by Radclyffe
Interrupted by a soft laugh. “Stupid. Touch me.”
Touch me.
What?
“What?”
In answer, Samantha took Marcy’s hand. She didn’t fumble or scramble for it. As if she could see in the dark, she took Marcy’s hand and pressed it against her breast.
When she could breathe again, Marcy moved her fingers gently, slowly. Her hand slipped down the slope of Samantha’s breast until her fingertips stroked the nipple, hard and pebbled under her touch. She heard Samantha sigh, and reached out so both hands caressed and played, finding Sam’s hard nipples, her hands going flat over the breasts, pressing hard, pinching down to points, pressing firm against Sam.
Hands came up in the darkness, and cupped Marcy’s face. Thumbs rubbed her cheekbones, flicked over her closed eyes. The hands worked down her cheeks, thumbs playing along her mouth, touching her lips, tracing them. Marcy licked out, caught one finger and sucked it into her mouth. She heard a quick sigh before she moved, kissing the palm of the hand, kissing down wrist and forearm, lingering in smells and textures. Hands on her face again drew her forward. Lips touched hers and she fell into sensation, soft lips, sticky, tangy lip gloss, a musty smell, something like a coat taken from storage just before winter.
The lips led her down, and Marcy followed until she felt the spill of woman beneath her, rounded breasts and belly and hips. Legs wrapped around her and pulled her close.
“Sam?”
“Don’t stop,” Sam’s voice said, somewhere near. Somewhere distant.
Sam.
Marcy traced a trail down Samantha’s neck, from earlobe to jawline to throat hollow.
The candles had blown out. She hadn’t realized. They’d been in the dark for a while. There was the flashlight, but nothing else if they wanted light.
From upstairs Marcy heard the same sound of footsteps, first moving quickly, then running. She jerked in surprise and Samantha said again, “Don’t stop.”
Kissing down the line of her throat, longer than Marcy had thought all those times she’d imagined kissing just there, behind the ear, or just there, in that hollow between the collarbones. She kissed down the throat, along the hollow, her tongue sliding along dusty-tasting collarbones. Movement, shifting. The hands that had pressed against her, pulling, pushing, stroking, now moved away. There was a scrape, a dry sound of flesh and stone, and Sam said, “Shit,” as if she’d scraped an elbow in the dark, and then, “Here, come here,” and she pressed Marcy against her. Hands on shoulders, mouths together, and Samantha’s naked breasts pressed against Marcy’s chest. She ran her hands over Sam’s back, tipped her back onto the towels, ran her tongue down, too impatient to play or tease. She just wanted to taste flesh, to suck Sam’s breasts into her mouth. Sam gasped, and leaned into her hard, fingers tangling in Marcy’s hair, and an odd, random thought floated through Marcy’s mind: It’s her, of course. Isn’t it?
And Sam pulled her down, Marcy’s mouth still on one breast, sucking, sliding, her hands working down Sam’s body to find Sam herself fumbling to get her shorts off and Marcy was still dressed—worry about that later. The shorts were hardly a barrier, but they were a pain. Between the two of them they tore them free, and Marcy slid her hands between her best friend’s legs and found her soaked and waiting.
Kissing down her flat muscled stomach in a tease that left them both writhing, Marcy wanted to wait now, she wanted to tease, payback for all those years she’d watched Sam from a distance, never knowing what she could have had—and then again, she didn’t want to wait, ever again.
Beneath her Sam’s hips rose, pressing against her. She kept saying something, “Please” maybe, and Marcy silenced her with one hand over her mouth as she dropped her head and began to lap the inner curl of Samantha’s hips, the delicate sheltered concave curl of hip and stomach. Her other hand went down again. Her thumb found Sam’s clit hard and full, and she pressed it once, just to feel her friend rise up under her, head thrown back, back arched. Then she slid two fingers inside and began to stroke, thumb brushing clit, fingers seeking inner nerves, tongue ever so slowly winding down along that sweet semi-circle of hip bone. She kissed along the ridge of pelvic bone.
“Don’t,” Samantha panted.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t stop. Don’t tease.”
“Like this?” She ran her tongue back up and away, let her fingers slide out until they just touched the wet, swollen lips.
“I never thought you would be such a bitch.”
“Weren’t you paying attention?”
Sam laughed, and while she was distracted, Marcy shoved her fingers in, stroked hard just a few times, and then withdrew and replaced her hand with her mouth.
Samantha came off the towels and dusty concrete. Her legs tightened around Marcy’s lower back.
Samantha was trimmed short, a feathery divide between Marcy’s lips and tongue and Samantha’s clit and cunt. She lapped into her, used her mouth to form a seal over as much of Sam as she could and then darted her tongue inside and around her clit and back inside, faster and faster until Sam bucked beneath her, hips grinding her into Marcy’s mouth, hands in fists against Marcy’s back, holding tight to the stressed cloth of Marcy’s shirt. She said “No” suddenly, as if it were too much. Then, going limp, her breath going fast and shallow, she said a long, drawn out “Yes.”
She slid back on the towels, sliding a little away from Marcy, who dropped down from the elbow she’d leaned on and put her head on Sam’s leg. It seemed she rested farther down Samantha’s body than she should. Darkness danced and whirled in pinpoint colors as her eyes ached for something to see.
“Let me catch my breath,” Samantha said. “And reciprocate.”
Marcy frowned. “Do you have the flashlight?”
Sam hesitated a minute before she answered. “It’s right here.” An instant later the beam shone upward at the ceiling of the little room.
They stared at each other, disheveled and now very awake.
Samantha sat, her shorts discarded, bra hooked over one shoulder, her legs sprawled across the towels she’d laid down. Marcy sat across from her on the towels she’d put down, a good three feet away from Sam’s.
“Did you move?” Marcy asked, very calmly.
Sam nodded, eyes wide. “But I don’t think it was that far.”
Marcy nodded back at her. “I don’t either.” She swallowed. “Must’ve been, though.”
“Of course.”
And their eyes met.
Upstairs something skittered across the floors, sounding nothing like an old house settling. Slowly, and very deliberately, Marcy licked her lips. “You taste like strawberry.”
Sam tried to smile, but her eyes kept flicking around the little room. “Do I?”
“What else, then?” Marcy asked.
Sam stood, unselfconscious and cinnamon smooth in the rolling light of the flashlight. “One way to find out,” she said, and held her hand out to Marcy. “Let’s go upstairs.”
THE TRAVELER
Olivia Presley
I was taken by Paris. Her beauty broke my heart and mended it at the turn of every corner. I found myself inspired then depressed, lucid yet utterly confused, giddied by what I had found but had to leave. I wanted to make Paris my own.
I started smoking. Little puffs, here and there, as if the smoke I was inhaling gave the air a tangibility I could absorb. I ate too, little bites: sweet and cream filling a place that I could not. Gardens, galleries, churches, lovers: I was being consumed, so I ran, back to my garret in the rooftops.
I threw off my clothes and walked naked onto my tiny Juliette balcony, baring all to that magnificent city, begging Paris to take something from me. But I had nothing that Paris didn’t have already, so I folded my arms in against my chest and paced, until I fell into bed. When I awoke, hours later, night’s cloak had fallen over day and my heart.
I put on a black dress to mourn my last night and a slick of red lipstick to ce
lebrate it. Misery seeks company, so I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to a blues bar. But as I got out at the entrance and heard the tinkle of tunes hitting the pavement, something told me it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I turned back to the cab but it pulled away, so I walked around the corner, off the main road and into the back streets of Paris.
Streets and streets passed. It started to rain. A couple ran by, running home to each other. I looked for shelter too, but as it was not a tourist area, most of the shops in the streets were closed, their awnings folded in. A light shone brightly up ahead. A bell rang out through the night as a door opened. I ran toward it and nearly into two women who were leaving. We all laughed and politely swapped places, and for a moment, I felt happy in their company. But they turned and walked away together. So I turned and walked in, alone.
There was no one else in the restaurant, but it didn’t feel empty. It was warm with soft, pink light and filled with petite white-clothed tables finished with ornate, glass lanterns. A waiter walked out from the kitchen.
“Est-ce que vous êtes encore ouvert?” I said, asking if the restaurant was still open, in my most perfect phrasebook French. I wiped the wet hair from my brow to appeal to his gentlemanliness.
“Une table pour une personne?” she said in a tone that was as ambiguous as she was androgynous.
“Oui,” I faltered. The moment seemed suspended as I looked at the opposition between her angular face and pretty eyes. “S’ilvous-plaît.” Indeed.
The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was with disdain or amusement. My accent was bad. I was embarrassed.
She gestured to a table near the window. As I walked toward it, I read the restaurant’s name through the glass. Le Chat Nocturne. “The night cat,” she said in heavily French-accented English, as if she had read my mind.
“Merci,” I said, looking over my shoulder at her as she pulled out my chair. She took my jacket, and I sank down into the plush velvet cushion.
“What can I get for you tonight?” She reached into the pocket of her long, starched, white apron for a pen and notebook.
“A glass of champagne, please.” I decided against embarrassing myself further with any more attempts at French.
“Nothing else?” she said, dropping her notebook back into her apron without writing anything on it. My eyes couldn’t help but drop to the full lips from which her voice had tumbled. I caught myself, just after she had.
“No. Thank you.” My skin prickled hot, and that feeling of giddiness came on again.
“As you wish.” Her tone was professional, but when I looked up, I saw the glint in her eye wasn’t. I reached for a cigarette, but the thought of her leaning in close to light it was too much. I dropped the pack, grasped my hands together, and tried to act normal. Realizing I wasn’t, I turned to look out the window, which was frosted with wet and cold.
The table dropped slightly as she leaned on it. So did my heart as I smelt the warm caramely-spice of her body as she reached across me to wipe a clear view out with her hand. I tried not to fidget as she drew back, tried not to dissolve as she looked into me with those brown eyes, before she stood up again. I took a deep breath as she walked away. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.
I bit my lip and couldn’t help but look toward her. She picked up a bottle of champagne out of a nearby ice bucket. I smiled politely at her when she returned my gaze, looked to my fingers, tapped them on the table then managed to pull myself together, just, as she presented the bottle for my approval.
“Merci,” I said. She slowly filled my glass.
“Vous avez de trés jolis yeux, je les embrasserais volontiers pour vous souhaiter la bonne nuit,” she said, pausing, looking into my eyes.
“I’m sorry, my French is not good,” I said, leaning into my hand as I looked up at her.
Her lip curled up at the side again. “I know,” she said. Pausing a moment longer than was necessary, she dropped her eyes to my décolletage and then turned and walked away.
A hot French chick was flirting with me. I took a large sip of my champagne then another. A hot French chick was flirting with me! This never happened to me in my hometown.
The kitchen lights flickered off. The music followed and moments later the rest of the lights in the restaurant. The kitchen door swung open, and the waitress walked out without her white apron and tie. Her dark curls had been shaken loose, and the top few buttons of her crisp white shirt had been undone to reveal a little of her smooth tanned skin. European. Androgynous. Gorgeous. I downed the rest of my glass.
“I’m sorry to keep you,” I said, reaching for my purse. “How much for the champagne?”
“It is with compliments,” she said, and held up a set of keys. “Let me show you Paris.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind…” I hesitated, reached for my scarf…“I have to leave in the morning and it’s late...I really should go back to my hotel…” I thought of her there with me: tall, lean, confident, and I found myself without any further objections.
She pulled out my chair, picked up my coat, and held it expertly for me to slide into. I felt myself blush as she watched me pull my hair up from under my jacket.
“Is there somewhere close by I can get a taxi?” My blush deepened.
She held up her keys, and again I saw that glint in her eye. She laughed lightheartedly and, with a casual hand across my lower back, ushered me out of the restaurant and onto her streets.
She locked the door and walked toward a motorbike parked up on the footpath. She looked back at me standing on the door stoop, straddled her bike, and revved the engine.
Now, I’m the kind of girl who knows better than to take a ride from a stranger in a city she doesn’t know, where no one knows her. And yet, as I looked up the wet, dark street, the last thing I wanted was to be left standing there alone…watching her drive away.
“Ma cherie, come on,” she said, and tapped the back of her seat. I took a step, then ran and jumped on the bike behind her.
“Hotel Langlois, thanks, driver, rue Saint-Lazare, by Opera.” She laughed, took off, driving along the footpath, down an alleyway, over a footbridge; through parts of Paris only the locals get to see. Then out onto the main road, the lights, the people, past the Eiffel tower, the Arc de Triomphe.
Suddenly, I felt triumphant: free of myself, free of the rules I’d had to live by as a solo traveler. It felt great to take a risk now, at the end of my long journey, the last destination before I returned home. Here I was, letting caution blow like the wind through my hair, putting myself completely in the hands of this stranger. As I rested my cheek against her back, I realized that was exactly where I wanted to be.
She slowed and pulled over on the side of a dark, tree-lined road. “I booked into a hotel, not a park,” I said, my courage deserting me. She got off her bike.
“No, no, no, you can’t leave Paris without a midnight walk along the Seine.” She smiled, reached out her hand, touched the tips of my fingers with hers. Then she undid her biker jacket. How could I resist? Following her lead, we spiraled down stone stairs and onto the path that ran along the Seine’s bank.
I was surprised to see that we weren’t alone. There were people all around, each of them as if in place: an old couple waltzing, lovers on a bench, a group of young men sharing a bottle of red and a guitar. “I feel like I’m in a glass menagerie.”
“Then let me shake you up,” she said and took my hand, spun me around, drew me close, then back-stepped me a short way until I was against the arch of a bridge. The cold stones seemed to meld perfectly into my back. I let my head fall against them.
She lent into me and slid her fingers under my jacket, down my breastbone and under my dress, scissoring my nipple. Her other hand slid from my waist into the small of my back. Her warm lips rested against my ear, and her breath mixed with the sound of a distant accordion. Then she kissed me, and it was like my first kiss all over again.
&nbs
p; The eyes of my imagination walked past us and saw the beauty of our embrace.
It was like a dream, what I had traveled the world for. Just one moment like this.
“Joie de vivre,” I said to her, understanding in my heart what that famous French saying meant. She took my hand and spun me out from her, and we danced together for a moment or two: just long enough for the magic to swirl through me, just short enough to avoid awkwardness setting in.
“Come, I will show you Paris,” she said, and with my hand still in hers, we ran back along the path. I jumped on the back of her bike and we took off up the street. A few minutes later, we pulled around a corner I recognized and then another and drove up the small side street to my hotel.
“I thought there was more to see,” I said cheekily as I jumped off the bike.
“There is,” she replied sexily, and made a dismissive gesture with her hand to all that lay behind her. “That is for the tourists.” She drew me into her hips. I laughed nervously and stepped back, fumbling for the key in my bag.
I turned and unlocked the heavy iron door. Then I turned back to her to thank her for the ride, but her lips were upon me as were her hands, and she pushed me gently backwards into the small foyer. I reached a hand up to her chest to put a little distance between us, but she ran her tongue across my lips, and her strong hands down my back and my crotch ached and belly burned and before I knew it, I was backed against the elevator door. Which I opened, and pulled her in behind me.
“Going up,” she said, adopting her professional voice.
“Three, please,” I said breathily, and thought of her going down.
I let my eyes roam over her body as she turned to push the button. She turned back to me and pushed me softly against the wall, reached under my left thigh, pulled it up, and pushed herself against me. She breathed hotly against my cheek, bit my ear, and kissed down my neck. The elevator jolted as did she, against me. She pushed up away from me, her mouth slightly ajar, then ran her thumb down my chest and over my erect nipple. Satisfied that she had my attention, she stepped away from me and held the elevator door open.
