by Radclyffe
“I know because being here with you is all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
There were no more words. Our lips came together, and the world shifted. No longer heavy and weighed down, I became weightless, losing myself in the sensation of Daryan’s smooth, naked body against mine. We were on her bed, fitting together in ways I had never imagined. Daryan pushed her hips against my hips, pulling me closer and closer, holding me tighter and tighter as we moved gracefully beside, underneath, and on top of each other.
The heat between my legs grew unbearable. My head lolled back as Daryan licked my hipbones and massaged my thighs.
When her lips and tongue finally met the throbbing ache between my legs, I wanted to sing. The pleasure that I had always kept hidden, a tiny contentment, an eternal secret tucked deep inside myself, grew into something bigger, louder, and more powerful than I thought possible. It rushed over me in great oceanic waves, lifting me up, higher and higher and higher, carrying me away into the seductive expanse of the mysterious, the magical, and the unknown.
MISTY AND ME
by Catherine Paulssen
I was a cliché.
Falling in love with my best friend—can that happen outside of Hollywood?
Fools rush in, they say.
Sometimes, fools tumble slowly.
Being in love with your best friend. It can be the best thing that ever happened to you. It can be the worst. In my case, it must be the latter. I wrapped my jacket tighter around myself and scowled at the glum beach underneath a cloudy sky.
A golden retriever, far ahead of its owner, came romping around me, wagging its tail. McAllister’s dog. I stroked its damp fur and furiously blinked the tears away.
My best friend. It wasn’t the boy I had built castles in the sand with when we were kids, living next door to each other.
It was Misty.
Misty, who would watch people on the bus and invent stories in her head about where they came from and what they were up to. Who could crease her mouth into a smile so broad that her eyes, heavy-lidded gray eyes, would become small underneath her ginger fringes. Misty, who would never miss a Robert Mitchum movie being rerun on TV, and who was freaked out by ants.
I knew the lilt of her voice when she was lying about how she really felt, and I knew the moment she would come out of that hiding place deep inside her to confess, to cry or rant. I knew how she tried to be the best mom to her son, and how she struggled every day with the notion of having failed him. In moments like these, I would hug her and tell her that she was the bravest person I had ever known. I would hold her until the tension left her body.
Lately, a new feeling had sneaked its way into the safety that was our embrace. Her curvaceous body pressed against mine filled me with anxiety, with desire, with shame. I wanted to bury my face in the crook of her neck, vanish in her smell that reminded me of the skin of fresh apples which had been lying in the sun, and I knew it would take away my ability to breathe. Everything within me started to hum, my skin was getting heated and flushed, my palms became sweaty. I would watch my hands behind her back, lying on the small of her back, the tips of my fingers tingling with the wish to trace the curve of her neck.
I smothered the sensations as soon as they started to crawl up inside me, shame following in their wake. I was betraying our friendship, a friendship tried and tested since I had moved to the small town on the northern coast. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to remain quiet about it, or how long it would take before my guilty conscience would scream out and beg for forgiveness. The fear of that moment, and even more of what would follow it, scared me.
But what scared me most was that from the way she said my name when her guard was down I could tell she felt it too.
Our first kiss was a cliché.
Sitting next to her in the only movie theater within a fifty-mile radius, the tactic with which the hero would conquer his lady obvious after the first twenty minutes, I tried to make out her profile in the semidarkness: the small button nose that made her look younger than she was, the protruding eyes reflecting the picture on the screen, the thick strands falling over her forehead. Lost in the sight of her, I didn’t even notice I was staring until she turned. For a few moments, she just looked at me, her expression unreadable in the shadows that covered her eyes, now that she had averted them from the screen. Then, suddenly, her teeth shimmered in the dim room. She was smiling her big-mouthed smile. And it was shining on me.
I’m sure I smiled back. I must have. Or maybe I didn’t.
I will never know.
What I do know is the feeling of her fingers around mine as she took my hand, her cool, short digits around my long, warm ones. Holding them tight. I lowered my eyes and watched the small marvel that our clasped hands were. When I raised them again, Misty was still looking at me. I tried to figure out what her face was telling me, and saw confusion, shyness. But at the same time, tenderness. And confidence.
Her lips came closer as I tilted my head. She was sharing my breath now. I could feel the heat of her mouth. Her eyes still held me captive, her breath, quickened, smelled of chocolate and popcorn. It brushed my lips. Misty riveted her attention on my lips, and I closed my eyes.
And then she kissed me. Shyly, her mouth pressed on mine. I parted my lips, only a bit, but as if she had waited for a cue, her lips seized mine more boldly.
I’m not sure what caused it—the darkness, the triumphant music in the background indicating the movie was reaching a romantic peak, or Misty’s determination—but my inhibitions evaporated. I prodded her lips with my tongue, and she opened hers.
In an attempt to draw her further into our kiss, I raised my fingers and ran them through her short hair. I couldn’t remember being kissed like that. Or having kissed someone like I kissed Misty that night. As our lips broke apart, she opened her eyes, her stare meeting mine.
I cupped her face and brushed her cheek with my thumb. And there it was again—the feeling of anxiety. Only this time, it remained a short notion that was suppressed by instant, delirious giddiness. Misty searched my face and slid her arm around me. I leaned my head against her shoulder and stared into the dim cinema, not seeing anything of what was happening onscreen.
She stroked my fingers. “Jules,” she whispered.
It was all she said.
Our first night was a cliché.
We let the others leave the room until all the rows were empty and end credits faded out before we left the theater in silence, like young lovers who don’t want to be confronted by anything that reminds them there’s a real world outside.
Besides, even in our state of bliss we knew that if we were seen on the main street holding hands, by this time tomorrow, the whole town would know.
With her son gone to stay at a friend’s for the night, her house lay dark and silent in between the conifers, like a refuge to our newfound secret. Misty closed the door behind us and gave me one of the long looks I had seen a lot lately. “Want to go upstairs?”
I nodded.
She let me go ahead and waited until I sat down on her bed. Her eyes wandered over my face as she brushed some strands of hair behind my ear. I leaned back into her pillows.
She turned her eyes to the ribbons of my vintage empire blouse and tentatively tugged at one band’s end. The bow came apart. I watched her fingers loosening the second ribbon. She didn’t look up but kept her gaze fixed on the blouse’s opening coming apart. She placed her cool hand at the small spot of skin revealed and parted the fabric. I was certain I had stopped breathing some minutes ago, but my heaving breast said otherwise. One by one, she opened the small buttons below the ribbons. When the blouse was open, Misty looked up. Her gray eyes were dark.
We didn’t say a word.
I stroked her hand and drew her close for a kiss. A smile flashed over her face, then her eyes traveled back to my chest. Cautiously, she tugged the blouse away to reveal my white mesh bra underneath. I noticed how I was neither embarrassed at
wearing my most boring bra nor shy about what she might think of my less-than-perfect figure.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, and started to move her finger along the bra’s outline.
I tried to anticipate her next move, wanting her to undress me completely, but Misty didn’t sense my silent urging, or didn’t want to. She watched the sight of me; the blouse completely open now, she took it all in: my pale skin, my small breasts, the little mole above my navel. Very slowly, she bent over me and started to place small kisses on the line between my breasts.
I propped myself up on my elbows so she could open the bra, and shivered when she finally did. She covered my right breast with her hand and cupped it very gently, as if she was holding a delicate treasure. I stared at her hand, and the thrill that rushed over me when her thumb finally started to move over my nipple... I gnawed my lips to bite back the groan building in my throat.
Teasingly, tenderly, she traced my left breast’s shape, drawing smaller and smaller circles around the nipple, and when I was convinced my senses couldn’t be sharpened any further, she enclosed the nipple with her lips and gently sucked on it. I could hear myself moaning as I closed my eyes and pushed my head back.
She planted a short kiss on my dry mouth before pressing me into the pillows with gentle force. In the next hour, she didn’t leave one inch of my skin unkissed. When the tip of her tongue grazed my belly button, I pushed back my head and gave in to it. My hand caressed the small hairs at the nape of her neck until all my fingers could reach were her thick strands, and even those, I lost from my grip.
With urgent whispers of her name I begged her to quench the high that built itself gently and slowly and took possession of my body from its core, dissolving me into pieces that came together again in her arms.
A cliché.
That was the morning after.
An aching hangover in the pale light of a Sunday morning in March. Only that I was drunk from nothing but the feeling of falling asleep in her arms, her naked body wrapped around mine.
I went downstairs, downstairs where it smelled of freshly brewed coffee, and Misty. As I wrapped my arms around her to kiss her good morning, she froze.
“I can’t.” She cut me off before I could fathom what was happening, or why.
I withdrew my arms. She turned around, and all that was left of yesterday’s look was the bewilderment. Bewilderment and—hurt. Why did she look hurt? How did she dare look hurt when she had been the one pushing me away only a minute ago?
She avoided my eyes. “I have Nate. And you have your store—what if...What if people would stop—I don’t think I can do this.” She raised her gaze again, but I refused to accept the silent plea in her look.
“And that occurred to you now?”
“I should have—”
“You kissed me! Damn it, Misty, you...” My voice cracked and I gulped away the tears.
“I’m sorry. Please, please...Jules, you know I am. You know.”
I shook my head. “All I know is that you kissed me. And now you—you’re treating me like a...mistake.”
She straightened up, and I could see how she had changed. She was on her way to her hiding place. “I told you why.”
“You’re doing this because of what people might think?” I laughed incredulously. I knew I was pushing her further into her shell, but I couldn’t be fair in that moment. Not after I had been that happy. More than happy. So much more.
Not after I had been safe.
Her face became blank. I knew that soon, I wouldn’t be able to reach her anymore. All I had were another few seconds and then...then maybe I would have lost her forever. “We’ve been through so much...”
She looked at me, a trace of sadness still shadowing her eyes. “But then, I had you.”
I howled. “You still have me!” And maybe more than ever.
Misty shook her head. “This time, it’s different.”
I hadn’t seen or heard from her since then. And here I was, sitting on a damp bench, clouds being chased by an early spring storm, no one around but the occasional raincoat-clad figure walking their dog.
“I wouldn’t have looked for you in any other place.”
Her voice warmed some place inside me that I thought I had lost for good. She took a seat on the bench.
“If you still—I wanted to...Forgive me?” Her fingers wandered over the wood.
I touched them with my fingertips. “You’re still scared, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
I nodded and interlaced our forefingers. “Me too.”
For a few moments, neither of us said a word, but simply watched our fingers slowly fumbling around each other, searching for the old connection.
“Do I still have you?” she whispered eventually.
I looked into her face. “Of course you do.” I nudged her leg with my foot. “Stupid.”
Misty threw her legs over my lap. “You’re my best friend.” She beamed, taking my face in her hands.
We kissed, two lovers, two best friends on an empty beach, and I couldn’t help but think that we were such a cliché.
BLAZING JUNE
JL Merrow
It’s been a proper scorcher for this early in June, and the air’s thick with pollen as they break into Mrs. MacReady’s. I feel like a spare part, hovering by the front door with its telltale pint of semi-skimmed sitting in a little puddle of dried-up spilled milk. If only I’d been here earlier to see it.
“Is Mrs. Mac going to prison?” Billy asks.
“No, love!” I pick him up, though he’s getting too big for that really. “The police are just going in to make sure she’s all right, seeing as she wasn’t answering her door.”
“What if she’s out at the shops? Won’t she be cross they’ve broken her window?”
“Mrs. Mac only goes out on Saturdays, when the taxi calls, remember?” He’s too heavy, so I put him down before I do myself a mischief. But I keep my arm around him. “Is she all right?” I ask the male constable when he comes out again.
He gives me a smile. “Don’t worry—we’ve called an ambulance, but I think she’s just a bit dehydrated, that’s all. Still, won’t hurt to get her checked out.”
“Did she have another fall?” I feel guilty for asking.
He nods, but he’s got my meaning. “Happened before, has it? How did she manage then?”
“She’s always been able to pass me a key through the letterbox, and I go in and get her back on her feet.” More and more often, these days.
“Let me guess—won’t trust anyone with a spare key?” The constable shrugs, like he understands what old people are like. It’s a bit of a relief. “We’ll have to contact social services, get her assessed. See if they think she’s up to looking after herself.”
I’ve got a fair idea how that’ll go, and I feel guilty again. But it’s for the best, isn’t it?
“She smells funny,” Billy puts in.
“Billy! What have I told you?” I turn back to the constable, and the WPC’s there too now. “His dad’s a tactless old so-and-so too,” I say apologetically.
The WPC is about my age, probably, though I expect most people would say she looks younger. She’s got pale red hair, a sort of golden colour, cropped close so that when she turns her head you can see short feathery hair at the nape of her neck. It looks soft, like velvet. Her skin’s creamy-pale, and she’s got a sort of lean grace to her even under all the kit the police seem to wear these days. Makes most policewomen look dumpy, but not her.
She’s got a handkerchief or something wrapped round her hand, and I realise with a jolt she’s bleeding. “Are you all right?”
She shrugs and smiles. It’s a nice smile. “Cut myself on the window. I’ll live.”
“Let me look at it for you. At least wash it out.” My eyes dart over to Mrs. MacReady’s front door, with its peeling paint and grimy net curtains over the broken windowpane. She gets the point.
“Thanks. That’s very kind of yo
u. Mark, you’re all right staying with Mrs. MacReady, aren’t you?”
The constable wrinkles his nose, but he goes in anyway.
“I’m Ellen, by the way,” she tells me as we step across the landing and into mine and I realise what a god-awful mess I left it in this morning.
“Carla,” I say back. “And this is Billy, my little monster.”
She grins. “I’m sure you’re not a monster really,” she says to Billy, but he goes all shy and hides behind my legs. “Must be a bit crowded for three of you, in a flat this size.”
“Oh, I’m not with his dad!” I don’t know why I blush. “Never was, to be honest, but VJ’s a good dad to Billy. He has him every Friday—that’s why I was out all day.”
“Making the most of it?”
I nod. “It’s my day at the gym—yeah, I know, could do with a few more of them.” I carry on quickly so she doesn’t feel she has to say something polite. “Then I do the shopping. No point dragging Billy round Tesco when I don’t have to. But it means I’m out all day, so that’s why I didn’t notice the milk. Here, you run your hand under the tap while I get the first aid kit.”
“Sounds like you’re a good neighbour to the old dear,” she says, loud so it’ll carry over the sound of running water.
I’m not, really. I mean, I look in on her, and I get stuff for her when she’s not up to shopping, but I always feel I ought to do more. “I try.”
“Hasn’t she got any family?”
I’m back with the bandages. Billy’s happy enough watching TV and I don’t feel bad about it, knowing he’s spent the day playing footie with his dad. “She was married, but they never had any kids. I don’t think she’s got anyone now.” I have to concentrate now, as I dab her hand dry with a clean towel and then wipe the cut with antiseptic. She’s got lovely hands—long, slender fingers with short, blunt nails. Practical. Not like my bunches of sausages with nail varnish that always seems to chip as soon as I put it on.
