by D. L. King
Her left hand dips lower, never losing contact as it descends all the way to my thigh. She grasps the hem of my dress and hikes it up to my waist while her other hand is alternating its attention between my breasts. She kisses and sucks my neck. Her mouth is open and I feel her warm tongue glide along my skin until she reaches my dress’s zipper. With her hands busy driving me to a frenzy, it has to be her teeth she’s using to lower my zipper halfway to my ass.
“Please.” I gasp out the word when her fingers slip inside the band of my underwear. The warm leather of her glove feels so foreign and somehow intensely erotic. She explores me in slow, deliberate patterns. I buck against her and am rewarded with her own gasp when my ass rubs hard against her center.
The sweet pressure builds. My head feels lighter. I can think of only one thing as her fingers press and slide. I look back over my shoulder and her lips crash into mine.
She slips her thigh between mine. One hand is wrapped around my waist while her other plays me like a weeping guitar. I grasp her shirt and pull frantically, but with the cuffs I’m barely able to just pull it from her tight pants.
It feels like something is tearing inside me. Tearing and then mending itself so it’s even better than before. My insides quiver, just like my thighs.
She waits until I’ve caught my breath before she gently turns me around, so I’m finally facing her. She raises her gloved hand, the one that just gave me an incredible orgasm, and caresses her lips. She takes a deep breath, and then slowly slides a finger inside her mouth. She starts to withdraw the finger, but stops and bites the tip.
I inhale a shaky breath. My cheeks are flushed. Blood blazes through my veins. Every pulse point is hammering for attention. My clit still aches for her. I’ve come undone. I regret my playful agreement earlier about the handcuffs. I’m consumed with want.
She smiles around the glove tip still just barely in her mouth. Her hand slowly pulls free, revealing her manicured fingers. Wavy blonde hair frames her model’s face. Hooded eyes, darker from her need, meet mine. There’s a current running between us. Its steady thrum draws us closer.
I shake my hands behind me so the metal bracelets jangle. “Get these fucking things off me.”
“Wow,” she laughs. The delicious sound is low and throaty.
“Take it easy. There’s a quick-release button. Feel for it with your thumb.”
“I’ve got other things I want to feel with my thumb.”
Her smile is wicked and laced with promises I know she’ll have no trouble delivering. She backs up another step. Her fingertips are brushing over the buttons of her crisply starched shirt. She starts to undo one.
My heart races at the sight. I want to be the one to do that. For toy handcuffs, the damn things are unusually strong. No matter how much I pull and twist, they remain in place. I whimper in frustration until I finally remember what she said about the release button. I thumb it over and sigh in relief at my newfound freedom.
I lunge for her. She’s too fast. Agile. Soft laughter drifts on the heated air as she dodges my hands and goes inside the house.
I release my other hand from the cuff and finish removing my dress; I don’t want to fall and break my neck before I get to give her what we both want. I take off the heels, but leave the stockings on. I think they have the same effect on her that her uniform has on me.
She’s in the kitchen when I find her. Her back is to me as she pours red wine into a glass. “Thought you might have worked up a thirst,” she says with a grin when she turns to face me.
I take the offered glass and set it beside hers before I catch her silky blonde hair in my fist and tilt her head back. “I’m thirsty for something else,” I say against her lips and claim them in a kiss packed with heat and need.
Jaz moans into my mouth, her tongue battling mine as we deepen the kiss, her strong hands roaming freely over my body.
I blindly drag my hands from her hair, mapping my way across her shoulders and the swell of her breasts until I reach the buttons. As much as I love her in this uniform I’m dying to get it off. Her insistent tongue and my own urgency have my fingers fumbling, but I finally get the buttons undone.
With a great deal of effort, I back away from her. I have to see her. She arches under my touch when I trail my finger from her collarbone to her waist. The shirt falls open, revealing firm breasts and taut abs. The steady rise and fall of her gorgeous chest quickens under my gaze. She starts to shrug the rest of the way out of her shirt, but I shake my head. “Please, not yet.”
Her cocky grin falls back into place. “You’ve got it bad for this uniform, don’t you?”
I don’t answer with words. Instead, I drop to my knees in front of her. My hands are much more adept at unfastening her belt since I can actually see what I’m doing now. Turnabout is fair play, I reason. Once the snap on her pants is unfastened, I tug on the zipper with my teeth. My hands grasp the waistband of her pants. Quickly, I pull them, and her thong, to the tops of her boots.
Her fingers twist through my hair as she urges me closer. Sounds of want drift out on her shallow breaths.
There’s a bright pink-and-red tattoo of a rose on her left hip. Her pussy, when spread under my thumbs, matches the colors of the ink. I wonder if she or the artist chose the color. If it was the artist, then I think he or she must have chosen it to compliment her. The outer petals start off a light, creamy pink and gradually intensify to hot crimson.
She is wet and inviting. Her scent, an intoxicating blend of musk, vanilla and honey makes me want nothing more than to devour her. “So beautiful,” I whisper against her clit, and she trembles. I give her a long lick with the flat of my tongue. Her grip on my hair tightens, her thighs fidget and despite the boots and the pants still at her knees, she spreads wider.
I alternate between long, leisurely licks and fast, hard flicks. Each new moan and gasp from her beautiful mouth spurs me on. Her knees begin to bend. The counter at her back and the hand she now has on my shoulder are the only things keeping her upright.
She makes me so greedy. I want to drink every drop of her, my tongue pressing and sucking. I lick her from her entrance to her clit and back again, laving every inch of her folds until she’s bucking and out of control.
“Fingers, babe. Now,” she pants her command.
I obey quickly. She’s hot and wet enough that I’m sure I don’t need to, but I lick two fingers just to be sure. Her pink velvet walls are a perfect fit. She grinds her hips and meets me thrust for needy thrust, my lips back on her hard nub.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Each one she utters is louder than the last. “Yes, god, oh fuck, yes!” She’s screaming now.
I love that she doesn’t hold back. I suck and fuck her harder until I feel every one of her muscles tighten. Her back goes ramrod straight. For a moment, the only thing moving is her clit as it throbs against my tongue. I’m lost in her flood. I happily lap every bit until she is strong enough to stand on her own.
“Holy shit, babe. That was…” She trails off, her hand in my hair no longer on the verge of pulling out a handful. Her fingers are massaging me gently as she nudges me to stand and look at her. “Fuck, babe. That was amazing. I should arrest you more often.”
“Yes, please.” I grab the lapels of her shirt and pull her in for a slow, deep kiss. A long while later we drift apart, and I remember something important. “Hey, you didn’t even read me my rights.”
“Next time,” she smiles. “I can’t give it all up in one night. I want you to have something to look forward to.”
“I look forward to every minute with you,” I say truthfully. “But I still think I should know my rights.”
“Okay,” she says, spinning us in one swift move. Her hands grip my ass and she lifts me onto the counter. “You have the right to remain naked. Anything you say can and will be held against you.” She smirks. “So please say, ‘hot lesbian cop.’”
MOTHER TONGUE
Camille Duvall
The
elaborate writing on our café window proclaims FINEST ITALIAN ICE CREAM. Our recipe is a closely guarded family secret. Café Bianchi is a Belfast landmark, situated on a leafy tree-lined avenue in the south of the city near the University Quarter. What we sell never goes out of fashion; we’ve been feeding the locals, students and tourists for three decades. There’s always a queue for our pizza and if you’re lucky, you might be able to grab a table—there are only four of them—and have a sit-down meal. Red leather seats, Formica tabletops and pictures of Italian sunsets and Roman ruins clutter the walls. Mama once had a notion to give the café a makeover but Papa wouldn’t hear of it. He was right; the place has an authenticity that comes only with the passing of time.
Last night I dreamt in Italian again. What a strange yet welcome occurrence after all these years. I felt light-headed yet serene as I went about my business this morning, the residue of the dream floating inside me, making me wistful and longing for the sea. I think it might be because I saw Susan on yesterday’s news. She was standing in the ancient quad of Queen’s University, shaking hands with another dignitary, having been made an honorary doctor of literature. She was radiantly regal in her academic’s gown, beaming with pride. Her hair looked as dark and lustrous as it did thirty years ago; mine has long since lost its copper hues. Even if the reporter hadn’t said her name, I would still have recognized the sideways tilt of the head that preceded her mischievous peal of laughter.
Susan had been just another customer who liked to hang out at Bianchi’s, but then she began to frequent the café on a regular basis. She was from Swallow Bay, a small seaside town about thirty miles along the coast. When she addressed us in Italian one day, we discovered that she studied languages at Queen’s, the country’s most prestigious seat of learning. Perhaps it was this knowledge combined with her ink-black hair, dark eyes and olive skin that endeared her to my father. Papa warmed to her instantly, calling her Bella Susanna and kissing her hand in an over-the-top chivalrous fashion. Susan responded in kind, but she always did so in such a comical manner that it was impossible to take her seriously. It felt like a silly game, a merry dance that was acted out the moment she entered the café and concluded as she said her goodbyes. I also knew Mama didn’t take her seriously. She used to frown and tut-tut but she did this with a twinkle in her eye. It was when I stole glances at Susan only to find her watching me that I began to suspect her real motive for spending so much time with us.
“Rina is an unusual name. Is it short for anything?” We were seated at one of our tiny tables during a quiet spell. Papa was outside the shop, smoking and joking with the other business owners on our street. Mama was upstairs in bed with a migraine.
“Carina.”
Susan’s dark orbs gleamed at me. I blushed. She smiled. “So, you’re telling me that your full name is Carina, Italian for ‘little darling’?”
I nodded and Susan tilted her head, assessing me. I blushed again. Out came her slow smile again.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Rina is b-b-better.”
“No it is not. I’m going to call you Carina, mi Carina.”
I knew then for certain, when she called me her little darling, I hadn’t been imagining things, she did like me. Right now, she was looking at me intently and I was held captive by her, mesmerized. But then the spell was broken when a customer entered and I had to take his order.
I was eighteen when we settled in Belfast, and Italian was my mother tongue, but within six months I spoke fluent English. Fluent in my head but not always when I spoke. For when I was nervous or under pressure my words trembled out in a stumbling gush. It didn’t help that my father mocked my stutter in private: “Caca-carina B-b-bianchi. Don’t speak with the customers Rina, the ice cream will have melted by the time you finish a sentence!” It is one of many things for which I will never forgive him. Nowadays, I can say my name with a flourish and take pride in what it means to others: Carina Bianchi, owner and managing director of Bianchi’s, the United Kingdom’s favorite ice cream.
Whenever Susan was around, I got to speak Italian. She said it was helping her studies and Papa was delighted the estudiosa had chosen us. To listeners we probably sounded like a stereotypical Italian family with our boisterous, rapid-fire chat; the splendid rat-tat-tatting of mock incredulity when something deliberately outrageous provoked debate. At first, I watched these exchanges wishing I could join in, but I didn’t have the nerve. I was easily tongue-tied and despite Susan’s attempts to include me I would blush and shake my head no. I would smile and roll my eyes, enjoying the spectacle as this vibrant woman ran linguistic rings around my father. I was just happy to have her near. When Susan was in the café, the workload felt less like a captive burden, the heat from the huge pizza oven not so furnace-like. Papa would joke with customers, smile at Mama, and his monosyllabic interactions with me would take a backseat. But as time wore on, I started to contribute, encouraged by Susan—she was so persistent. Papa didn’t appear to notice. In fact, it was probably the only time he didn’t make some wisecrack about my stammer, because when I spoke Italian I did so fluently and unbrokenly.
I was smitten. How transparent I must have been; I felt so awkward and ungainly around Susan, around the lithe gracefulness of her. How could someone like me think I could ever be with someone like her? If I wasn’t torturing myself wondering if she really did like me or if she was merely playing with me, then I was spending sleepless nights in my sweat-drenched bed imagining what making love with her would be like. My imagination was vivid but limited. I had never been kissed thanks to the watchful eye of an overprotective father. And so while my fantasies allowed me to indulge in what it might be like to let my fingers caress her skin, to experience the sensation of her full lips on mine, or what it would feel like to take her breast in my mouth, I would have to stop short, unsure of what to do next. My fitful, fantasy-driven sleep would leave me exhausted and frustrated. I had lived a sheltered life in Italy and now in Belfast my existence was limited to the café; back then the boundaries of my world were small and tight and closed. Airless and graceless. Just a few hundred yards away was the university, where people from all over the world came to study. I knew Susan would allow me a glimpse into that world and one day lead me to its doors.
Mama was a kind, peaceful woman, but she suffered from depression, no doubt exacerbated by marriage to a domineering husband. She was often powerless to protect me from his cruel taunts; he simply ignored her. My stutter infuriated him and he used it to taunt me mercilessly. He would complain that I didn’t have his business acumen or I lacked his natural flair with customers. I was consigned to the pizza oven, sweltering in silence at the café’s coalface, while he played the gregarious Italian for our customers. I know now that there was nothing I could ever have done to please him. I was the only child to come from his loins and the daughter he never wanted.
When Susan suggested she take her Italian lessons up a notch, beginning with the two of us visiting the local art galleries and museums, my father didn’t object. He probably didn’t want her to think he was impolite and he had to agree with her that the world didn’t revolve around politics and football. Spending time with Susan away from the café was bliss. We visited galleries and museums where she would regale me with the sordid details of the tortured artists’ scandalous lives, but more often we would find little coffeehouses off the beaten track to sit and while away an afternoon.
“Let’s speak in English,” she said.
My eyebrows danced in surprise. Susan had been insistent that I never let her speak anything but Italian when we were together.
“Whatever you wish, Susan. I think, perhaps, you have tired of my mother tongue?” I was trying my best to be cavalier.
“I could never tire of it. Or you, mi Carina.”
Mi Carina. It got me every time. I blushed—so much for my cavalier attitude. I watched Susan as her eyes followed the scarlet flush that spread from my face to my throat. Then her eyes m
et mine. She tilted her head and smiled mischievously.
“You are evil, Susan.” I laughed.
“You are beautiful, Carina. Accept the compliment for once.Please?”
“Stop it.”
“Why? I’m only stating the facts. You have the most exquisite green eyes and your beautiful red hair makes you look more Irish than me.” She paused for a moment, drinking me in. “And that skin of yours, it’s like porcelain. I can only imagine how smooth it is to the touch.” She reached across the table and took my hand, but I pulled it away. She looked hurt. We sat in silence, Susan staring out of the window, me fiddling with my spoon as my brain raced frantically for something to say.
I took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. “This stuff is foul.”
“I know. Isn’t it criminal that we actually paid for this?” She smiled then and the atmosphere around our little bubble improved instantly.
“We have gallons of great-tasting coffee back at the café,” I offered, “free for the likes of us.”
Susan’s face clouded over. “Why do you let him treat you like dirt? I hate it.”
This had become a familiar talking point. I was routinely quizzed about why my father got away with being so harsh with me.
“It’s just the way it is. He’s my father, I have to respect him.”
“He’s a bully who doesn’t deserve your respect. He’ll never earn mine.”
“Why then do you act like he’s so great? You spend most of your time cracking jokes with him, talking nonsense about football. In fact, you spend more time at Bianchi’s than you do in class.”
“Because I put on a good act of letting him think he’s Mister Wonderful. I can’t stand the man. I’m sorry Carina, I know he’s your father but he’s holding you back. You should be out in the world, doing something, anything, that pleases you.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And I spend time at the café because it means I get to see you. Even when I have to spend time in his company, I manage because I know you’re near.” She leaned forward in her seat. “I’ve said too much. I’m sorry.”
