by Sandy Lowe
Then a set of approaching footsteps didn’t stop and retreat, but instead grew closer and louder until Jasmine lifted her head and spun around to find Meg walking toward her with a stack of books in her hands. When she caught Jasmine’s gaze, she offered another smile—even brighter than the one before—and walked right up to Jasmine’s table, where she set the books on the corner farthest from Jasmine’s things.
“Oh. Hello again,” Meg said. Since Jasmine had seen her, she’d untucked her shirt and rolled up the sleeves, revealing a pair of slender wiry forearms with a dusting of dark hair on the backs. She plucked a book off the top of the stack and carried it to one of the nearby shelves. “Sorry if I’m bothering you. I’ll be done in a second.”
Jasmine couldn’t have shoved her work aside more quickly; some of her papers even skidded across the table and nearly flew off the edge. “No, I—it’s fine. I need to take a break anyway.”
Meg knelt to wedge the book in its place and stood again, sweeping her hands over her pants as though brushing off dirt. She returned to Jasmine’s table, but instead of going straight to the stack of books, she stopped beside Jasmine’s chair.
“I’m Meg, by the way. What are you working on? I see you here a lot.”
Torn between gratification at being noticed and embarrassment at being so obvious, Jasmine felt her face heat. “I’m Jasmine. I’m, um, I’m doing research for my senior thesis.”
“Nice to meet you, Jasmine. And you’re studying—” Meg leaned over the table to poke at Jasmine’s materials. The show of presumptuousness and invasiveness probably should have offended Jasmine. Instead, it made her heart beat a little faster. “Poetry?”
“Yes. Metaphysical poetry.”
Meg gave a thoughtful “hmm” but stayed where she was, hovering over Jasmine like a teacher or a parent. Again, it should have been off-putting, but Jasmine’s stomach began to coil itself all over again, this time in as much excitement as anxiety. “I was always more into Modernist poets, personally. Anything written before the 1900s bored me.”
Jasmine stared dumbly at Meg’s hand, taking note of her long slender fingers and trimmed clean nails. “Oh.”
“That was years ago, though.” Meg bent even lower, until her collarbone brushed Jasmine’s shoulder. “I might think differently now. Especially if I had someone like you around to explain things to me.”
Jasmine blinked, stunned at the flirtatious tone. But before she could respond, she was startled by Meg wincing and groaning as though pained.
“God, that was a lame come-on. Sorry.”
Jasmine hoped she wasn’t gaping. “You’re…you’re coming on to me?”
That almost never happened—not when the person was someone Jasmine actually wanted to hit on her, at least. Usually, she pined silently until whatever part of her brain was in charge of sexual attraction finally shrugged and moved on.
“Trying to. Doing a terrible job of it.” Meg lowered her chin, shooting Jasmine a mischievous look over her glasses. Her eyes were brown, Jasmine noticed: brown with a ring of yellowish hazel around the pupils. “But in my defense, that shirt is seriously fucking distracting.”
Glancing down, Jasmine realized that standing over her like that gave Meg a perfect view down her shirt, where her breasts were nearly spilling out of her bra. Her face went hot. Her first instinct was to cringe and cover herself, apologize profusely—because even though she’d meant to draw attention to her tits, she hadn’t intended to go quite this far—but she didn’t. Meg’s playful expression gave her the courage to stretch backward slightly, arching her breasts up. The coquettish action drew a quiet groan from Meg’s throat, and she swayed closer, practically draping herself over the back of Jasmine’s chair.
“God, you’re so fucking hot.” Her voice was low, almost a growl. She turned her face into Jasmine’s hair, nuzzling at the wispy strands around Jasmine’s ear. “Is this all right? I didn’t misread you, did I?”
Shaking her head, Jasmine raised her arms and wrapped them around Meg’s neck, encouraging her to nuzzle even closer, to drag her nose along Jasmine’s jaw. God, no, she hadn’t misread anything. Jasmine was very, very happy with this turn of events, surprising though it was. She twisted her head to the side, lips parting invitingly, and Meg obliged, pressing their open mouths together.
Meg tasted faintly like spearmint. Jasmine probably tasted like lip gloss, and she hoped fervently that she wasn’t smearing it all over both of their faces, although when Meg pulled back it didn’t look as though any of the color had rubbed off onto her.
“Fuck,” Meg breathed. She cupped Jasmine’s breasts through her shirt and squeezed gently. “Can I?”
“Oh God yes.” Jasmine didn’t hesitate to pop open another two buttons so that Meg’s hands could slip inside and follow the plunge of Jasmine’s bra, which was a lacy black demi cup that made her tits look full and perky.
Meg sighed at the sight and then kissed Jasmine again while she groped at them. Her thumb stroked back and forth over the cups until Jasmine’s nipples began to harden. She pinched at them through the padded fabric, and the pressure, the friction, sent a tingle through Jasmine’s groin. Her lower back arched, pressing her breasts more firmly into Meg’s touch.
Meg broke away with a gasp. “I wanted you the moment I saw you.” Finally—her legs had to have been getting tired, Jasmine thought—Meg knelt down to Jasmine’s level and pressed a wet line of open-mouth kisses down the side of Jasmine’s throat. “The way you always look at me. Like a tease. A shy little minx. I knew it was up to me to make the first move.” Her fingers, skirting worshipfully up and down Jasmine’s cleavage, finally plunged inside her bra and flicked her nipples, which were so tight and puckered now that they ached. Jasmine moaned softly and squeezed her thighs together, relishing the rising heat between them. “And I knew that when I did you’d be like this. Sweet, needy thing.”
Meg’s right hand abandoned Jasmine’s breast in favor of skimming down her stomach and over her hips and pressing right where Jasmine’s thighs were squeezed so tightly. In a second Jasmine was relaxing them and spreading them as wide as the stiff pencil skirt would allow.
“Look how badly you need it,” Meg said. She hooked her chin over Jasmine’s shoulder and stared down, watching Jasmine’s breasts heave and her hips tilt up, trying to grind herself against Meg’s palm.
“I do.” Jasmine’s mind had grown foggy with lust. “Please. Give it to me?”
Meg’s answering groan was so long and deep that Jasmine swore she could feel it rumbling through her, as potent and devastating as an earthquake. “Come on then, sweetheart. Up we go.”
Meg held her as though she meant to physically lift her, but she needn’t have bothered; Jasmine was moving on her own. She heaved herself unsteadily to her feet, gripping the edge of the table for balance. Then it seemed only natural to go one step further: to bend over, heedless of the haphazard spread of papers and books, and lay her shoulders and chest on the table, her head turned to one side.
“Good girl. That’s perfect,” Meg told her, and Jasmine shuddered, eyelashes fluttering.
There was a rush of cold air on the backs of her thighs as Meg lifted her skirt, bunching the fabric around her hips. Her panties, black to match her bra, were next. Meg dragged them down until they caught on Jasmine’s knees, where she left them.
“Fuck,” Meg said. “You’re so wet. Look at you.”
Jasmine couldn’t look, obviously, but she could feel. She’d always been something of a gusher, and already she was slick to the very tops of her inner thighs. She felt exposed and wanton like this. It was a struggle to keep her hands on the table, to not reach down and touch herself.
She expected, wanted, to be immediately filled with one or two of Meg’s long, slender fingers and then fucked until she was keening. So she was shocked when instead there came a puff of warm air against her ass and then the light brush of a tongue on her labia, licking at the smears of wetness there before dipping
in and lapping at her cunt.
It was the sound of it more than the sensation that got to Jasmine: forced a breathy “uhhn” from her mouth and made her legs try to open wider, until her panties were stretched to the point of straining around her knees.
“Please,” she said. “God, please.” She reached behind herself and spread her ass cheeks, giving Meg more room to eat her.
It didn’t occur to her until Meg’s tongue ventured higher, flickering over her taint and then between her cheeks, that what she’d been begging for wasn’t clear—and by that point she didn’t care. Meg was already licking at her asshole: prodding at the little ring of muscle with the tip of her tongue until it was hot and wet and beginning to loosen. Because Jasmine had showered late that afternoon, she wasn’t worried about cleanliness, but the feeling of her hole growing slick and open made her feel filthy.
She rocked into Meg’s face, moaning, and nearly whined in protest when the motion made Meg stop instead of continue.
“Shh, I know.” Meg stood, laying a quelling hand on the top of Jasmine’s ass. “I’m sorry. I’d eat you for hours if I could, but we have to be quicker than that. Just because the library’s been dead since you got here doesn’t mean someone still couldn’t come and interrupt.”
It was as good as a trickle of ice-cold water down Jasmine’s spine. She went rigid, scarcely even breathing. She’d forgotten where they were. She’d forgotten anyone could just walk right in and see her bent over a table getting her asshole licked. God, how could she have forgotten?
“Hey.” Meg leaned forward, nearly climbing on the table on top of her so that she could sweep the sleek hair off the back of Jasmine’s neck and nose at her nape. The weight of her, pressing down on Jasmine, made her mind go fuzzy again. “Still okay?”
Jasmine thought about being held down and fucked, pictured the burn of friction and the muscle cramps from the position she would have afterward, imagined Meg calling her a good girl again with her voice all sex-dark and deep.
“Yeah,” she decided. What did it matter if someone walked in, anyway? Chances were that Jasmine would never see that person again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good.”
After another nuzzle to Jasmine’s neck, Meg rose, and then she was behind Jasmine, running two fingers up and down her labia to get them wet before slipping them inside.
Jasmine’s eyes went wide; her breathing stuttered. “Oh!” she cried, scratching at the table and crinkling her papers when Meg’s fingers made a slow circular sweep of her inner walls, stretching her. “Oh God.”
“Shh,” Meg said, moving in another languid circle. “You’re so wet. I want you to soak my hand. I want my fingers to smell like you all day.”
The position and the angle were so good. Jasmine was aware of not just how slippery and loose her cunt was, but her ass as well. Her asshole was still drenched with Meg’s saliva, and when Meg swept her fingertips along the posterior wall of Jasmine’s pussy, it felt almost like there was something in her there too. She imagined it, both holes stretched and full; her clit ached at the thought.
Jasmine couldn’t resist propping herself up on one elbow so that she could drag the opposite hand downward: wrinkling book pages and shuffling papers aside until she was cupping her vulva, feeling the heat and throb of arousal between her thighs.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Make yourself come,” Meg said in a tender tone, followed swiftly by “Shh, shh, quiet,” because Jasmine was nearly wailing, humping into the heel of her hand and rocking back onto Meg’s fingers.
Jasmine dipped her fingertips past her labia, curling until she was stroking at her swollen clit, and she wailed again, and again, because it felt so good. There were showers of sparks inside her, lighting her up all the way to her toes.
She was taken aback, and then grateful when Meg leaned over her once more, this time to cover Jasmine’s mouth with her free hand.
“There we go.” Meg’s voice was a breathless whisper, as soft and airy as a feather. Feeling dirty and slutty, Jasmine whimpered into her palm and shoved her hips up and down as hard as she could. “Oh fuck, just like that. Good girl. I want to feel you come.”
In minutes, Jasmine was a mess of sweat and her own wetness. The silent room filled with the sounds of her muffled cries and the rhythmic squishing and squelching of her cunt as Meg fucked it. Pleasure rose like a fire, the flames flickering higher and higher, until finally Jasmine came with a sob, her pussy clenching around Meg’s fingers.
Afterward, she lay shaking and panting, barely aware of anything except the little fluttering aftershocks in her cunt and the weak throb of her now-oversensitive clit. She scarcely even realized when Meg had let go and climbed off her until she heard an impatient grunt, followed by the noise of a zipper being yanked down.
Jasmine shook off the lingering postcoital haze in a hurry and heaved herself upright—clumsily, her hands and elbows slipping and skidding on her things—to find Meg bracing herself against the chair with her pants open and her right arm down the front of them. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her glasses crooked and smudged, and her chest heaving as she sucked in one quick breath after another.
“Let me help.” Jasmine reached for her and framed Meg’s slender hips with her hands. “Please.”
Meg’s eyes opened to slits. She looked dazed, drunk with pleasure. “It won’t take long. Just—oh fuck.”
Since Meg was loath to give up control completely, Jasmine settled on covering Meg’s hand with her own so that she could feel the grind and roll of bone and muscle beneath Meg’s skin as she rubbed her clit in jerky up-and-down motions. Eventually, her head dropped forward and she swayed into Jasmine’s arms with a groan as she came.
Jasmine held her as she recovered, which didn’t take long. Far too soon, Meg was drawing back so that she could rebutton her pants and smooth her shirt back down.
“That,” she said, still breathing heavily as she straightened her glasses, “was amazing.”
Jasmine stared, self-consciousness blooming in her like a stain. “Was it really?” She’d barely done anything, she realized now. She had bent over and taken it, and been too slow to give anything back.
Meg laughed, eyebrows arching. “Yes. Didn’t you think so?”
“I,” Jasmine began, but then Meg reached suddenly for her panties, still tangled around her knees, and Jasmine was too startled to continue.
Instead, she watched dumbly as Meg gently, almost lovingly, eased them up her thighs and then rolled her skirt down over them. When that was finished, Meg turned her attention to Jasmine’s shirt, redoing three of the buttons so that Jasmine’s breasts were covered.
With a pleased hum, Meg cupped Jasmine’s jaw and pressed their mouths together. Her lips tasted like sweat and musk. When Jasmine realized what it was—her own ass and cunt—she gasped into the kiss and fisted her hands in Meg’s shirt.
She summoned enough nerve to break away and admit, “I had fantasies of, um…” But just as soon as she’d conjured it, her confidence faltered, and her cheeks grew hot.
You just bent yourself over a table and begged her to give it to you, she scolded herself. Why are you getting shy again now?
After a deep bracing breath, Jasmine made herself continue. “I had very, very detailed fantasies of going to my knees for you.”
Meg arched an eyebrow, but looked pleased by the admission. “Did you?”
Jasmine’s cheeks were still warm, as were the tops of her ears now, but she nodded. “Yes. And I didn’t get to do that.”
The corner of Meg’s lip quirked up, forming the same confident not-quite-grin that had charmed Jasmine from the very beginning. “Well, there’s always later.”
Practice Makes Perfect
Sandy Lowe
Sylvie wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out. Ever. She kicked off her killer heels and flopped on her bed. Screw finals, screw vacation, screw everything. Finally, alone in her dorm room with the dusk light filtering weakly t
hrough the single, scrawny window, she buried her face in her pillow and cried.
She wasn’t a pretty crier, she knew that. No delicately pink-rimmed eyes with tears sparkling on her lashes. She cried hard and fast, violent sobs beginning deep in her chest and bursting out. Tears a hot mess down cheeks grimy with damp foundation. Luckily, the only benefit of an ugly cry was that it would be over sooner, and the pressure that had lodged in her chest when she’d climbed out of the cab fifteen minutes earlier would be gone.
Over the worst, she turned to stare at the ceiling, the last of the tears sliding slowly down toward her ears. How could this have happened to her? Her! She was young and smart and not unattractive, right? She huffed. It was bullshit. It had to be bullshit.
Without warning the door banged open and Bennett teetered in, her slender frame hidden by the enormous stack of books balanced against her chest, all the way up to her nose.
“Um, a little help, please.” Bennett’s voice was muffled behind Counseling: Principles and Practice.
Sylvie grinned. Bennett always lifted her mood. She grabbed the top four books and dumped them on Bennett’s desk, a mirror image of her own, in the left corner of the room. It was messier, though, piled high with file folders and small scraps of notepaper with unintelligible handwriting. Sylvie had no idea why Bennett didn’t just take notes on her iPad like everyone else. She wouldn’t be surprised to find an actual honest-to-God pencil lying around. “You are such a nerd. It’s Friday night.”
“Finals are kicking my ass.” Bennett dropped the rest of the books and shoved her dark hair out of her eyes. “They’re torture devices designed by sadistic professors who want to see the young suffer, because they’re old and stodgy and probably never have anywhere to go on a Friday night.”
Bennett turned and looked at Sylvie for the first time. “Wow, what happened to you?” She took a step closer. “You okay?”
