“D, are you really sure this is okay?” Shane is wearing street clothes, sitting on her hospital bed with one leg thrown over the edge, impatiently kicking.
“Hottie, if you ask me that one more time I’ll choke you.” I grin.
Shane’s being discharged today. Yesterday was my day off, and Jenny and I packed up the better part of Shane’s stuff, loaded it into a U Haul. Jenny felt bad, and I told her not to. It feels like the same conversation I’ve been having with Shane. And right now Shane is sitting there, fidgeting and looking worried.
I dig in my purse for the house key I copied on my way to work. Just for the ***** of it I’ve attached it to a keychain with a yellow rubber chicken, a gag gift by friends gave me for my thirtieth birthday to signify that my chicken chasing days were supposedly over.
“Think fast,” I say, and toss the key to her. She catches it with both hands, and I can barely see the stiffness on her left side. “Nice.”
She holds the chicken up by a foot and stares at it, baffled. The look on her face makes me laugh. It feels good. She looks at me, and eventually starts laughing, all the time with this priceless “what the *****” look on her face. Adorable.
My watch reads ten ’til two. “If they don’t come to spring you soon, I’m going to have to get Jenny or someone to pick you up.”
“Do you want me to call her?”
“No, wait a little while. Our luck, the minute we call her you’d get your walking papers.”
She sighs dramatically and flops backward onto the bed. Her low-rise jeans look like a second skin, and from my angle, her thighs are enticing and perfect, so feminine and curvy on her androgynous body. I feel the beginnings of desire. Tonight, when I get home from work, I’m going to ***** her senseless.
A woman rushes in and I do a double take, not recognizing her. Shane, however, sits up and says “Hey, Marl.”
“Marlie?” I blink. “Holy *****, you got your hair cut. Really cut.”
Marlie blushes and touches her soft, shaggy bob. I’ve never seen her without her long dark hair in either a braid or a ponytail.
“Do you like it?” Shane asks her.
“I love it,” she grins, and damn, the woman is kind of a fox, and with the sharp haircut, her tortoise shell glasses look sleek and urbane, rather than mousy. “You’re brilliant.”
Shane actually blushes. It’s so cute.
“You did her hair?” I ask.
“Occupational therapy,” she shrugs.
“I told her it was her final exam,” Marlie says. “I’m glad I caught you, I thought for sure you’d be discharged by the time I got out of that damn meeting.”
“Naw, they’re running late. I’m glad you came by,” Shane says.
“I’m glad I caught you. Now don’t forget, you need to keep doing the second set of exercises, no more than once daily.”
“Okay.”
“And I know you can’t wait to have a beer but your kidneys and liver are still recovering from that sepsis and you need to go easy on the pharmaceuticals, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Marlie smiles. “You’re gonna do great.” She reaches over to hug Shane, and I smile. I don’t have it in me to be jealous.
They part. “Okay, I gotta go. My daughter is gonna freak if I’m not there to pick her up…” she looks at her watch, “five minutes ago.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“It was my pleasure. Darah, you keep her in line, and I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, and Shane rolls her eyes.
Marlie leaves and nurses in the hall come and go, rushing back and forth, but none are coming in with her discharge paperwork.
I sit down next to Shane, purposely invading her space.
“You know what I wanna do tonight?”
“What?” She is very quiet, and very serious. For a second it’s almost worrying.
“You.”
Then she grins, leaning into me, causing waves of delight to move in me. “That could be arranged,” she says in her most bedroom of voices, leaning close to my ear so I can feel the vibration of her words, as well as hear them.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
“And just what would you like to do, Hottie Girl?”
She is so close I can feel her breath on my face, her warmth, the life in her body. “I’d like to make you come so hard you scream.”
The sharp response I’d planned dissolves into a whimper on my tongue.
Just then Kaveeda Singh pops her head in. “I’m so sorry, Shane, we’re slammed, we’re gonna get you out of here as soon as we can.”
“No problem,” Shane says, ever gracious.
“I’m think we should call Jen,” I say. “We’re cutting it close.” In West Hollywood traffic there is no way I can take her home and get back in time for work unless they discharge her in the next five minutes.
“I’ll call her.”
Jenny isn’t home, so she calls Tina. Tina agrees to get her. I go down to work. Only eight hours, I’m thinking, grinning like an idiot.
.
I get done about eleven and I come home wondering what I’ll find. It feels strange to have Shane living at my house. Wonderful strange, but I’m not sure she’ll see it that way.
My first thought upon opening the door is that I smell oregano. It smells good. Damn good. My stomach growls. Don’t tell me this girl is actually cooking.
I find her in the kitchen, covering my nesting pots in which some veggies are steaming.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Bullshit. Least I can do, since I’m crashing here. Besides, Marlie says I should be using my arm as much as I can.”
She doesn’t look at me. As much as her culinary efforts are endearing to both my heart and stomach, this worries me.
“Shane.”
“Huh?” She looks at me. I touch her arm. My heart quickens a beat or three to be standing close to her.
“Thank you. It smells ***** great and I’m starving.” I smile. I don’t know how else to repay her.
She smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well go change, and it’ll be ready in ten minutes.” Sometimes she gets this childish grin that’s amazing, and the cuteness doubles when she jerks her head in the direction of the stairs.
“Yes, mother,” I mutter, smiling as I walk upstairs.
Thus, a half hour later we are eating. She’s made pasta with sausage and fresh cheese. I’m surprised at how delicious it is. “Hottie, you rock. I never knew you could cook.”
“I have many talents,” she says, eyebrows going up.
“I’ve heard that about you,” I say, smirking as I spear a tender bit of asparagus, dip it into sauce. “Actually, I think I saw it on the bathroom wall… Was it Milk… or Girlbar?”
“Don’t believe the hype,” she quickly counters, and I’m wondering why this verbal volley suddenly feels like foreplay.
“How could I, when you clearly belong in the kitchen?”
Her lips twist to the side and she gives me the finger, eyes laughing.
“No, I’m serious. I’m not gonna let you go. You can be my House *****.”
“Right. Ha ha.”
“Yeah, I’ll get you some June Cleaver pumps and pearls and a few aprons.”
“Eat me, D.”
“With pleasure. You didn’t tell me you were providing dessert.”
“I’m not providing you with a damn thing if you’re gonna be that way.” I can’t take my eyes from her pretty lips. They twitch in an effort to keep from smiling.
“*****,” I sigh dramatically. “I guess I’ll just have to do something else with my Godiva dark chocolate sauce and whipped cream.”
“Whipped cream?” Her eyes light up, and I laugh. Oh, I so win.
We fight over who is going to do the dishes. She insists on doing the work, making herself useful, and I realize I should let her because she needs to feel she’s contributing something. But her arm seems tired, because she’s favoring her right one, so I settle for sharing the work with her. In no time, the dishwasher is running, the counters clean, and I’m pulling her close to me, kissing her.
She presses me roughly against the counter, hand moving quickly over my *****. I moan. Craved her for so long.
“D. Go upstairs and take off all your clothes and lie down on your bed and wait for me,” she orders, speaking very evenly, emotionlessly, eyes steady. “I want you to lay there and close your eyes and don’t open them.”
I stare, delighted, at her, warmth rising in my chest. Oh my god. Shane’s getting freaky. Holy *****. I’m gaping like a fish.
“D!”
I snap my eyes to her. Her eyes are ***** and dark. “Yeah. Okay. Naked. Got it.”
My heart is pounding as I climb the steps. There is a peculiar kind of energy humming through me. I’ve been ***** this woman for nearly a year and it still doesn’t get old.
I obey her instructions to the letter, strip off my scrubs and pull back the linens of my bed. I slip inside the covers, but then decide to pull them back so that when she walks in she gets the visual effect. I close my eyes, and wait. I hear her there downstairs, moving around, then her footsteps coming upstairs. Yeah, come to me, I think, swallowing a bit. But she doesn’t come into my room. I listen carefully, and hear her moving around in the guest room. I hear fabric moving, floorboards creak, but little else. Then, quiet. I’m not sure if she’s in the other room or in the doorway or standing right there. Not knowing is making goosebumps rise on my skin.
“Darah. Don’t open your eyes.”
“I won’t,” I say, licking my lips. Oh, never dreamed obedience to her would give me so much pleasure. I want to be perfect for her. Give her everything. The thought of pleasing her makes me quicken inside.
“Don’t move.”
“Okay,” I wonder if she can see how my breath is rushing faster, how I can’t quite seem to catch it. I feel vulnerable that she will see the rise and fall of my chest, and know how deeply she effects me.
Cold liquid hits my chest, splatters, then nothing. I feel the wetness rolling, trickling down my sides. It’s painfully cold, at first, but after a few seconds I wish she had poured it on my nipples, which are aching and standing hard.
“Hmm,” I whimper. The cold makes me shiver but otherwise I don’t move.
“Stay still,” she murmurs in her honey velvet voice, and I nod.
“Okay, I promise.” The whisper hisses out of me.
Silence. I want to open my eyes so damn badly, but I don’t. She is still standing there, she has to be. She’s looking at me, I can feel it. I can almost hear her breath. I smell chocolate. Chocolate sauce, she must have bought-
Then, cool wet droplets fall on my left breast, just over the nipple. I shudder and moan weakly as the coldness penetrates, hardening, tingling.
Then, silence. She is right there, standing over me. I can feel her. Without a single sense, I know she is there.
“Darah.”
“Mmm?” It comes out as more whimper than question.
But she doesn’t answer, not for a long minute. If it weren’t for the hair standing up on my arms I would never know she was there.
“Spread your legs,” she says, so quietly I can barely hear it. The sound of her voice saying those words makes me throw my head back and moan. Like a ***** in heat. Slowly, I comply. Move my legs apart as far as they will go. Cool air wafts over the moist skin of my *****, and feels so damn delicious. I wait for the droplets to fall there, but they don’t come.
One second, two, three four five. Still nothing. I moan, bend my knees, and push my ***** up hungrily. Tantalus. My ***** wants to taste that chocolate.
Nothing.
Nothing.
“Shane,” I whisper. I sound fevered.
“Hmm?”
“Please.”
I feel pressure on the bed, and her breath is closer. She’s sitting down. I reach up-
“No.” My wrist is pushed down to the bed, quickly as I’d lifted it. “Hold still.”
“Okay,” I say. I wish I had a name for her, other than her own. Some sweet syllable of submission. Mistress sounds silly. Ma’am is stuffy. My chocolate covered breast tingles and aches as it warms. I imagine I can feel the agitated blood coursing through the flesh. I’m wet inside. I want. I wish.
I bite my lip, I can feel her sitting there, warm skin of her hip pressed to my leg. Cool drafts teasing my fevered sluice, which bleeds sweet clear desire out onto the sheets. I’m engorged, and I need her to suckle me.
I feel motion in the syrup on my breast. It tickles. Her fingertip, I think. The other one is so jealous. Moving slowly through the thickening chocolate. Bite my lip but the moan tears out anyway. breathing fast. She circles an aureloa, then draws a chocolatey line to the other one, the one which has been screaming for her touch. I feel her weight shift, and then she is suckling my *****. The right one, the one that needs her most.
“Oh… Shane…”
I feel her mouth take the shape of a smile, then her wet tongue moving on my skin. She must like the way I call her name, because I feel the hard press of her teeth around my nipple.
“*****! Shane!”
“Hmm,” she murmurs, and returns to licking and suckling me. The only point of contact is my nipple and her mouth, and it is making me insane. I want more, her skin, her hair, her breath, her *****, grinding into mine. I curl my fingers into the folds of the sheet to keep from touching.
Then she shifts away, and the mattress springs up. She has stood.
Still I lay there, my chest a sticky mess, breathing fast, legs spread and bent, so vulnerable and powerless. I have an urge to close my legs, and I’m not sure of exactly where she’s at. Does she like seeing me spread like this? I imagine how I must look. Yes, I think she does like it, and the thought makes a wave of embarrassment and warmth flow from my crotch to my brain.
The syrup comes quickly after that, cold and fast, pouring down over my mound and trickling along the folds of my *****. For a second, the fresh coldness bites my *****, and I cry out. Then, nothing, just the tickle of the sweet fluid trickling under, mixing with my own more sour juice.
I imagine that I can hear her smile. I’m so turned out and spread out here, so open. I hear her walking, floorboards creaking under her subtle weight. She walks around to the other side of the bed.
I breathe and breathe and wait patiently.
Then I feel breath, then warm silken skin on my mouth. Her lips. She kisses me. She must be kneeling beside the bed. I move my hand as if to touch, then put it back down. If she notices she doesn’t say anything.
She bites my ear, so hard it brings tears to my eyes, and as they rise, the pleasure comes, of knowing she’s done something so far out there, just for me. It smarts deliciously. Sweet.
Then nothing. She is a pro. She could have worked the highest end of the ***** trade, instead of giving back alley handjobs, she is that good. But she didn’t and here she is, giving it to me, the masculine touch of her hand down my leg.
I press my heels together, toes digging into the sheets. I hear her warm deep chuckle.
“Do you like this, to see me squirm?” I ask in the direction where I believe she is. I say it very quietly, feeling the breath of it leave my chest.
Silence, a beat. Goddamn you, Shane. Answer me.
“I love it.” So quiet. Maybe shy.
I whimper, heart pounding, wetness coalescing inside of me.
I’ll squirm any time for you. Sweetness. “Why do you love it?”
But instead of answering, she just kisses me. Kisses me until I’m even more breathless and on the verge of hyperventilating. Undoes me, strips me, makes me tumble over my own feet.
Then, she licks me. Slowly. She is in no hurry, nor does she limit herself to the places where the chocolate has dripped and warmed to my skin. I imagine the sight of her pink tongue, moving in and out of the liquid brown pools, and want so badly to open my eyes.
I still feel sticky, as if I were dipped head to toe in the sauce, even though the way she has licked me surely none could be left on my *****, not even in the wrinkled skin of my aureole, she has licked so thoroughly. She moves downward, past my navel, where she swirls her tongue, making me jolt and wriggle, laughter just behind my bitten lip.
She chuckles quietly and my eyes fill with tears. Oh I love her. Could listen to the sound of her laughter for the rest of my life.
I feel movement, her settling in at the end of the bed. Please, getting ready to eat my *****. I need it so much. Wetness makes a maddening slow trickle, I feel it leaving me, waiting, so ready, please.
“Shane,” I whisper, loving the sound of her name, the sound of my aroused voice. She presses her face to my leg, grazes her teeth there, just under my knee.
I whimper. She doesn’t chuckle this time. She is licking my leg, my knee, hand on the other knee. I wriggle and pray for her to move inward, for her hand and her mouth to meet in the middle, where I’m ready and dripping.
Then her tongue, flickering far down on my perineum. She licks me from the bottom, and I shudder as her tongue brushes there, seeking out every sweet drop of chocolate and me. She’ll never finish her task, because a rush of wetness hits me then, and I can feel its lazy oozing.
Undeterred, she flickers her tongue into me. I’m glad I shaved. I feel her fingers caress me, then spread the sticky lips of my *****. I’m howling inside. “Shane…” She ignores my burning, fevered, hard *****, and swirls her tongue around again inside me. Curls her tongue, and I groan. “*****!” Oh, *****.
She pulls back. I can feel the withdrawal of her tongue from deep inside me, then her breath on my soaking *****. I wriggle and bite my lip.
“Hmm,” she murmurs.
“Hmm, what?” What did I do to please her? I want to know so I can do it again and again.
“The way you taste.”
“How do I taste?”
I feel her fingers dip into me, and up through the chocolatey mess near my *****, but it’s not until I smell chocolate and ***** that I realize what she’s doing. She touches my lips, and I let her, not moving, for a second not granting her entry, just enjoying the texture of her sticky fingerprints on my lips. Then I open, sucking her fingers inside. She lets me suckle each one, getting every last bit of chocolate from her, and it’s not enough. When she moves to withdraw I bite, holding the knuckle of her finger gently between my teeth.
I’ve heard that chuckle again. She presses her thumb against my jaw, causing me a moment’s pain, and I open. She slides her finger free and then I feel her leaning down, kissing me. Not angry, just gently, sweetly. Again I feel tears rise to sting my eyes. Love her. I can’t tell her. I can’t love her. Can’t.
She nips my bottom lip, causing me to squeal, then I feel her fingers on my *****. She again drags them through the sweet mess there, and again she feeds me from her fingers. “God,” I whisper, then resume my suckling. Hungry. Don’t care anymore if she sees it. She has me in her palm, and I’m so deep in it that I don’t care. Much. Don’t dare open my eyes.
I feel the bed shift, her weight settling at the bottom. So well trained, my ***** wettens again. I feel the blunt press of her thumb or finger, right on my *****. Fingers slipping inside. I’m keening like a *****. Loving it.
Then she pulls the pressing finger away, and I could cry. Maybe I am. But then I feel the tip of her tongue, slick and wet over my *****. She slips in a third finger, roots around inside me. Now I’m downright yelling. I’ll come so quick.
She presses inward with her usual sexual intensity, making quick work of me. She rubs and nuzzles and licks and suckles, all the while ***** me with her three fingers, spreading and scissoring deeper.
Then, just as I feel my ***** throb on the edge of *****, she stops.
“No,” I say, all of my frustration with her, ever, coming to rest in this moment. I’m surprised by the tear that trickles down the side of my face, surprised more when I feel her fingers brush it away. I almost forget to keep my eyes closed.
“Don’t cry,” she says, but the tenderness in her voice assures that I won’t be able to stop. Love her love her love her. She is hovering right over me, but her body isn’t touching me, just her knees where they straddle my hips, and her hand beside my shoulder. And her fingers that brush a tear away.
“Don’t cry. I’m gonna make you come.”
I throw my head back weakly. Then my wish for her skin is filled, and I feel the length of her body against mine. Something hard is pressing between my *****.
I open my eyes. She is resting her weight on her elbows, on either side of my head. Naked, the pink of new scar tissue on her shoulder. No hands. But the something phallic is at my entrance, waiting.
The reality of what she’s doing tears me apart. It’s as if she were waiting for me to open my eyes, give her permission. I can’t move, can’t speak, can only feel. I’m rendered catatonic as she presses a feathery kiss to my temple, then thrusts in hard, a singular deliberate thrust, impaling my soul as surely as she’s impaling my body.
For the first time this evening I’m utterly silent. She doesn’t reprimand me for opening my eyes or demand I close them, she just watches my face as she slowly thrusts back and forth, ***** me. It is the black one, mine, I can tell from the thickness and by the way the nubby texture rubs me. So close. Shane. So beautiful. Is this what it’s like to be straight?
“I dunno,” she smiles, and I realize that I’ve spoken it out loud. And I feel worried, did I speak all my thoughts out loud? I can’t tell anymore. She’s reducing me to one simple dimension, without artifice or defense.
I reach up and touch her face, aware that I’m past the point of no return and the words are there so close to the tip of my tongue. I’m gonna tell her. I’m gonna. I love you, Shane. Love you, god…
But then she pulls out. “Roll over,” she says, and I feel like a ***** all of the sudden.
But her eyes are gentle, and it’s not her intention to make a ***** of me. I couldn’t disobey her if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.
I roll over so that I’m on my knees, on all fours. Like an animal I raise my ***** to her, and pleased, she thrusts forward into me with a contented grunt. So deep inside me, so full and wide, everything inside me has become her.
I’m gutted, humiliated, and tears are rolling still onto the sheets, but at this angle, with my back arched, she’s hitting a spot so deep, so high toward the front of me that it feels like the back of my *****. Her hand moves, masculine and possessive, down my back, over the curve of my *****. Scratches a line down my back, and I come. Scream, three sharp cries. ***** blooming and bouncing throughout my lower body, seeping into my very blood.
I lower my face to the pillow, tears soaking in. But even as I rest my head I stay in position for her, arms spread low on the mattress, my ***** raised high in the air. She stops, her hand resting on the small of my back, and then she keeps moving. I bite my lip, so raw and naked, quite literally a pillow biting *****, wanting to burst into sobs. She goes on like that, hands moving over me like I’m her animal. Tears in my sinuses, stinging, as the friction of sexual joy is burning and rising again in me, despite my humiliation.
Then she rolls me over, and sees my tears.
She kisses me, wipes them away, holds my face in her hands. She is perfectly still, and even inside of me, she stills.
Her eyes on mine are an anchor. Without a word, she holds me so I don’t fly off into space, and then she thrusts and moves inside me.
She never takes her eyes away. Her eyes are so soft, so solemn. Her tenderness hurts more than being face down in my own pillow. So close. So close, to what I want.
Her eyes don’t leave mine, so the constant stream of thought moving through my brain has nowhere to go, must ricochet off her steady gaze. I love you, I love you, I love you. She dives down to bite my ear, and I rise higher, friction moving and catching a spark inside of me.
My muscles must have clenched because I feel resistance, and her eyes flutter shut. Her chest is heaving, small ***** moving, quaking, so hot as she moves. I’ve never had her like this before. I watch in fascination as her body moves, and she ***** me, truly and really ***** me like a man would. And then I’m right on the edge.
She comes. Just before I see it break in her face I clench down hard. Her eyes widen as she feels the resistance, and she presses hard, driving deep, one deliberate defiant thrust right through my defenses, heightening the act of ***** to a level so profound I’m utterly unfolded, splayed, defenseless, welcoming it. I press my fingers against my sticky *****, and she rolls her eyes back and breathes hard, and thrusts once, twice, again. On the third thrust I come too, screaming as if in horrible pain. I scream her name.
After, she flops onto me, spent. I feel her sweat drop down on to me, and for a moment I’m grateful, like parched earth.
I love you, the aborted words say. I did’t say them and they have nowhere to go, so they swim in my brain, move and push, like too many fish in a small bowl, and I can’t hold them. I have to get out of here.
“D,” she whispers, so sweetly, idly moving her hand up my torso, and it undoes me. I want to linger and ask her what’s behind my initial, what’s behind the sweetness, but I’m mute. I can’t.
I stroke her hair. “Let me up.”
She looks at me, startled. It’s not you, Hottie, I want to say, but I don’t, beause I don’t have the words.
She moves back, alarmed. I stand up. My body protests, and I feel sticky all over. I need to run from her eyes. Pull on the first clothes that I see, sweats and a scrub top. Flip flops, never mind that it’s cold out. Don’t care. I need to find my voice.
Deep breath. “It’s not you. I need some air. I’ll be back.” I mumble. I don’t turn to see her, looking after me, perplexed.
I thump down the stairs, and out the door.