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From: "Fallen Angel" <leanna1@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASS/M} Girl by LeAnna (f/f, dark)
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Copyright 1998 by LeAnna. No part of this document may be reproduced
in any way without permission of the author. Comments can be emailed
to leanna1@hotmail.com, and no, the webpage isn't back up yet.
(damn!)
[Girl]
She sits there.
It's an odd bunch of misfits, with off-color hair and either dark or
neon clothing, eighties, seventies, sixties, and the next century, all
packed into one place. It's the gay bar of the younger sect. It's
outdoors, set in the middle of the downtown district of this piddling
college town. It's called Fountain Square, obviously because it is a
square about a city block wide, all cement and fountains. Pretty, yet
ugly with reality. It is nearly deserted now.
It's ironic. The most public place in the city, at the intersection of
a busy downtown district, and it's the only place that 'we' can find to
be alone with ourselves. Bustle of the world has dulled us and hammered
us into monotonous creatures.
I watch her. She isn't saying much, because she's eating. She's
hungry, I can tell. Usually she's bouncing up, down, against the
cement, off the wall, into the fountains. This is an unusual day.
Often, I wonder about her. Her arms are decorated with fresh scabs
from a razor, lined from her wrist to her elbow. Not the underside, and
cut from side to side. She does it for entertainment, not for suicide.
It's got a darker side to it, I know, I've been there. She hasn't quite
the nerve to do herself in. Something makes her cling. But she needs
to. Yes.
Her eyes are sketched from dark shadows. Fitting. She was sketched in
a dark night. She has no family. She has parents that live in a rich
neighborhood, but it isn't family. She was thrown out of school and
they refused to give her any sort of home schooling or tutoring. Hasn't
been back since seventh grade.
She makes it seem as if there isn't anything to know about her beyond
her public presentation. But I know that I don't know her at all.
She likes me, I know. She looks. It's not a bad body that I have.
She hugs me a little too long. She hesitates, almost, when she leans to
kiss me on the cheek, the obligatory, friendly kiss that is code of the
square.
I can only watch her for so long. Can never watch the way I want.
She turns toward me, green-blue hair glinting in the streetlight.
"Hey, Lexy! Come on over!"
I turn into a vivacious blonde, bouncing up to her and giving her a
quick kiss on the cheek. She's been smoking. Too much, from the
glazed-donut look in the pupils of her eyes. She sways into my arms.
"How are you doing, hon?"
I smiled. "Nice to see you, too."
She nods and rests her head on my shoulder. I glance down and watch
her as she shuts her eyes, and . . . doesn't open them again.
Too much to smoke. A little sleepy, perhaps.
Which is lucky that I'm pretty strong for a girl. It's getting kind of
scarce, this time of the night. Even the police have left. There's
just a few of us stragglers hanging around, so I just back up a little
and sit on a bench, pulling her onto my lap. I like her lying here
across my legs. She's quite pretty. Wonder why she's always so sad.
Pretty.
Minutes pass. Time freezes. Reason hesitates.
I watch her.
A sudden sadness overtakes me, a sadness that tells me that I couldn't
handle her, this wild child. It could never fly. I see her kiss a
different girl every day. No. Could never fly. I lean down, though,
against the screaming regrets. I rest my eyelashes against her cheek.
The tip of my nose touches her smile line. Another millimeter, and I
could barely brush her lips. No, I don't move my lips. She moves hers
for me. And they're soft, and they're moist.
A wild child she is. Her hand is on my breast. Almost accident. I
recently grew another cup size, shooting outward in a matter of months,
weeks, and since then I've never loved having my breasts touched more.
Kissed. Licked. Or simply lifted from the bottom like weights, shifted
around in someone's hands like a water balloon.
Kiss ends. She rests her head on a breast. She looks comfortable.
She caresses the nipple of my other breast. Mmm. Kisses the side of
the breast through the fabric. Didn't think she'd be so gentle, but she
is. It builds. The tension and the eroticism and the fleeing of
depression and memories. No, no, all that remains is me and her.
Abandoned. They are all gone. The sun should rise in a few hours.
Funny, we always expect it to.
She doesn't expect anything of me. She doesn't dare. Regret and . . .
no, not pity, something else, they pool up in me. Her movements
continue, slow and sure. The way a master violinist handles her bow.
Music plays in my ears.
She sits up, adjusts herself a bit. Straddles me. I encourage, I
help, and I kiss her desperately when she raises her face to me. I put
my hand on her waist, squeezing her skin. She sees something in my
eyes, something that makes her dig into my soul. Her tongue is sweet,
wet, warm, all the things that a good tongue is. We duel with our
tongues. She kisses down my chin, and my neck. Her hand snakes its way
under and up my shirt. My skin jumps. It always does. She firms her
touch, runs it up the cleft of my belly.
"Your bra has nice lacing," she whispers. She pulls herself closer to
me, and we are joined at the waist. I drop my hands from her back to
her buttocks, squeezing them. She pulls down my bra and touches my bare
nipple. She drops her head down and kisses the sides of my breasts,
between my breasts, on my breasts, all through the fabric, before she
lifts up my shirt.
Her breath is warm on my goosebump-riddled skin. It's a chilly
late-summer night. She breathes for a few moments. I watch her, and
the thrill of watching is half my arousal. My breath quickens. I press
against my jeans. Finally, she parts her lips, kissing the very tip of
my nipple with the very tip of her lips. Slides a tongue out and runs
it around the areola. Mmm. Yeah. I move one hand to her head, press
her to me. She nibbles it a tiny bit, and draws back to let her breath
wash over it. She sucks, tsk-tsk-tsk, like a suckling newborn.
Her hand is between my legs. She sucks faster, her tongue darting all
around my nipple. I arch myself into her. I undulate myself into her.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Concentration plays no role. Mmm.
"Oh!" My eyes fly open. It's sudden. Earthquake. My head tips back,
mouth formed in a silent O. Grand finale -- a long, firm suckle. Ah,
ah, I ride her hand. It's caught between us, and she's rubbing herself
at the same time because of it. Between two pairs of jeans. Must hurt.
She doesn't care now. Before I lose myself completely, I hear her gasp
and feel her tighten around me. My breast falls from her mouth and she
moans as if she's trying desperately not to, at the tip of her voice.
She bucks.
"Coming," she whispers, to herself I think. I know she's saying it in
her head.
I hold her, my heart pounding, the world white, a groan caught in my
throat. Her orgasm is much longer than mine. Finally, she sinks into
my arms, her head on my shoulder.
She cries.
---
Copyright 1998 by LeAnna. Email comments to leanna1@hotmail.com
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