by Carla Blake
Jo rubs her still harder. Her finger is immersed in wetness, and bizarre as it might sound, she is certain she can tell which is bath water and what has been produced by Emma’s aching desire. She rubs her again and slips her finger into Emma’s cunt. She fucks her, in two swift and hard thrusts, then returns to her clit. Circling the tiny nub until Emma starts to thrash between her legs and tells her she is coming.
“Yes!” She breathes, “Oh, God, yes! Fuck me!” And over she goes. Her whole body arching with the pleasure of it all as Jo hangs on and continues to stimulate her clit. Determined not to loose the sweet spot. Determined that Emma rides out every last drop of her orgasm as she holds onto her and slips her finger deep into her pussy.
“Fuck me.” Emma sighs again. “Oh, God. Fuck me! Fuck me!” And Jo slides her fingers into Emma’s body. She is so open there is no resistance and she fucks her with ease. Moving in and out of her molten, hot hole whilst Emma thrashes and moans and spills bath water over the side.
And then it is over. A final sigh. A shy laugh at the water now soaking into the bath mat and she lies quietly. Her heart thumping. Her lover’s hands resting lightly on her breasts.
Jo lightly kisses her shoulder. “I take it that was ok then?” She asks. “Clean and filthy all at the same time. How’s that for service?”
“Not bad.” Emma smiles. “I’m gonna have to decorate more often if this is the thanks I get. But how about you? Gotta return the favour.”
“You have. But not in here. Water’s getting cold.”
“Ok. Where then?”
“Bedroom.”
The last of the afternoon sunlight has leaked from the room by the time Jo and Emma finally climb onto the bed. They are both wrapped in bath robes that have mostly dried them although they are still a little damp from the bath.
“You smell gorgeous.” Emma says, running a hand down Jo’s arm. “Love this smell.”
“But you love this more.” Jo smiles and rolling off the bed, squirts herself with her usual perfume before hurrying back to her lover’s arms.
“You’re right, I do love that.” Emma replies and holds her close. “But that’s such a waste putting perfume on before coming to bed.”
“But you like it!”
“Yes, I do. But.”
“But nothing then. Breath me in honey. I’m all yours.”
“And I’m yours. Did I tell you I actually followed a woman around the supermarket the other day because she smelt like you. How tragic is that?”
“Oh, very. Kiss me.”
Emma kisses her. It’s better than talking about perfume. And as their mouths touch they meld together in an embrace that seems to go on and on forever. Jo sighs and Emma’s tongue presses lightly against her lips. She loves the way Jo tastes and the way her tongue, kept trapped behind her lips for so long, will eventually start to return the slight flicker before pushing harder and inviting her to open her mouth and let her explore inside.
They kiss and Emma’s nostrils fill with the scent of Jo’s perfume as she runs her fingers through her hair and releases even more of the fragrance.
They hold each other tightly until their hands can wait no longer and then they are at each other’s robes, opening them, parting them, shrugging them off one another’s shoulders until they are lying naked once more.
“Freckles.” Emma smiled, coming up for air. “I love your freckles.”
“Glad someone does.” Jo says sourly. “Cos I hate ‘em.”
“Then let me take your mind off them.”
And moving her mouth to Jo’s breasts, she begins to lick. Everywhere but at her nipples. Kissing her, sucking her. Covering her skin with dozens of kisses that come perilously close to where Jo is aching for her to be, but never quite making it.
“Now who’s teasing?” Jo sighs and stretches out, her body writhing across the duvet, her hands reaching up behind her to grasp the metal framed headboard and allow Emma complete and utter access to any damn place she wants to go.
“Me.” Emma grins around her kisses and takes Jo’s nipple between her lips. Instantly it hardens and instantly Jo groans. “More.” She gasps. “Give me more.”
Emma kisses the underside of her breast and then moves down to her stomach, pecking at the smooth, toned skin lightly dusted with the hated freckles. She dips her tongue into her belly button and twirls it around, resting one hand slightly lower on Jo’s belly before letting it drift ever closer to where Jo’s perfectly trimmed pubic hair awaits.
“Please!” Jo moans and Emma moves lower still. Her hand is now on Jo’s thigh, slowly stroking the ultra soft skin and occasionally allowing the edge of her hand to lightly brush against Jo’s pussy.
“Nice?” She asks and Jo nods. Her lips caught between her teeth. Her brow furrowed in lines of fiercely contained need.
“Want more?”
“Hmm. Please. Kiss me Emma.”
“On the lips?”
“No! Down there.”
“With pleasure.”
And moving down, Emma positions herself between Jo’s thighs and gently parts them. Jo’s pussy is lovely. Clean and neat and fragranced with the delicate scent of musk that neither bath nor shower could ever hope to wash away.
With her fingers, Emma parts the lips Jo so desperately wants her to kiss and delicately applies her tongue to her swollen vulva. Jo’s sharp intake of breath is gratifying and Emma probes deeper. Finding the deep pink channel that runs from clit to cunt and licking along the length of it until she comes to the soft, damp opening where she inserts the tip of her tongue and then pushes it in as far as it will go, rolling it in a circle and tasting liquid pleasure as above her Jo begins to gasp and moan and her hands come down to grasp the sides of Emma’s head and draw Emma’s face ever closer towards her pussy.
Juices flow and pulling free her tongue, Emma replaces it with a single finger, fucking Jo with firm, hard strokes that have her moving in time on the bed. She lowers her head a second time and allows her tongue to again find Jo’s clit, alternating the pressure between hard and fast and slow and gentle until Jo’s hips began to move and her voice begs her to fuck her harder.
She fucks her. Hard and fast. Driving her finger in and out and then adding another.
Her tongue stays working at her clit. Lapping and licking. The sweet cunt juices running down her chin, whilst Jo screams at her that she is coming, coming now!
Emma holds on fast. She doesn’t want to stop. Nor let go. Instead she screws Jo for all she is worth, pumping her fingers in and out of her sopping, wet hole. Telling Jo to ‘come sweetie, come for me.” Until finally, with a last deep groan, Jo’s whole body shudders and she comes in an explosive orgasm. Gushing liquid smiles that cover Emma’s fingers in sticky fluid and leave her gasping for breath almost as much as her lover.
Recovering to climb back up beside her, Emma kisses her on the lips.
“See how wonderful you taste?” She smiles, running her tongue along Jo’s lips.
“See how filthy you’ve made me?” Jo grins right back. “ Look at me. I’m all hot and sweaty again. Reckon I’m going to need another bath.”
Remember Me
So this is how you’ve decided to play it, is it?
With the ‘silent treatment.’
Nice.
Especially as we work together. How mean is that?
It wouldn’t be so bad if I knew what I’m supposed to have done. But I don’t. Not really. I don’t have of a clue and by the look of things, you aren’t about to offer one..
And let’s be honest, none of this wouldn’t have happened if not for you.
You and your insistence that I get fit.
I needed it, you said. I could do with getting some exercise. I should work that beautiful body.
Yeah, right.
<
br /> Easy for you to say.
You were fit already. Well into the lycra and the weights and the running machines. You exercised like other people breathed. Swimming, jogging, getting up at ridiculous o’clock to go to the gym. It was exhausting just watching you but there were some perks and over time, I grew used to the salty tang of clean sweat nestling between your breasts that I felt obliged to lick off.
That was more my kind of exercise. They type that took place between the sheets. The sort that required no other equipment than my hands and mouth and occasionally something that took batteries.
But you were determined. I was getting soft around the edges, you said. I needed to tone up.
I needed to move around!
I offered to move around on top of you.
You weren’t impressed.
So to shut you up, I took myself off to the gym. And hated it. The sight of the place was enough to make me vomit. All that chrome and pain and clean, white walls decorated with posters of incredible bodies and expensive kit. It wasn’t natural.
And nor were the people in it. Some of them so shiny, they were almost chrome themselves and like the walls most of them were clean, white and decorated with more muscles than a whelk stall stuffed into expensive kit. Pass the bucket.
Then there were the prices. Oh, God, the prices. Was it any wonder people lost weight? After forking out for the bloody membership fees, it was a wonder they could afford to eat!
I got stuck in though. To please you.
I sweated. I jogged, I got cross with a variety of equipment never designed to be operated by human intelligence.
And I met her.
Kerry.
She was standing, or rather trotting, next to me on one of those infernal running machines that threaten to spill you off the edge if you stop running for even a millisecond.
Her fringe, I remember, was plastered to her forehead, her face wearing an identical expression of pained concentration to mine. I remember smiling sympathetically, then glancing down at my hardly shrinking at all stomach. In reply she stuck hers out and we both laughed. Both stopped the machines. Both decided, sod it, we had been exercising for ten minutes, we needed a coffee. And a bun. And a bloody good sit down.
Here you come. Your destination forcing you to pass by my desk. I bet you hate that. Having to pass through my space. I bet you wish there was another way round, any way round, that no matter how long, would mean that you could avoid all contact with me, no matter how nefarious.
I don’t look up from my computer screen as you glide past, but I can still see your hands. Clenched at your sides in two identical fists. The knuckles white circles of carefully suppressed emotion.
The sight of them makes me feel sad and I want to reach out and touch you and tell you how sorry I am. But I doubt you would listen to me even if I did. You’re not very good at forgiveness are you? Everything is always so black and white with you. There are never any grey areas, or room for compromises. And right now, you probably think I’m so far in the wrong, it would take a winch and pulley to drag me out.
And to think it used to be so different.
I can remember the day we met as if it were five minutes ago. We were here at work.
I was wearing a dark suit with heels so ridiculously high, that every time I stood up, they made me feel like I was going to topple forwards. They also killed my feet, the damn things, but I was determined not to take them off. They’d cost a fortune for one thing plus I thought they made my legs look long, slim and sexy so I stuck with them, making sure that every time I got up to leave my desk, there was something handy to hang on to.
You, on the other hand, were always the epitome of calm poise. Light grey suit, perfect burgundy top beneath. Heels that clicked sexily on the polished floor instead of pitching you headlong towards the finishing line. I wanted you instantly.
Instead I got coffee with extra cream.
You had tea. Black with no sugar.
And that was our first meeting. By chance in the staff kitchen.
We hit it off instantly. The hands on the clock seeming to whizz round until a whole hour had gone by and both of us were convinced we’d return to our desks to find our P45’s waiting for us in severe looking envelopes.
Two nights later, we met for dinner. I let you choose the venue and you opted for ‘Imelda’s’. A smart but comfy bistro slap bang in the middle of town. At least it was convenient for parking. You ordered steak and a salad. I had pasta. Something I deemed safe and manageable and unlikely to go careering off the plate as soon as I introduced a knife into the equation. I still managed to drop a piece into my lap though, but you, being the prefect dinner companion, didn’t appear to notice. And I truly don’t think you did, because it never came up in conversation afterwards, or in rows, when even the tiniest little slip got hauled out into the open air for a good cough.
We also drank wine. A lot of wine. A bottle each if I recall and then another glass, ‘for the road.’ At the time I thought it amazing we could even remember our names after that little lot, but you merely laughed it off. We were having a good time, you said. One, little drink was not going to hurt us.
Getting into our cars and attempting to drive might have done though, so we left them in the car park and flagged down a taxi.
The driver was young. Foreign. Kept wiggling his eyebrows at us and asking us how far we wanted to go? You told him, in no uncertain terms, that the only place he was taking us was our destination and that if he didn’t shut up and drive, you’d report him to the ‘taxi drivers association.’ I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing, and nor apparently was our driver, because it did the trick. Taxi man shut up and put the radio on. The sound of Madonna telling us she was ‘like a virgin’ replaced the fact that he clearly wasn’t.
Laughing, you sat very close beside me.
Laughing myself, I let you. You smelt heavenly, although I couldn’t quite place the perfume. I spent days trying to figure which one it was before I took a sneaky peak at the bottle. I was none the wiser though.
Going round a corner, you leant into me, your shoulder bumping against mine. Your apology was made up of the right words in the wrong order.
I thought it hilarious and shoved you upright again and without warning, you suddenly caught hold of my hands, kissed my fingers and looked at me through the dark flutter of your eyelashes. My heart instantly did something weird and I knew, right then, that you had me.
And you did. I was gone. Your lips, when they finally pressed against mine, made my head swim with desire. I felt light headed. Dizzy. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was kissing you. You! Wow! There was a God.
There was also a spectator.
We nearly drove into a parked car.
Only the shriek of brakes alerted us to the fact that taxi man up front had been paying more attention to his rear view mirror than to the road ahead, but the piece of your mind that you gave him must have left a sizeable hole in your head. I was impressed.
We walked the rest of the way. To your house. A modest semi detached in a quiet street filled with cars and recycling boxes in two different colours. You apologised for the state of the road, (one piece of litter is not a state), and pointed out the parade of trees. I couldn’t have cared less. Wasn’t it a good thing that so many people were putting their old newspapers out?
You’re coming back now. The stiffness of your stride telling me that wherever you’ve been hasn’t lessened the trauma of having to pass my desk again.
You’re wearing black today, I notice, with a deep red top. You look, as always, stunning and you’ve had your hair cut in that lovely cropped style I could run my hands through forever and never screw up. Your lips are red to match your top and your nails. Your shoes are to die for. I could eat you.
Instead I breath in, ho
ping to catch a waft of that familiar fragrance, but you’re too far away for me to detect it. Or maybe you’re not wearing it today. I hope it’s the former. Not wearing your usual scent because I might smell it seems so spiteful.
I keep my head down though, and my fingers busy at the keyboard. I type a nonsensical sentence, delete it and type the same thing again. I watch you, from beneath my own fringe, as your step slows slightly and my heart instantly quickens as if to compensate. Maybe you’ll stop this time. Maybe you’ll smile. Maybe you’ll say something and give me some indication, that if not now, then sometime in the future, everything will be alright again.
You carry on. Not doing any of those things and my heart sinks.
I’ve screwed up. I know I have. But do you have to keep on punishing me?
Your house is lovely. Not ‘House and Homes’ lovely, where everything is new and shiny, you’re frightened to sit down and woe betide anyone that moves something, but comfortable lovely. Welcomingly lovely. The kind of home where you’re not afraid to sit on the sofa or move a cushion. The kind where the coffee comes in mugs and the biscuits straight out of the packet. My kind of place.
You offer coffee but neither of us really wants it.
Instead we dispense with the triviality of pretence and go straight for the jugular.
Or, rather, your bedroom.
The duvet is a mess and you straighten it up hastily with a good shake, creating a mini maelstrom that ruffles our hair. For some reason I find this funny, although Lord knows why and we collapse sideways onto the bed, laughing our heads off. Our feet, still clad in shoes, dangle off the edge and I kick mine off, sighing with the sheer pleasure of removing the damn things. Yours quickly join them and tumble to the floor in two, quick, hard thuds. Then we grabble with gravity and hoist ourselves onto the bed properly. Our heads muzzy with wine. Our hands knowing where they want to go but missing the mark by several inches.
And then it is morning.
