Love Burns Bright

by Radclyffe

  “Course I do. Fancy the hell out of you too.”

  “Indulge me, then. Tell me something you miss.”

  A pause, and then Keisha responded. “I remember the dirty late-night calls we’d make when we were still dating. Hearing you touching yourself while we talked was…you know.”

  She remembered and warmed to the memories of those calls. Keisha’s voice took her places she’d never gone before and cemented their relationship. “‘You know?’ How coy. You can be dirtier than that on the phone. Or maybe you’ve lost your touch?”

  Keisha paused. “You get my pussy throbbing, Soph. Just at the thought of you. It throbs and aches.”

  That was more like it. Sophie said, “Throbs and aches, huh? To do what?”

  Keisha’s voice was husky, heavy. “To feel your tongue slip between my pussy lips and fill me to the brim. To cling together as we fuck, long and slow and hard.”

  Tremors suffused her. Keisha’s voice…it reached her as no other ever did, even over the phone, and it made her pussy twitch as strongly now as it had the first time she’d heard it. She settled back some more, fingertips stroking her cheek, brushing across her lips. “Are you wet now?”

  “Yes.”

  Sophie nibbled at her finger, slipping back into a familiar game she had all but forgotten, wanting to dispel the melancholy she had been feeling. “Well, I don’t know what I can do about that, with you out in that dusty country and me here…”

  “I do. Touch your breasts.”

  She licked her lips, but still feigned modesty. “But…but that would be rude.”

  Keisha chuckled. “Go on, touch them. They’re stunning. They need touching.”

  Sophie smiled and slowly cupped one breast through her black T-shirt. She had taken off her bra as soon as she’d come home, and she cupped and caressed the weight of it, the heat of it. Goose bumps rose, as did her nipple. She gasped.

  “Oh god, Soph,” Keisha exclaimed breathlessly. “Does it feel good?”

  She sounded as distracted, as aroused, as Sophie felt, though she knew that sitting in the car on the main road, Keisha lacked privacy. “Y-Yes, Key...”

  Keisha made murmurs of approval. “Imagine me there now, my lips and tongue along your nipples, as I press you down on the bed…”

  Sophie bit her lip as she continued to caress her breasts. Down below, her pussy ached for attention. “Fuck, yes.”

  “Good. Open your jeans.”

  “What? I couldn’t.” Sophie paused. “Could I?”

  “Oh yes. Why not, girl? Think of me doing it for you. Think of how wet you’re getting just thinking about it.”

  A wave of excitement made her shiver, and she almost fumbled with her thin leather belt and the brass tab at her waist. Her mouth kept going dry, as if all of her moisture had gone elsewhere.

  “Have you done it?” Keisha asked eagerly.

  “Almost,” she whispered. She worked the tiny strip of clenched metal of her zipper, the tabs locked together as if in an elaborate embrace. She peeled the front of her jeans open, revealing a delta of brocaded blue lace obscuring the dark trimmed thatch of pubic hair. After a moment, she drew down her jeans until they were halfway down her thighs. “Oh god…”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh yes…” She gasped aloud, feeling the air on her legs as she sat on the edge of the bed and parted her knees. “This feels so dirty.”

  “It should. I’m so fucking hot for you, Soph. Touch yourself.”

  Without thinking she snaked her hand down over her thong, pressing down against her mound. She caressed her sex, the middle finger running along the indent in the lace made by the furrow of her pussy, feeling moistness in the fabric. “Ooh, it feels lush.”

  “Are you wet too?”

  She felt her face burn in an incredibly delicious way. “Yes. I can feel it inside me, seeping out, down my slit.”

  Keisha moaned. “Soph, if I was there, I’d bury my tongue in that sweet little pussy of yours.”

  She peeled aside the thong, touching her pubic hair, combing through it with her fingers before reaching her hot puffy flesh, releasing her musk. The sound of her moist flesh parting slightly was almost as big a jolt as when the tip of her thumb brushed over… “Oh fuck…my clit—”

  Keisha grunted again. “Oh god, Soph, I wish I was there now. I wish I was kneeling between your legs, drinking in your scent, letting my tongue glide over that clit, tease and circle around it, dipping down into your pussy…You shouldn’t taste so good, Sophie…”

  “My hand—my hand’s in my pussy.” Sophie breathed hard.

  “I’m soaking wet.” With her thumb working at her clit, her middle finger curved downward until it slipped between her labia, found the entrance to her sex, stroked the brim, thrusting sharply, shallowly, again and again. “And your tongue is working its way deep inside me…I’m flipping over to do the same to you.”

  “My fingers join my tongue, diving in and out of you, pumping hard and fast.” Keisha’s voice had taken on an urgent monotone, as it did those many nights when she would call her like this, driving her to the edge as she masturbated shamelessly.

  Sophie gasped as she fell back, her legs still hanging over the foot of the bed and parted as much as she was able, the waistband of her thong ripping as she continued to masturbate furiously. “Fuck me, Key…come on—”

  “I…I feel you coming…oh god, Soph—”

  Sophie called out without shame as her whole body shuddered and spasmed, and she squeezed her eyes shut to the white light that permeated her. Her mouth was dry as she gasped again, relishing the hot glow running through her. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke again. “Fuck, I needed that, Key.”

  “Me too.”

  Sophie opened her eyes. “Did you touch yourself?”

  A breathless laugh was followed by, “There’s this old-fashioned phone booth here, like where you’d expect Clark Kent to change into Superman. And I’m in here with my hand down my pants risking a charge of public indecency, and the next woman who uses this phone is going to be sliding off the seat.”

  Sophie burst out laughing, riding the crest of her climax until she settled down again and melancholy threatened to dampen her spirits. “When are you coming home?”

  “Six weeks, two days. A thousand and fifty-six hours, that’s all.”

  “It’s still too long.”

  “I know.” A pause. “I love you, Sophie Muffin. And I’m only a phone call away.”

  RAVENS

  Rachel Randall

  It’s Silke’s terrible idea, but it’s my fault for telling her my fantasy in the first place.

  The night before, with her beautiful body spread over me, her breasts rasping silk against mine, it was hard to think beyond the vivid thrill of having her. Mouth hot at my ear, she’d asked her filthy questions just to tease out my stumbling answers. When she’d reached down to stroke my clit, I’d gasped into her shoulder, “I want to have you where someone could see us.”

  I’d been imagining a tumble in a quiet corner of Hyde Park once the weather turned warmer. Or Silke on her knees, licking me to cream and shudders in the ladies’ at our local. Instead she’d crooned, “Somewhere dangerous?” and I’d stuttered, “Yeah,” because I’d have agreed to anything while she fingered me there and there and there. Now I’m paying the price with soaked-through knickers and a sense of events spiraling out of my control.

  “Risk of arrest kills the mood,” I say with a hiss.

  She doesn’t buy it for a moment, and I can’t blame her. She knows me far too well.

  “But, Becky, I have a fantasy too.” Not so much what she says, as how she says it—with one hip cocked and her cheeks flushed, sophistry has never looked so appealing. Then, “You need to fuck me across Sir Walter Raleigh’s desk.”

  “Sorry?” I say, but what I think, helpless, empowered, is that it’s been two years and I’m still high in the heady throes of relationship thrall. I’ll happily do j
ust about anything she suggests... wants, demands, needs, hints, whatever. Oh, I’m so gloriously fucked here, as colleague and girlfriend both.

  At least I’m in good company at the moment, here at the Tower of London with all the ghosts of foolish lovers past. Though I hope I won’t lose my head over my lady quite so thoroughly as others have done in this haunted place.

  “Get a few snaps of the room, then you can shag me against the desk of a famous explorer. I’ll write a column about it.”

  I don’t ask which part of the proceedings will get the writeup. I save my breath for last-ditch diplomacy and the phone call I’ll need to make to a legal team following our arrest at one of the UK’s most treasured landmarks. My hands spread wide in supplication, but I sense that the red yarn of my mittens is a red flag to her mischievous grin.

  “Let’s go for some spooky exterior shots,” I try. “The White Tower, draped in timeless Thames mists. You know tourists love that bollocks.”

  She smiles at me. There’s a divot in her chin I want to press with my lips before moving on to the teasing laughter creases by her eyes.

  The thing is—

  The thing is, we’re on a job at the moment. Our latest assignment as photographer and writer, and truth be told, our freelance careers are at a more delicate point than our well-established love affair. The website wants fresh content on a tired beat. I should be taking photos of “legendary London,” not flirting with disaster.

  To make the point, I turn my back on her to lift my Nikon. I frame an arty shot of cobblestones and bright blue doors, but I can’t quite keep my hands steady as excitement trembles through me. Lowering the camera in defeat, I say, “You do realize it’s very likely not his actual desk, right?”

  “A historical replica will do,” she concedes in her perfect English, “but will need a strong effort from you.”

  Glancing across the courtyard finds me no reprieve. The ravens, the Tower’s most famous residents, are scattered across a manicured square of lawn. They’re watching me, all beady eyes and sharp beaks and utterly alien dispassion. Such a contrast to the way my girl watches, smug happiness a corona around her.

  It’s a terrible idea. Yet the same arousal that flushes her cheeks is a warm knot in my chest.

  Silke goes to court the Yeomen Warders waiting by the gate. Her robin’s-egg coat is a pretty contrast to their scarlet-and-black-skirted solemnity, and her blond hair plays peek-a-boo with the woolly edges of her hat. She’s persuasive and incisive and obscurely exotic. Experience confirms that she will use all of these talents to get her way, and likely be thanked for it too.

  I adjust my zoom. Out across the dry moat stretching below this ancient fortress, they’ve put down, of all things, a skating rink. Twirling colors tempt my camera; seeking atmosphere, I shoot them in long-exposure black and white instead. But I find myself looking to Silke again before too long has passed. That’s always the way of it. I’ve been so bloody attracted to her since the start. Even now, our relationship is defined by the need to be touching her skin, to possess with hands, mouth and cunt, to surrender when she needs to mark me back. Is it really any wonder that my fantasies lean toward the opportunity to touch her more?

  She’s busy chatting up the Ravenmaster—and what would that be like to fill in as occupation on a customs form?—but she turns to look at me over one shoulder like she’s felt my stare warming her back. Her pleasure lights up the wintery gloom. I blossom to it, as does the gruff fellow she’s charming. When she ambles back, there’s the gleam of victory in her eyes and a swing in her hips that I immediately mistrust.

  My breasts tighten, ache, as I lower the camera. “Right,” I say. There’s a throatiness to my voice we can both hear. “Hot sex and public disgrace it is.”

  Nothing goes to plan, of course. Silke’s lilting accent and our impeccable tourist board credentials have won us the right to take as many pictures of the Bloody Tower as we would like. Only, they caught me gawking at the ravens, and as a special privilege, they’ll let us borrow one for the shoot.

  Marvelous. I will be a bad twist on a Lewis Carroll riddle, caught between a raven and a writing desk.

  I am in trouble.

  I am very turned on.

  “Don’t be nervous,” she whispers as we tread well-worn cobbles in the wake of our guard.

  “I’m not,” I assure her, and it’s true. “Just wound up.”

  And that’s true too. Her hand, resting not-so-discreetly along the top of my bum as we walk, gives me a gentle squeeze.

  He’s chatty, our Beefeater, and gives us stories for Silke to take home and spin to gold. I learn that the Bloody Tower was prison not just to a famous explorer but to a whole host of colorful characters. I learn that it’s bloody because it’s thought to be the tower, the one where the boy princes were done for. I learn that not even flashbacks to grammar school history or the high likelihood of CCTV are enough to kill my undeniable and inadvisable arousal.

  “The Tower may be haunted,” he warns us in sepulchral tones. His comedic partner, the raven, Branwen, supplies a menacing croak from her perch on his leather armguard. He’s already given us the straight-to-porn reprieve, told us that he’ll be leaving us for a twenty-minute stretch while he beds down his remaining birds in their aviary outside. Silke’s answering smile has put the old geezer in a good mood.

  I pat my satchel of equipment. “If any vengeful spirits want to pose for the website, I’m happy to oblige.”

  We all laugh. I stare at Traitors’ Gate as we pass, then fix my gaze ahead at the gray stones squatting before the exit to the river. The Bloody Tower. On the lower floor, it’s furnished as though Sir Walter’s just stepped outside for his daily constitutional and will be back to his prison diaries at any moment. Starkly white plastered stone shapes the space, leaded diamonds in the windows add charm, a tall candelabrum provides a home for Branwen to perch.

  I gloss over the details once I’m satisfied there’s no video, ignore the small talk of our guide as he leaves us. All my attention is fixed upon the desk I’ll be bending my girlfriend across as soon as possible.

  The ornate wood is high and hard. Reassuringly sturdy. There’s a writing block that takes up half the desktop. It’s piled with dusty books and a feather quill that gives me instant ideas, though I don’t dare touch any of it. There won’t be much room for her to maneuver on the small space, but it’s better that way–she’s a squirmer.

  I pull my camera out of my satchel and flick it on since we’ll need some photos for cover. While I prowl about the room, Silke perches on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs in slow circles. The heavy heels of her boots scrape against the reddish stones of the floor. My nipples stand to attention like the guards outside.

  “You’re stalling,” she says. “Aren’t you interested in having your fantasy fulfilled?” She spreads her legs, hooking her hands underneath her knees. I make the mistake of looking. Her calves are begging for my touch while her flexibility is inspiring.

  Despite my distraction, the atmosphere of this place is intense. I fancy I feel history’s slow creep across my skin as I watch the raven resettle. She is positioned perfectly, light- and shadow-cooperative. Focusing each shot makes me realize just how large this bird is, how razor-sharp her claws and beak, how blue-black her feathers. Pixels do nothing to tame Branwen’s power, but the susurration of Silke’s coat sliding off her shoulders to the floor puts me exactly where my girlfriend wants me.

  Once she has my complete attention, she drops her legs back down to the floor and pouts. “If you don’t want to fuck me, just say so.”

  I abandon raven and reason to turn my camera on my own wild creature instead. Her heart is in her eyes, there is sex in her smile. As with the bird, watching Silke through layers of machinery and glass doesn’t distance her; it brings her sharply into relief, creates an intimacy, a safe space for just the two of us. She likes the attention. I can see it in the dilation of her pupils, the way she plucks at the heavy edge
s of my coat. I snap in extreme close-up and capture it all.

  “Oh, I’ll fuck you,” I assure her because there’s no doubt of that now. “I’d just prefer not to spend the night in a dungeon afterward. You’d only go and hog the manacles.”

  She’s smiling again as she says, a bit breathless, “Don’t be silly. An execution might upset the school groups.”

  The corduroy of her skirt is inching up shapely thighs colored with thick cotton. All it will take is the nudge of my body to tip her back fully onto the polished wood. My coat swings open, swaying toward her. I don’t remember unbuttoning it, and I only just remember to set my camera safely aside before I lick her mouth to share my need and taste hers.

  Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me in for a chilly kiss that warms with every stroke of tongue. She catches my bottom lip between her teeth. Worries it gently.

  We hear the raven’s cry of warning before the footsteps. Silke’s off the desk in the nick of time as the door swings open again.

  “I forgot to warn you that she’s a biter,” our Warder says.

  I nearly give the game away with my nervous giggle. I cover by pointing to where the raven still perches. “She’s being very good,” I say. “An excellent subject.”

  He nods, blithely unsuspicious in the way of clueless blokes around women fucking, and ducks out again. He leaves the door ajar, but there’s no time to close it, just as there’s no time for my pulse to slow.

  Silke’s tugging at my scarf, pulling me back to her. She turns and bends over the desk with a showy sluttiness, from the breasts she’s thrusting forward to the shimmy of her hips. I stare at her bottom.

  “I do like this desk,” she sighs, her voice going soft and thoughtful as she stretches across it. “All broad and...chiseled.”

  “And now you want to be fucked on it.”

  “I want you to fuck me on it,” she corrects.

  My skin prickles. “Filthy girl.”