by Harper Bliss
“I want to get lost somewhere else.” I tilt my head up and find her eyes. Three tiny laughter lines crinkle around her temples. She knows what I mean by now. I’ve all but licked her raw.
I kiss her breasts, spreading hot saliva over her nipples. Her body already feels familiar, as if it belongs here with me and nowhere else. Before making my way down, to my final destination, I search for her gaze once more. I want to witness her desire for me before I satisfy it. I want her to say it.
“Fuck me,” she says, because she knows, and her words ignite tiny explosions in my blood. She slides her body down and opens her legs for me, a gesture so trivial but at the same time so intimate.
I smell my soap on her, the same one I’ve used for years, blending with the aroma of her juices. I trail a path of moist kisses along her inner thighs. Her hands are in my hair—she seems really fond of my hair—and tug at my curls.
Before zoning in on her pussy I lick along her pubes, the coarse texture of them tickling my tongue. Then I can’t hold it in any longer and I wonder if she knows how much I want this, how much of a slave I’ve become to her. I take in the length of her pussy, her glistening lips, so blood-shot and swollen for me, and tuck in.
The first contact always overwhelms me, because, despite the familiarity of all of her by now, this is still new to me. Her softness on my tongue and how she gasps for air that first instant. It makes my own clit pulse for attention and I feel myself heating up, a moist glow radiating between my legs.
I lick her up and down with long tentative strokes and her hands grip my hair firmer, as if she’s never letting go again. When I part her lips with my tongue and gently flick the tip over her clit, her muscles contract and she pushes herself upwards, closer to my eager mouth. She’s mine now, which is all I want.
I revel in her moans as I suck her clit between my lips and nibble it gently. And then pure passion takes over. I need her to tremble for me, shake and writhe underneath me like no one else ever has. I unleash a tongue-dancing frenzy on her, feeling her pleasure on my soaking wet lips. It shivers through me as her muscles clench and release, a bit more intensely with every stroke of my tongue.
“Fuck me,” she says again and this time she doesn’t say it to please me. She says it to please herself. I bring two fingers to the rim of her pussy and lightly circle them around the opening before slowly letting them enter. I love being inside of her. It’s the closest I can get.
With every thrust I drive my fingers deeper into her, coaxing louder groans from her throat. A few strands of my hair are curled around her fingers. It doesn’t hurt the way it should. Instead, it engorges my clit because I know it means she’s close. As much as I like to fuck her, and lick her, there’s nothing like having her come all over my fingers, her juices spilling over my lips.
“Oh god,” she whispers, then repeats it again and again. She loves drama in the bedroom, likes to make a spectacle of herself when she gets there, unlike me—but I’m still getting used to this new lease on my sex life. She thrashes her head from left to right and yanks at my hair while shoving my face as much into her as possible. Her body shakes itself free of any tension as her pussy clutches my fingers. Her orgasm rips through me, like a hurricane of satisfaction, pleasing me in ways I never knew existed. It’s not a smug satisfaction and it has nothing to do with ego. It’s more a gentle reaffirmation smouldering in my soul, knowing everything is within my grasp again. That I’ve found what I didn’t even know I was looking for.
“What the fuck have you done to me?” Cat asks between gasps. I could ask her the same question. I crawl up to see her face. Tiny drops of sweat cling to her forehead and her cheeks are flushed bright red. I look into her eyes and I have to stop myself from saying it because I’m sure it would ruin the magic of the aftermath. But I would give everything to hold her in my arms and tell her I love her because, daft or not, true or not, that’s what it feels like—and it’s not a tiny feeling either.
* * *
The day before the Archers are set to leave, I change my flight back. I meant to stay in the villa for four more weeks, but the void I face after Cat’s departure is too vast. It’s more a symbolic gesture than anything else. My own departure from my old life. I don’t tell Cat because I don’t want to put any pressure on her. Despite John and Helen’s presence this was essentially a holiday romance. This would never have happened in London.
For me, everything may have changed, but, as far as I know, for Cat it was only a way of getting over a broken heart. I’m afraid to ask, afraid to hear words that are too definite. The wise, rational part of me knows full well we don’t stand a chance back in England, but the prospect of staying behind alone is even more gruelling. At least in London I can see her. Pop over to John and Helen’s unannounced on Sunday when they have their weekly family dinner. They always have an extra plate for me.
When I wake up in Cat’s bed on the morning of her flight home, her usual content wake-up smile is competing with a big frown. She looks all wrinkled and frumpy, as if she didn’t sleep a wink.
“Never had a summer love before?” I ask, inwardly kicking myself for using the l-word.
Cat shakes her head and swallows hard. It’s clear she doesn’t know how to deal with this situation. Or maybe it’s because I used the word love. But it’s too late to backtrack now.
“Neither have I.” I snuggle up to her, resting my head on her shoulder one last time, scouring my brain for a way to say goodbye properly.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be.” Cat holds her breath and my heart jumps. “Confined to summer, I mean.” Her body goes rigid with tension underneath mine.
“Is it time for the talk?” A strange kind of elation spreads through me. She doesn’t have to say the words for me to know.
“I’m leaving in a few hours, so maybe we do need to discuss some things.” Her voice trembles, insecurity leaking from her words.
“No need.” I tilt my head up and find her eyes. “I booked a flight back home next week.” My face bursts out into a beaming smile. The shock etched around her mouth is priceless. “I can’t bear the thought of spending the rest of the summer here without you.” My stomach suddenly feels funny. If this isn’t a love confession, then I don’t know what is.
“Are you serious?” I’m pretty sure that’s pure joy running across her face.
“As if I’m the world’s biggest prankster.”
Cat responds by launching herself at me, crashing me under her bodyweight in the process, and showering me in an avalanche of kisses.
“Let’s celebrate.” Her fingers travel down, along my chest, between my legs. She gazes deep into my eyes as she finds my throbbing pussy lips. Happiness bubbles through me as she claims me, one last time.
A knock on the door startles us.
“Kit-Kat, darling?” John half-yells. “Are you up? We must go soon.”
We try not to burst out into giggles at John’s sudden interruption.
“I’ll be ready in half an hour,” Cat shouts back.
“All right.” My heart thunders in my chest as I wait for John’s footsteps to wither as he walks away. Thank god he’s not one of those parents who don’t give their children any privacy, no matter their age.
“Has that killed your hunger for me, Kit-Kat?” I smile, but at the same time vow to never call her that again.
“Never,” she says and I gasp for air as her fingers enter me.
Learning Curve
“Ja?” Giselle asks.
“Yes Djeesel.” I sneak a peek at my watch. It’s two minutes to six and I pray she’ll let me off the hook.
“What did you say?” She pins her sky blue eyes on me. The sky looks a bit icy today though.
“Sorry. Ghie-sel-le.” I stress every syllable of her name as I pronounce it slowly.
In my head, the imaginary bell to signal the end of another gruelling lesson rings. Only, I’m not in school. I’m in private tutoring hell. Every Friday afternoon I leave work earl
y to spend the last three hours of the week learning German. You’d think it would be easy for someone English-speaking, what with the two languages belonging to the same linguistic group, but let me assure you it’s bloody hard. The main problem, I duly confess, is that when it comes to learning, I might be over the hill. Picking up practical skills isn’t so much the issue, but studying exceptions to very rigid grammar rules—and remembering them—is proving quite difficult. The other issue is that I’m not convinced I need it and I find it hard to invest myself in useless activities.
My company sent me to Berlin five months ago and I’ve been having these weekly sessions with Giselle for the past fifteen weeks. That’s a lot of hours spent gazing into the impossible blue of her eyes. If only I could pick up German by doing that.
“Watch the news on ZDF,” Giselle says in impeccable English. I’m sure she does it to taunt me. I bet she’s a genius who speaks at least seven languages with no sign of a native accent.
“And address people in German this week. Don’t worry about making mistakes.”
“Sure.” I bury my books in my backpack with no intention of digging them up before next week’s session. Giselle has told me many times that German is not a language you can learn without memorising vocabulary, articles, and the dreaded verb cases, but does she honestly believe I have nothing better to do?
“Any wild plans this weekend?” She takes off her dark-framed glasses with those long-fingered hands and I can feel my heart skip a beat before it starts thundering in my chest. It doesn’t matter that those hands have pointed out countless mistakes and have, occasionally, slapped the desk in frustration with my apparent German learning disability. If Giselle wasn’t my teacher, she’d be perfect. Apart from her hands, they’re perfect already, regardless of our relationship.
“Just the usual speaking your fair language to everyone I encounter and maybe a few drinks in between.” I grab my leather jacket from the back of the chair and sling it over my shoulder. I need to get out of here before I lose my cool completely. I can feel it slipping away as I skim her freckled face for a sign of a smile. She shoots me a small one at last. One that says—I know you want to fuck me, but you’ll have to learn German first.
Granted, I could try harder with the flirting. Maybe ask her out for a drink after class. It is Friday night after all, but what if she says no? It’s already so excruciating to sit across from her every week, her dirty blonde hair caressing her face in all the places I want to touch it. I’m also ninety percent certain she’s straight. She looks like she may have a dark-haired, square-jawed boyfriend, a bit of a bad boy maybe, on a motor bike.
“Viel Spass,” she says. At least I know it means ‘have fun’. I scour my brain for the German translation of ‘likewise’ but it doesn’t come so I just wink and walk out, but not without conflicting emotions. It happens every Friday at six. The elation linked to the start of the weekend courses through me, elevated by the relief of surviving another three-hour lesson, but then there’s that crushing weight on my soul. A new cycle of seven days minus three hours begins before I see Giselle again.
I realise it’s fairly immature for a thirty-year-old to have a teacher crush. Believe me, I’ve tried to stop it, but having to sit across from her every week doesn’t help. And, crush or not, it doesn’t inspire me to give German my best shot. It must be my rebellious streak. I’ve never been one to please.
Giselle teaches from a spacious basement studio in Prenzlauer Berg, a ten-minute walk along broad boulevards from my flat. I breathe in the autumnal Berlin air and I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t believe my luck when my company sent me here. I’d never made it a secret that relocating to Berlin was my ultimate goal. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. I work for an international architecture and design firm and they could have sent me to Poland or the Middle East instead, but here I am. The only caveat was that I had to learn German. “No biggie,” I had said, full of swag and confidence, “I’ll master that in no time.”
I stroll along the Kastanienallee and consider a Friday night cocktail when my phone buzzes in my pocket to announce a text from my friend Max. He is one of those Germans who only want to speak English with foreigners. It reads, Now your weekly all-expenses-paid lusting session is over, meet me at Der Hobby in half an hour.
I’m not one to keep a crush a secret—and I’m sure Giselle was the first to know.
* * *
“I’m not kidding.” I try to convince Max with a bold stare. “We need to speak German. What if Giselle flunks me and the firm sends me back to the UK?”
“How can she flunk you when you don’t even have exams?”
“She must give them progress reports or something. This private teaching business isn’t exactly cheap.”
“Then try a little harder, darling.”
My biggest misconception about Germans when I first arrived was that they would all speak with a gayish lispy accent. Max is one of the biggest poofs in Berlin and his English pronunciation is better than mine.
“Anyway, let’s move on to more important subjects. Berghain tonight?” He bites his lip in anticipation of his monthly night of complete hedonistic escapism. I’ve only accompanied him once and it took me three months to recover. Berghain is such an assault on the senses. Of course, Max calls it a thrilling feast.
I grimace and scrunch my mouth into an indecisive pout. “I’m not sure I’m up for it tonight.”
“Come on. Andreas is bringing Ellen and we both know she has the hots for you.”
Ellen is a nice girl, a typical Berlin hipster wearing polkadot dresses under heavy leather jackets, with black-dyed bangs and huge brown eyes. I do find her attractive and even kissed her once, but truth be told, the second I closed my eyes all I saw was Giselle’s face scolding me. You can kiss them but you can’t speak German with them? It kind of put a damper on things. So much so, that I haven’t popped my Berlin cherry yet.
“This teacher infatuation is getting out of hand. Give Ellen a chance.”
Max has always championed Ellen as a prospective love interest for me. Judging from his rave reviews she’s the second coming to lesbians around the world, but I can’t help but wonder why she’s single then. And going for me.
“You’re right, Schatzie.” Giselle would be so proud of me for utilising her language to address Max, instead of the endless affected ‘darlings’ we shower each other with in casual conversation. “I’ll keep an open mind tonight, but don’t you get her hopes up.”
“As if.” Max smirks and checks his watch. “One more drink followed by a disco nap. Let’s meet at midnight. The queue should still be doable then and it gives us plenty of time to get into the groove.”
* * *
I check myself in the mirror. I have a bit of a dark circle situation going on underneath my eyes and my eyelids sag slightly. If someone is drunk enough to want me tonight, they’ll have to take me flaws and all. I remember Ellen and decide it’s in the bag already, anyway. An unexpected shudder of anticipation creeps up my spine. It really has been a long time.
I head out wearing just a white tank top underneath my leather jacket—a big thing in Berlin—despite the early autumn chill. Golden-brown leaves tumble to the ground around me and I feel that surge of contentment rushing through me again. This is my city now and, if circumstances allow, I’m never leaving. I haven’t been to many places in my life, but something tells me that, now that I live in Berlin, I don’t have to anymore. There’s always this buzz of possibility in the air. This electric enthusiasm infecting people and spurring them on to have one more drink and one more dance. Raves are not just for the young in this town and tonight we’ll show them how it’s done.
I recognise Max’ green hoodie sticking out from under his jacket as I approach the tram stop. He’ll take them both off the minute he walks inside the club, ready to show off his five-days-a-week-in-the-gym body. I spot Andreas’ peroxide mane of hair and then, there she is, Ellen Kauer, my sort of dat
e for the night.
“Guten Abend,” I try and they look at me as if I’m speaking Chinese. So much for cultural integration.
“Hey, Ada.” Ellen throws her arms around me and I must admit it feels pretty good. “Long time, no see,” she whispers in my ear, her breath warming my skin.
Maybe we should skip the whole going out charade and head back to my place. It would make my liver happy, for starters, and I could spend my Saturday as a human being instead of a red-eyed zombie. I need some alcohol for this to work though and for whatever else Berghain has to offer. And I didn’t move to Berlin to go home early on Friday evenings.
The tram arrives and we hop on. Max is a hyped-up bundle of excitement. It could be the promise of all his favourite things—boys, booze and blow jobs—crammed together in one club or he could already be on something.
“How are your German classes going?” Ellen asks and I wish she hadn’t.
Her question transports me right back to the unrequited lust balling up inside of me every Friday afternoon, as if I’m some half-grown teenager who can’t deal with her hormones yet. Maybe it’s more than lust, I ponder. I spend more time with Giselle every week than I do with most of my friends. We sit across from each other, our hands almost touching and our breath audible.
“Wunderbar,” I say and fix my eyes and attention on Ellen. She’ll have to deliver tonight. I need some sort of release and she looks more than willing.
“What’s the name of your teacher again?” I do wish she’d stop going on about that.
“Giselle Cromm,” I say and the mention of her name, the ease with which it rolls from my lips, as if I’m meant to say it for the rest of my life, ignites the fire in my belly again. Ellen could well just have ruined her chances.
“A lanky, bohemian blonde, right?”
“Yes.” My heart thuds violently. With icy blue eyes, I want to add, and three freckles on the side of her nose.
