by Harper Bliss
Meanwhile, night is falling, and a brooding darkness surrounds us. I’m torn, because in this moment, I want more, but I can’t be sure until I let the moment pass. Until I can make my own informed decision.
“How about a swim?” I say, more as a means of protecting myself than out of a desire to be in the water—although I could use the cooling off.
“You’re full of surprises,” Joy replies. I straighten my back and she glares at me from under her lashes. What is this to her? Some holiday fun? A rebound thing? A string in her bow? She gets up and plants her hands on my sides. “May I?” she asks, and starts lifting my top.
I shake my head, and cover her hands with mine, holding them in place. “I’m going to put on my bathing suit.” I need a moment to myself, to check myself in the mirror and see if my face is the same. “I’ll be right back.” I stare into her eyes briefly before pecking her gently on the cheek.
She nods, and I head inside.
When I’m in my room, I lean against the closed door for a few seconds. I just kissed Miranda’s twenty-nine-year-old daughter. The mere thought of it is too much to just sit with on my own in my room. The urge to go back out there, to just be in Joy’s presence and experience this with her, overwhelms me.
I quickly disrobe and, feeling more daring than possibly ever in my life, I put on my brand new—and never worn—bikini instead of my tried and tested one-piece bathing suit. I check myself in the mirror before I leave the room, but I can barely stand to look at myself. You’re processing, I tell myself. It’s normal.
Joy doesn’t say anything when I emerge from my room. She sits on the steps of the pool. She hasn’t taken her top off and, for once, I don’t know how I feel about that. Her smile says it all, though. As if not opting for the one-piece is a clear gesture on my part. I guess it is.
As soon as I’m in the pool, I throw my head back, covering my ears under water, which gives me that suspended sensation of not being anywhere at all, of floating somewhere no one has any influence over me—it’s just my body drifting, blackness pierced only by a few stars above me, my weight carried by the water.
A pair of hands touches my back, brings me out of it. But, because I know it’s Joy, I let myself float for a while longer, until it dawns on me that this is giving her ample opportunity to scan the parts of my body that float above the water’s surface. Self-conscious, I lower my legs until I stand. She might have mentioned that I’m in good shape, and I do take excellent care of my body, but signs of ageing are inevitable. Not something I would usually have a problem with—it’s only nature taking its course—but next to Joy’s unmistakably youthful appearance, I suddenly do have an issue. It’s the contrast, and what is says about me. Although it’s not Joy’s youth I’m attracted to first and foremost—not that it doesn’t play a part. How can such an essential characteristic of hers not? It’s who she is, and how she has guided me to this moment. It’s what she has done to me.
“I’m not a shy maiden,” Joy says. “I’m perfectly happy to respect your wishes, and I’m pretty good at reading people, but when I want someone, I go for it.” She takes a step closer, into the most sensual live image I’ve ever seen. Drops of water rain down from her hair over her face, as though licking and kissing her where I want to. “I’ve shown you and I’ve told you. Your move.”
My move? Is this a seduction manoeuvre? More flirting? A way to coax me out of my shell? It feels like, ever since Joy arrived, I’ve been transported to another planet—or another galaxy altogether. One where my rules, the ones I’ve lived by my entire life, are tested and, mostly rejected afterwards. But I try not to look at the situation from the outside, try not to analyse. Try to simply enjoy the moment. My resolve that this could ‘absolutely and definitely’ not go any further tonight, seems to be crumbling ridiculously easily. But, just so I can’t claim later to have lost control over my common sense, I do check in with myself. Do I want this? Do I want to make my move? All I get back from myself is a slow pulse in an undefined place, but, really, if I’m honest, right between my legs—where I was afraid to touch myself last night. Maybe tonight is our night. Why wait? What purpose can it possibly serve? I want Joy. I feel it tingle on my skin, feel it in the pucker of my lips, feel it in the sway of my hips—rocking towards her.
Under water, I find her hands, and pull her close. We kiss under the moonlight.
CHAPTER NINE
Putting on my bikini was a big waste of time, because now, I can’t wait to get it off. It’s a struggle because it’s wet, but I refuse to lie on the bed with it while it’s still moist. We kissed our way out of the pool and through the open French windows of my room. Hands only groping for neck and hair, so far. I feel like a switch has been flipped, like my armour is coming down at an exponentially fast pace, like years—decades—of my life need to be caught up on in one night. I really don’t have a clue, even though I am a woman, just like Joy, and I do know how it works, but I’m insecure, and I really need her to be that not-shy person she claims to be. There’s no doubt in my mind she will easily comply with that wish. It’s what makes her extra irresistible. And I don’t think about tomorrow, or any time after now. And, perhaps, in this moment, I am who I was always supposed to be. Touched, desired, a woman come alive.
My top comes off and we break from yet another frantic lip-lock—they’ve grown more urgent as time has progressed—so that I can throw it to the ground, and not care about how reckless and unusual that is for me. Joy smiles, but it’s a different smile than the ones I’ve been greeted with so far: there is lust in there, so undeniable, my pulse quickens even more, and I feel my heart throw itself against my ribcage as if it’s screaming, ‘Oh yes. Now. Oh yes.’
To be able to do this, I can’t be allowed any more time to reflect. I need my heart to behave like that, and my loins to feel as if they’re going crazy, to feel they might explode if they remain untouched tonight. I feel my nipples stiffen further at the exposure to the air. Joy is taking her top off and, although it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, it’s different now. It’s foreplay. Not implied, not hidden, not a cocky flirt. It’s real. She’s coming for me, and for the first time our bare breasts touch, and it’s enough to elicit a low groan from my throat.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper. A silly question, but poignant enough to make her eyes glaze over with an extra layer of lust, and the sight makes me go weak at the knees.
I have never done this, I think. And it applies to so many factors. I’ve never had sex with anyone who wasn’t my spouse or my fiancé. I’ve never slept with anyone out of pure lust, and lust alone. I’ve never touched a woman this way. I’ve never, ever, been this utterly turned on. So turned on, in fact, I want to tear my bikini bottoms off me, and do the same to Joy. To just fully give in to this madness. I might as well.
So, I do. I let my finger trail down Joy’s spine, along her side, and then briefly slip into the waistband of her bikini bottoms. It’s hardly tearing off, but it’s close enough for me.
“I knew it,” Joy huffs. “Fuck, I knew it.”
I have no idea what she means by that, and I don’t want to ruin the moment by asking, so I make a mental note to question her later—although chances are I will surely have forgotten by then.
She starts pushing her bikini down, squirming against me, and I take the opportunity to do the same to mine, but this suddenly strikes me as too bold a move, too far removed from something I would do, so I stop and wait for Joy to do it. As if she knows, and we’re existing on entirely the same wavelength, after she’s got rid of hers, she traces a finger over my lower belly, on the skin above my bikini.
“I’ll take care of everything, Alice,” she says. And I believe her. Her finger wanders down, exploring the wet fabric slowly, giving my body time to adjust to her touch. She presses her lips to mine again, leaving a gap between our bodies so her finger can meander farther down. It’s so close to the centre of the most violent throbbing in my body, that I’m fearful o
f what may happen when her finger glides over. Then it does, and my breath stutters, and my knees buckle, but, most of all, a warmth spreads inside me, like butterflies waking up aglow with light.
“Good God,” I moan. What I actually want to say is, ‘Take them off. Please.’ And this, too, Joy understands, because soon both her hands are tugging my bikini bottoms over my behind. She crouches down to slide them over my legs, and the sight of her down there, while I’m completely naked, ignites another round of violent throbbing.
Whereas I had expected to grow more self-conscious the less clothes I wore, the opposite is true. A boldness settles in my core. I want to spread my legs for her. Want her to touch me and lick me—years of suppressed lust are catching up with me.
“Let’s get into bed,” Joy says when we’re face-to-face again. “Lie on your back.”
I enjoy being told exactly what to do. It’s a safety in this brand new world I find myself in. It brings a sense of security I need for this sort of abandon.
Once we’re both lying down, I on my back, she on her side next to me, she smiles. No words are required. With two fingers, she traces the line of my jaw, my throat, the hollow of my neck, the cleft between my breasts. Then, her fingers curve beneath my breast to move upward, up the swell of it, towards my nipple, where they begin another circle. Joy repeats this pattern a few times, until my nipple is, quite surely, the hardest it has ever been. She leans forwards a bit, and I expect her to kiss me, but instead she brings her lips to my nipple. And everything she does is done with such gentleness, such care, such intent, that, instinctively, my legs go wide. While Joy sucks my puckered nipple into her mouth, I enjoy the free flow of air between my legs, the intimacy of touch, and how it makes my ever-churning mind stop worrying.
After she lets my nipple slip from her lips, leaving it wet and wanting more, she shuffles upwards a bit, and looks into my eyes. “You’re such a beautiful woman,” she says, and I can tell that she means it. That she’s not just saying it to get something from me, or to flatter me. Or to get me into bed with her, because I already am. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do to you, or just do it?” Her solemn smile curves into a wicked grin.
“Surprise me,” I say.
“Oh, I will.” She brings her hand to my throat, slips it behind my neck, and kisses me again. I melt into this kiss more than into the ones that came before, because this is it. It feels like my first time all over again—though I have absolutely no recollection of my actual first time. All I remember is that it was with Alan. That’s it.
The kiss grows fiercer, and she catches my bottom lip between her teeth and gives it a slight tug and, again, I feel it everywhere. Parts of me awaken, long dormant body parts that, like in a fairy tale, could only be woken up by a kiss from the right person.
Joy hoists herself on top of me and straddles me. I can feel her pubic hair tickle my belly, but more than that, it’s as though I can feel her eyes on me. The swoop of her gaze flicking over my breasts, my face, focusing on my lips. Is she considering what she’ll do next? Judging from the look in her eyes and the slant of her neck, and the absolute self-assuredness she displays, it will be nothing short of spectacular. Although, this night, for me, is already nothing short of spectacular. No matter what happens next, come tomorrow I will be a different woman.
Joy lowers her torso and takes my other nipple in her mouth. Her own nipples poke into my skin, and I can feel how hard they are, but I resist the urge to bring my hands in between us and touch them. Instead, I bring my hands to her hair, twirl my fingers around a few strands. My hands follow her head downwards as she scoots lower, not breaking contact between her lips and my skin. She licks a moist path around my belly button, and the tension within me rises again. I’m not sure how much more it can rise before the lid comes off. The entire expanse of my skin has turned into gooseflesh, the smallest patch of it hyper-sensitised. And then, her mouth reaches my pubic hair, and she lifts herself off me, because with her downwards movement, my legs have closed—and neither one of us is happy with that, I gather.
She doesn’t need to tell me to spread them. I do so happily, fully conscious, very aware of what I’m doing and what I’m becoming. She positions herself between my legs, and she just looks. Maybe she’s suddenly aware of the fact that what she’s about to do hasn’t been done in a very long time, and she does have a reverent side to her personality, though I doubt it. Maybe it’s just what she does—because her gaze on my sex doesn’t miss its effect. She might as well be stroking me there instead of just looking at me, that’s how I’m pulsing down there, and wanting, and getting oh so wet.
Then, she cuts her eyes at me, locks them on mine. “I’m going to lick your pussy, Alice.” She lets her tongue dart out of her mouth, flick along her lips—like the cat who got the cream.
Me, I can’t smile, can barely acknowledge what she says, I can only groan, because I want it so badly by then. Want her lips on me so feverishly. And then, they are. She kisses my nether lips—my pussy, as she called it—and I go liquid. This is more than a switch being flipped. This is like a machine being rebooted after years of non-service. Like an engine roaring to life after too many years of being discarded. She kisses her way upwards, to my clitoris, to where I was reluctant to touch myself the night before. Oh, how much can change in twenty-four hours.
I reaffirm the position of my hands in her hair, because I need to touch her, need that connection to the person who is doing this to me—who is undoing me. Her tongue slides along my most intimate parts now, like a paint brush which can, just with a few expert strokes, produce a perfect image that wasn’t there before. And the image I’m seeing is me without my overly long skirts, and blouses buttoned up to the top, and my always proper behaviour, be it with clients or with friends. It’s me in all my naked glory, bursting into a life I had forgotten about, at the tongue of another woman.
Joy’s tongue flicks and flicks, and I pant and pant. I squirm against the mattress, no doubt unhooking the sheets, and I press my thighs against Joy’s ears and pull at her hair because, apparently, that is the kind of person I am in bed. Who knew?
And then, just as I’m about to lose it, to give into to that roller coaster thundering through my flesh, that pinnacle of pleasure she’s been building towards, I feel a finger entering me. And it’s too much.
“Aaah,” I cry out, and I surprise myself with the sound of my own voice, because it sounds like someone else entirely. It sounds like the new me. Joy’s finger touches me, and her tongue keeps swirling stubbornly, and then I surrender. I surrender to Joy and give her everything I have and, with it, shed the image of the old Alice, and become me, at last.
Once my muscles relax, I find myself clutching my head in my hands. I am so utterly shocked that all I can say is “Good God.” And then I cry a little bit, not just out of delight, but also because of what I’ve allowed myself to miss out on. Years of this. Years of tenderness, and just pure fun and pleasure.
Joy has crawled upwards and pries my hands away from my face. “Hey,” she says, before kissing me on the nose. “I’ve barely started and you’re already falling to pieces.”
“What have you done to me?” I repeat the question I asked her earlier, and that went unanswered, even though I know no valid response will emerge this time either. What she has done to me can’t be put into words even if we tried.
“I told you what I was going to do. I licked your pussy.” There’s something about how she says the word pussy. It must be because she lived in the US for so long. Maybe it’s a common term there, but it’s certainly not part of my vocabulary.
“My pussy.” I say the word slowly, as if trying it out. It sounds so crass and at the same time so terribly exciting.
“It’s magnificent,” Joy says, while leaning the side of her head on an upturned palm. “As are you.”
“Well, you are a self-proclaimed cougar lover. You can’t get more cougar-y than me.”
“I’m defini
tely pushing the limit with you, that’s for sure.” She smiles when she says it. A broad, satisfied smile. “I meant what I said though. I was only just getting started.”
And as much as I want her to keep exploring me, and coaxing more and more pleasure from me, I want to feel her body give itself that way at my hands. “Yes, well, the cougar is hungry and needs to be fed.” I can barely believe the words that come from my mouth.
“Oh, Alice.” Joy gives a throaty laugh while running her fingertips over my torso. “You’re not going to fight me for top already, are you?”
“Sorry?” Once again, I have no idea what she means.
She chuckles some more. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain later.”
I shift to my side a little, to be able to fully face her. “I want you, Joy. Is that okay?”
“More than okay.” She kisses me again and she tastes of sangria and chlorine from the pool and, I guess, of me. “Have your way with me.”
Her last sentence fazes me. Do I just repeat what she did to me? Or follow my instincts? What does she like? Will I know? So many questions. Too many for this moment, which should be one of exhilaration, and slight bemusement, but mostly of arousal and the desire to please her. So, instead of allowing more questions to enter my mind, I focus on Joy’s smiling face, and on the prospect of finally touching those breasts with which she has taunted me for days.
I push myself all the way up, until I sit next to Joy, who is now glaring at me from below, and she is truly gorgeous, with her big brown, dramatic eyes, her expressive, thick eyebrows, and that smile that can say so much. I feel as though I’ve become an expert in her smile over the past few days. I’ve seen so many versions of it. The cheeky kind. The seductive kind. The challenging kind. Now, her smile is a combination of desire, accented by that mischievous glint in her eyes, and, perhaps, apprehension—or perhaps that’s just me projecting. I push any fear I might have—and I have quite a lot—to the recesses of my brain, and bow down to kiss her. I could kiss her for days. She surprised me with that kiss earlier, totally came out of left field with it, and look at us now. Is this a girl who always gets what she wants? From where I’m sitting, it definitely looks like it. We’ve had a few conversations, but I can hardly claim to know her, yet I’m about to… what should I call it? I honestly have no idea. I have so much to ask her, but first things first.
