozens of lights come on in the apartments across the street. The sky was still dark and the rain was still falling, but reality had returned, and I couldn’t push it away.
My heart raced as I eased Chiaki from my lap and fumbled for my wet shirt. She let me, grabbing her own top as well. We pulled and rolled them on with effort, each laughing at the other’s predicament.
Bra in hand, I hunted down the umbrella and found it not far from where Chiaki had tossed it. I was soaked and the storm was letting up, but I still held it over me and returned to Chiaki. She stood beneath the little shelter and pressed close to me, wrapping her arms low around my waist and then pinching my ass.
I yelped. “What was that for?”
“Just needed to be sure I’m not dreaming.”
“That’s not the way it works.” I laughed and kissed her deeply.
“We’re big girls. We can make up our own rules.”
“I like the way you make rules—and break them.”
“Hey, I know a really good way to break the rules right now.” Her eyes lit with mischief. “We get the spare key to my place from under the mat outside the back door and dry off—and other things—in my bed.”
“Nice,” I cooed. Then I grimaced as the truth caught up with me. “So when you brought me that coffee…?”
Chiaki winked. “My first rule is never to pass up a promising opportunity.” She pulled away and ran ahead with a laugh, splashing in puddles as she went.
I chased her, smiling broadly, looking forward to all the rules we’d make and break together.
The First Move
Rose P. Lethe
When it all came down to it, Jasmine was too old to be behaving like this.
Not that she was old, really—at twenty-one, she knew she was technically quite young—but she certainly felt too old to be carrying on like a teenager with a crush. Flat-ironing her wavy and frizzy hair, applying a thick layer of dusky-pink lip gloss, shucking her usual full-support bras in favor of a black push-up, undoing an extra button on her shirt, and shimmying into her tightest striped pencil skirt—all to visit the campus’s main library on a Friday evening in the middle of the summer session.
To be fair, she did need to work on her senior thesis, which was in a sad, poorly researched state after the course on romantic poets had kicked her ass last semester. A few hours in a quiet library with no television or Internet to distract her would probably do her a world of good, no matter what her initial motivation had been.
That motivation was three or four inches taller than Jasmine’s 5′5″, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, lean, and long-limbed with olive-colored skin, chin-length brown hair, and black plastic-rimmed glasses. Jasmine had yet to identify an eye color; every time she got close enough, she was distracted by the eyelashes, which were long and thick like a model’s. Her name was Meg, according to the name tag she wore on a lanyard around her neck, and she worked most afternoons and evenings at the library’s reference desk.
Jasmine had been smitten for months. The way the woman carried herself, her spine always perfectly straight and her chin lifted, the air of cool confidence about her, how she never smiled any wider than a slight uptick of one lip—it made Jasmine’s toes curl and her thighs clench. It made Jasmine want to go to her knees and worship her, kiss her hipbones, lick her cunt, beg her, call her Ma’am…or maybe even Daddy, if she would let her.
Although pining from afar felt juvenile and
consequently mortifying, Jasmine couldn’t seem to stop.
Which meant that just before five p.m. on a Friday, Jasmine was hauling her laptop, her thesis notes, and a stack of books and article printouts to the library for the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of Meg while she walked past the reference desk on her way to find a quiet desk space somewhere in the stacks.
When Jasmine arrived, Meg was there just as expected, frowning at the reference desk’s computer and wearing a white long-sleeved button-up shirt tucked neatly into a pair of pressed gray pants. As always, she glanced up as Jasmine entered, although—to Jasmine’s pleased surprise—this time she shot Jasmine an actual smile. Jasmine nearly tripped over her own feet, and her heart pounded faster.
“Hello!” Meg called.
Jasmine tried to smile winsomely back. “Hi!”
There was nothing to say then that wouldn’t sound contrived, and Meg swiftly went back to her work. The spark of excitement fizzling like a faulty firework, Jasmine carried on her way, finding a deserted corner table near the history shelves. Although her pulse was throbbing in her ears, her stomach still emerging from its anxious coil, Jasmine spread her materials across the table, booted up her laptop, and tried to be productive.
She more or less succeeded. She paused occasionally to fiddle with her phone or nibble on a package of cashews, but nevertheless, she managed to annotate three articles and identify two other sources she needed to hunt down.
The library was quiet. A couple times, Jasmine heard movement somewhere nearby—the soft pad of shoes on the carpet approaching, stopping, and then retreating, the shuffling and thwacking of books on a shelf—but during the first hour and a half, no one came close enough to disturb her.
It served to highlight how ridiculous it was that she’d bothered to dress up. A two-second interaction, and the only person to appreciate her appearance now was herself—and even she wasn’t really appreciating it. The waft of hairspray every time she turned her head was giving her a headache, her bare legs were cold in the frigid library, and looking down into her own cleavage was getting old.
