Curvy Girls

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  As Rhiamon’s teeth crunched into that apple, recognition gave way to a flash of unexpected desire. She chewed and watched Moll closely.

  Moll watched Rhiamon with equal, wordless intensity, and when the airport loudspeakers suddenly blared, reminding them to never leave their baggage unattended, the two of them jumped.

  Rhiamon laughed. A decision clicked. She tossed the apple to Moll, grabbed her carry-on handle in one hand and Moll’s backpack in the other, and walked across the dirty carpet—knowing, just knowing, Moll would follow.

  The lightness of Rhiamon’s laugh was a siren’s call. Moll found herself allowing the stranger to take hold of her belongings without complaint. She took another bite of apple as she rose and tagged after the voluptuous ass in its camo cargos, wondering if she, too, looked that good from behind. Though they were likely only headed to the little bar to fill the minutes before their separate planes took them in separate directions, Moll was thrilled to be led somewhere new. She flipped the half-eaten fruit into a trash can along the way.

  Rhiamon saw the bar but passed it by. That was not her destination, not the indulgence she sought. Instead, she led the way to the restrooms, striding confidently past the echoing, U-shaped, WOMEN’S entranceway, to the smaller room, labeled FAMILY. She opened the door and pulled Moll in behind her, then turned the lock with a satisfying click. Fighting the urge to giggle, she let go of her carry-on and Moll’s backpack. Then, pushing the other woman up against the door, she closed the space with a kiss. Is this what I feel like? she wondered as her large hands grasped ample hips and her mouth sought reward in reciprocation.

  Moll had no time even to gasp as she returned the kiss and reached around to tighten the embrace. How surprising to have to extend her arms, to realize she could not get all of that abundant ass in her grip. Is this how it feels to hold me? The lips that pressed against hers were full and soft, and she deepened the kiss with heart-pounding abandon. Maybe everyone who spends time waiting uncomfortably in airports has a bathroom-sex fantasy, but how many indulge? A soft grunt of pleasure escaped her as the heat of Rhiamon’s mouth met her own, as tongues wrapped and hands clung and eyes squeezed deliciously shut.

  To Rhiamon, Moll’s mouth tasted of apple and the mint of sugar-free gum. Moll’s hands were strong on her ass and made Rhiamon’s pussy tingle and moisten. Moll’s skin was soft, and her flesh was soft, even as muscles moved beneath the dips and roundings her hands found as they moved up beneath Moll’s shirt, over her waist and belly, to her chest. Her breasts were handfuls, just like Rhiamon’s own—though Moll’s resided in cups, and Rhiamon’s were held close by a sports bra. She felt hard nipples and pushed the fabric up and away, so she could roll them between her fingers and feel the gasp it brought. Then she ground her hips against Moll’s even as Moll’s hands tugged her closer. Pulling her mouth away, briefly, she kissed down that creamy neck, nibbling and sucking as she kneaded Moll’s familiar-feeling breasts.

  The urgency in Rhiamon’s searching fingers and tongue made Moll’s wet slit clench. She let her head drop back and felt the bathroom wall cool behind her. When, she wondered, was the last time someone else took control of her like this? Hands in a mass of cloud-soft hair, she guided Rhiamon’s mouth to her exposed breast and groaned as she began to suck. Her voice echoed in the small room.

  So soft, Rhiamon thought, as the hands in her hair insisted she move her head down and suck a crinkled nipple into her mouth. They knew what they wanted, those hands, and weren’t afraid to get it. Rhiamon grinned around her mouthful of tit, her hands sliding down to Moll’s waistband and back up again as she treated the other breast to the same. So different from the gentle touches and breathy moans she was used to, but so recognizable.

  Moll’s fingers tightened in Rhiamon’s hair, then moved down over her shoulders and arms. She couldn’t resist squeezing and fondling as she went. Suddenly a muscled bicep was sexy, a fleshy forearm was delectable. She arched into Rhiamon’s mouth as she reached around to shove her hands into the back of the tight waistband. The sweet mound of her ass was warm and dense and yielded deliciously to her grasp.

  Rhiamon’s mouth came off Moll’s chest with a gasp as fingers met her ass. It was a tight fit, and she reached down and unbuttoned her cargos with a flick and a zip, and then, with a little more difficulty, leaned to repeat the same maneuver with Moll’s jeans. Discovering that Moll wore boyshorts with dancing alligators on them was a delight, second only to her discovery of Moll’s ass. She grabbed it and pulled her tight. She was breathing heavily and nearly blind with desire. But who needed to see, with such a pliant ass in her hands? Rhiamon groaned as her fingers flexed and stroked, moving down to caress big, defined thighs, and moving back to the front, feeling Moll’s jeans slip a little as she did so.

  Moll was not to be outdone in the groping department. Rhiamon had gotten to her breasts first; now she was determined to make first pussy contact. Her eyes flickered open a moment to catch a glimpse, in the mirror, as she shoved down Rhiamon’s pants and saw the soft stripes of what she was certain, from personal experience, was a size 24 Lane Bryant double-string bikini. As cargos and panty gave room for more play, Moll quickly reached around to get a hand between those golden thighs. It was ridiculously awkward, but somehow, that just made it hotter. She stroked the patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair and parted the plump labia to find a lush, gratifyingly soaked treasure. She curled her middle finger and slipped it just inside to moisten it, then rubbed up the wet silk of inner lips to a clit tucked within a tight little hood. A rich, heady scent drifted up, strong but sweet, and her mouth watered for a taste.

  Fingers inside her panties, underwear, whatever. Rhiamon could never decide what to call them, and what did it matter, when Moll’s fingers slid between her lips and stroked her very, very hard clit? Instead of grabbing control, for the moment, she merely made a breathy grunt of consent and pushed into the touch as her hands gripped that sweet ass and her mouth moved to cover Moll’s once more.

  Moll’s fingers and tongue were each exploring a different site of drenched heat. She hoped she was giving as much pleasure as she was getting as she broke the kiss and bent to draw her teeth against the shirt she should have been patient enough to lift. She grazed and tested until she found the nipple beneath layers of clothing, then bit—just enough to be felt—and held.

  Rhiamon was pretty sure she made a surprised sound, but she was more sure that she gushed around Moll’s fingers. Her nipples and clit seemed equally hard, and her own scent always aroused her. In reciprocation (or retaliation), she moved one hand around to slide down Moll’s belly and into the low-cut waist of her well-filled boyshorts. Her fingers found surprisingly soft curls, and though she couldn’t be sure, she’d bet they matched the ashy blond of Moll’s hair. It was unusual to find a girl who didn’t shave or wax (Rhiamon did both) but the lushness of what seemed to be an entirely natural, downy bush was an incredible turn-on. Her fingers made their way through the hair until she found wetness, and then she dragged her middle finger along the slit.

  Just as Moll gave a low grunt at the way Rhiamon’s rush of wetness now coated her fingers and palm, she gave another, louder one at the invasion of her panties. “Fuck yes,” she muttered, releasing Rhiamon’s nipple to rise and claim her mouth as she turned her hand and put her thumb to work on that clit while taking the risk of thrusting two fingers into the sopping core, hoping against hope that Rhiamon liked penetration as much as she did.

  “Ahhhh ohhh fuck!” Rhiamon rejoiced at the feel of thick, nimble fingers inside her. Moll definitely knew her way around a pussy. Her voice was loud, but she didn’t give a damn; she never did when she was getting her grind on. She put her mouth back to work, latching onto Moll’s as she slid her finger into Moll’s folds to find her sensitive places. Every woman was different, but Moll’s big pussy was so like her own, the plump lips and full mound. Her labia were prominent, and her clit hood ample over a very hard clit. She smoothed the growing wetness a
round as she moaned into Moll’s mouth and ground against that big hand. In about two seconds she was going to slide into her “dirty talk” zone, she could feel it coming.

  Moll pumped her fingers as their kiss grew deep and sloppy. She ground into Rhiamon’s hand, helping her to find that little spot just at the left of her clit—there, just there! They were devouring each other’s moans, fucking each other with hungry hands, pressing tightly together, forcing the world to hold still for them so they could pitch over its edge. As Rhiamon found and held her clit captive, Moll raced to climax with shocking ease. With what little mind she had left, she made herself release that juicy ass to slip up Rhiamon’s shirt and fight her way under the tight sports bra where she squeezed a ripe little peach of a tit.

  Rhiamon jerked at the grip, tossing her head while her hair tried valiantly to escape the headband. As Moll thrust into her, Rhiamon pulled from the kiss to let loose a string of profanity whose highlights included “Yeah, fucking take my fingers,” “You know you want to come, baby,” and “Harder, harder, harder, fuck yeah!” She drove her finger deeper into Moll’s tight cunt (for it had magically transformed from pussy to cunt in her mind as her arousal and need grew), feeling it clench around her as she stroked the sweet spot on her clit and felt it swell harder. Moll’s fingers seemed to know exactly where her trigger was, because she could feel climax building between bursts of dirty talk and wetness that was soaking not just Moll’s hand, but her own panties and thighs as well. The combination of rubbing and fucking that spot deep inside her was bringing her home, hard and fast.

  Moll felt the telltale flush rise from nipples to throat as Rhiamon’s delectably foul mouth drove her arousal up and up. She humped and rubbed, shuddered and groaned. When she heard herself crying out, “Please, oh god, please!” in a voice whose desperation she could barely recognize, she knew she was lost. She clung to Rhiamon’s breast, demanded her fingers to keep working, held her breath, and felt every muscle in her body tighten for the blast.

  “Fuck, yeah,” Rhiamon all but hissed. She shuddered hard but drove her fingers harder, panting as she felt Moll stiffen. Knowing she was about to tip over the edge loosened her mouth further as she murmured—or maybe shouted, “That’s right, give it to me. Give it all to me.” Moll’s fingers didn’t stop moving in and out of her pussy, and Rhiamon didn’t stop grinding, and her body was suddenly hot from her scalp to her cunt as she reached the height of sensation and shot up to peak fiercely, intensely, into the cascade of gushing and writhing satisfaction. She rode it out, hard, wringing every scrap of pleasure from Moll’s hands and mouth, as Moll took pleasure from hers, squeezing her finger rhythmically as she whimpered and shook.

  As orgasmic cries gave way to panting and mutual shudders, Moll returned to the present enough to grasp the words that were coming over the loudspeaker. “This is the last call for Delta Airlines flight 2233 to Atlanta, Georgia. All passengers should be aboard the aircraft at this time.” She gulped, swallowed, and stared, disbelieving, at the disarrayed stranger who had so unexpectedly given her such a remarkable gift. “I . . . my plane,” she stammered apologetically, pulling her shirt down and fastening her jeans, then bending to grab her backpack. Unable to find more words, she leaned in to kiss Rhiamon’s soft, parted lips. “Thank you.” There was no time for more. As she grasped the door handle, she wondered dizzily whether she should ask Rhiamon to hurry after her, to jot down her name, a phone number, an email address. She turned, looking deeply into the wide light-brown eyes with their climax-heavy lids. “Thank you, Rhiamon,” she said, needing to hear the name in her mouth just once.

  Rhiamon moved slightly to give Moll room to hurry and get her pants up, gather her things. She didn’t want her to miss her flight, after all. The last, soft kiss tingled on her lips, and she smiled as she buttoned her own pants. “It’s okay,” she said when Moll paused, obviously hesitant to kiss and run, but it was clear this was the only option. “Go on, Moll.” Her voice was throaty from the pleasure and exertion and, yes, afterglow.

  The moment she heard Rhiamon say her name, Moll knew it ended here, and knew why. This shared experience, this powerful moment of recognition, was not the foundation for something more, but was its own reward, its own moment in time. She smiled, nodded, opened the door, and ran. Mind hazy as her legs carried her to the gate, she turned one last time in the direction from which she’d come, as the attendant scanned her hastily retrieved boarding pass.

  Rhiamon adjusted her clothes and took a minute to pull her headband off and put it back on properly before exiting the bathroom to watch Moll dash for her gate, backpack and bottom bouncing. It was a gorgeous sight. When Moll turned, Rhiamon raised her hand and waved, just a little, still smiling, hoping Moll could see her, hoping she could see her smile. Hoping she would smile, too. As her hand came down, she smelled Moll’s scent on her fingers and brought them to her lips.

  Moll echoed Rhiamon’s wave, a final smiling reciprocation, and dashed down the ramp to the plane. Her pulse was still racing, her nipples and fingertips tingling. She tried to replay the encounter from beginning to end; it was for now just a beautiful blur. Absurdly, she wished she still had her apple, and she fought the mad desire to run back to the garbage and retrieve it. But she had something far better than forbidden fruit, she mused, as she made her way to seat 14C. She had replenished confidence in her own desirability. Who knew, maybe her next girlfriend would be a judo champion.

  Passing the Time

  BY GWEN MASTERS

  “I wish you would talk to me,” she said. “I need to know.”

  Amber was looking in the steamed mirror, bending close to the glass, her hands on the sink in front of her. “If you don’t want me, say you don’t. Don’t make me wonder.”

  She shook out her thick hair and stared into her own blue eyes. She was more than a little concerned over quite a few things, and the way her boyfriend was acting lately was on the top of the list. Their normally good sex life had taken a nosedive, from once a day—or at least once every few days—to nothing in well over a week. Not even the slightest sexual innuendo had come from him.

  Tonight she had wondered, for the first time, if he had lost interest in her. Whatever was going on, she didn’t think it was her fault. Things had suddenly changed, and try as she might, she couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

  She kept looking at herself in the mirror, critically now. She saw a woman who weighed a bit too much, a woman who was starting to look closer to thirty than twenty. Her eyes showed signs that far too many tears had been shed over the past week.

  But those eyes were a deep, jeweled blue. Her lips were full and soft. Her hair was a classic shade, gorgeous and all natural. Her body might have a little extra padding, but it was strong enough to surprise most men, especially when she was riding them hard in bed, holding them down, with her hands on theirs.

  “And let’s not forget my sterling personality,” she said to the woman in the mirror. The woman didn’t reward her with a smile.

  Amber sat heavily on the side of the tub. The house was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator. She wondered if the phone would ring, and then remembered that she had gotten in the shower at one in the morning, hours after he should have called her. Of course he wasn’t going to call her in the middle of the night. He was probably sound asleep, having forgotten to call. Had he really forgotten about her?

  Amber dried her body with a vigor that left her skin aching. She marched into the bedroom and grabbed the lotion—the really good and expensive bottle of white cream he had given her. The scent was classy, understated. She needed to feel feminine right now. She bit her lip in concentration as she squirted the lotion onto her perfectly smooth legs.

  Her skin was soft enough that she didn’t really need lotion. She used it anyway, remembering how he put it all over her with his broad, strong hands. She loved those rough, calloused hands, the ones that worked hard to make a living. There were only very good things to be said for me
n who were broad of shoulder and strong of body. She thought of his voice, how smooth it was, the way it sounded like rough gravel when he was tired. He had been tired quite a bit lately.

  Why was he so tired? Was it the work at the factory? Or was it something else? Amber closed her eyes and shook her head hard, trying to throw the negative thoughts from her mind.

  She smoothed the lotion down her legs and then rolled onto her belly. She smoothed the white cream over her arms as she thought about the changes in their relationship. She hadn’t been doing anything differently. She had made it clear how much she wanted him: as often as possible. She knew he needed reassurance, and that he wasn’t the kind to ask for it, but she was the kind to give it without needing a request to do so. She had been faithful to him since the day she met him, months earlier. She had gone out of her way to make him feel wanted, needed, and loved.

  She felt loved. She knew that he loved her—knew it as clearly as she knew she would take her next breath. But the needed and wanted parts were the ones she was having trouble with.

  “He wants me; he wants me not,” she chanted as she pumped the top of the lotion bottle. The white cream curled into her hand, and again, she thought about sex with him.

  The sex was pretty damn good. Some of the best she’d ever had, truth be told, and she knew it was mostly because their communication was so open. She had no problem telling him what she wanted, and he was more than happy to oblige. She loved doing what he wanted and needed, but he rarely allowed her to focus on that. He might be one of the few men on earth who meant it when he said that her orgasm was just as satisfying to him as it was to her. It had taken time for her to believe that, but believe it she did.

  It had taken time for her to get used to his constant teasing, too. All the man thought about was sex—wait. That wasn’t exactly true. Not sex. Intimacy. He loved the closeness of the act, all parts of it: before, during, and after. He was the only man she had ever met who could outpace her in sexual imagination—and that was saying something very significant indeed.