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From: leanna1@hotmail.com (Leanna)
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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