Hilda has a mouth made for kissing.
It has tortured Zelda for centuries.
Discovering kissing had hit adolescent Zelda’s hormones like a freight train, and she had considered it her sisterly duty to introduce the activity to innocent but ever-so-curious Hildegard. Hilda, to Zelda’s great delight, had taken to kissing like she’d been born for it.
Zelda blushes at watercolor memories of rainy afternoons spent necking like the teenagers they were, limbs entwined as they groped behind their childhood dollhouse, of winter nights spent cuddled for warmth, mouths hot and hands insistent, of lazy summer evenings spent making out in the empty church.
As teenagers, they’d had a difficult time keeping their hands (and mouths) to themselves.
As adults, they no longer see the point in trying to keep their hands (and mouths) to themselves.
It has been days since she’s felt that mouth with her own and it’s driving her mad.
It’s all she can think about.
It had been the first time all week that the entire Spellman family had been home for dinner, and Zelda had been entirely distracted watching the way her sister’s lips parted to accept every mouthful of food or to laugh or smile. When Hilda had licked gravy from her upper lip, Zelda had hidden a whimper in a cough. When Hilda had sucked a lump of mashed potato from her finger, Zelda had flushed and blamed it on the wine.
Zelda had praised Lilith for her family and swallowed her silent desperation in mouthfuls of Cabernet, had simmered in quiet impatience through drinks and dessert and television in the den, had very nearly given in to the urge to hide in the bathroom and take the edge off but had instead had a nightcap while she changed into her nightgown.
She returns to the den halfway to drunk in her blue silk gown (that it is Hilda’s favorite is purely coincidental) to find her sister blessedly alone. She has a pillow propped in her lap and her book -- a well-loved, salacious novel depicting a bare-chested Fabio -- serving as a flat surface upon which she paints her nails a vibrant pink.
Zelda nearly whines her impatience. “Where have Sabrina and Ambrose gone?”
“Sabrina’s gone off to meet Theo, but if you ask me, it’s just a ploy to get the scoop on Harvey and Roz. Ambrose is off skulking about at Dorian’s.”
Zelda bites her tongue; Hilda tastes sweetest when Zelda herself is sweet. She swallows her annoyance.
She can wait a little longer.
She distracts herself, instead, with thoughts of a summer morning in 1803. There were merely girls then, tied up in ribbons and manners, and had secreted away together after lessons. Hilda had made Zelda a daisy chain for her hair and had traced the heartline on her palm with her tongue.
She remembers a crisp autumn day in 1827, when they had languidly kissed for hours amongst the tall grass just beyond the apple orchard. Zelda had climbed gracefully to the top of the oldest tree, had found the shiniest, reddest apple, had dropped to the ground with the apple clamped between her teeth. Hilda had licked the sticky sweet juice from her chin, from her lips, from her tongue.
She replays a cold, gray morning in 1908, kissing at the window in their flat overlooking Montmartre. Zelda had laughed about her cold hands as Hilda had held them away from her naked body, had smirked into Hilda’s mouth when her sister squealed to feel those icy fingers break free and find her breasts.
She recalls making out in the rain one April evening in 1929 following an argument at a dinner party thrown by Virginia Woolf. Hilda had rushed ahead into the park across the street, had been flushed with anger until Zelda had caught up to her and pressed open-mouthed apologies to Hilda’s throat. She is sure the great author had been watching from the window.
Zelda’s mind is rife with filthy images of sweet Hildie and her pliant, plump mouth. She watches as Hilda sticks out her tongue in concentration, applying her second coat of nail polish. When Hilda purses her lips, Zelda can’t stop herself from groaning, from squirming in her seat. She attempts to disguise the sound but Hilda’s hearing is remarkably excellent and she has, of course, mastered All Things Zelda.
Hilda looks up to find Zelda wide-eyed, gaping. “What are you --” Hilda catches Zelda’s blue-green gaze drop to her mouth. “Oh.” She blushes at her sister’s blatant desire. She grins, bites her lower lip.
“Almost finished,” Hilda says, her voice breathy and alluring and entirely erotic, “and then I’m all yours.” Holding her wet fingers closer to her face, Hilda purses her lips and blows.
Zelda feels the ghost of her sister’s breath against her cunt and she surges to her feet. “You’re already all mine,” Zelda growls, snatching up the bottle of nail polish. She sets it aside on the table. “Mine,” Zelda repeats, pulling the pillow from Hilda’s lap. Fabio drops to their feet.
“Zelds, my nails—“ Hilda begins, sighing as her sister’s weight settles into her lap. She holds her arms out, resting her freshly-manicured fingers along the back of the loveseat.
“You’ll just have to keep your hands to yourself then, won’t you?” And then Zelda leans in, her chest arching against her baby sister’s, and claims her mouth.
Hilda’s surprised, needy whimper has long been Zelda’s favorite sound, and hearing it now as her tongue charts the topography of Hilda’s mouth sets her aflame. Hilda groans, squirming breathlessly beneath Zelda as the older witch grinds down slowly against her. Hilda whimpers once more, hips canting up to chase sweet friction.
It takes every ounce of self-control to maintain a slow, steady rocking of her hips as she explores her sister’s blessedly perfect mouth. Hilda whines when Zelda’s hands cup her cheeks and she slants her lips more firmly, tongue guiding her sister’s in a kiss that makes her toes curl.
Zelda pulls back when she grows lightheaded. She tilts her forehead against Hilda’s, panting as her thumb traces her little sister’s lower lip.
Hilda nips at the tip of Zelda’s finger, and the older witch hums her approval. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this wretched mouth of yours,” Zelda growls, smearing her wet thumb along her sister’s cheek as she pulls her back in.
This kiss is sloppy, all clashing teeth and sore tongues and wet lips. Zelda has quickened her pace in her sister’s lap, swiveling her hips in a sensual dance learned in lusty, early days together before they were brave enough to explore with bare thighs and searching fingers and, later, eager mouths. Zelda opens her eyes, sneaks a glance at her sister’s fingers clutching the back of the loveseat in a deathgrip.
She smirks against her sister’s mouth.
“Watch your nails,” Zelda warns, pushing her sister back against the arm of the loveseat. The younger witch offers a surprised gasp as Zelda shifts above her, hiking up the silk of her gown as they slot their legs like well-loved puzzle pieces, cunts pressed against sister-thigh. She does not move: they are still, watching each other, lips swollen and wet, hearts thundering.
Her sister’s lips are a haven, a sanctuary, a reward.
Zelda whispers Hilda’s name and swipes her tongue along Hilda’s jaw, tasting what she can of that golden, sunkissed-flesh.
“If I have to keep my hands to myself, so do you.”
Zelda exhales sharply, nipping at Hilda’s throat before placing her hands beside her sister’s where they primly reside on the arm of the sofa. “Fine by me,” Zelda replies.
And then she begins to move.
She lazily drags her hips against Hilda’s smooth, cotton-clad thigh. Silk glides smoothly and oh, Zelda knows that her cunt is a slippery mess, knows that she is slick and her labia plump and pink and inviting. As she laves at Hilda’s throat with her tongue she cants her hips, rocking forward just so to graze her aching clit against her sister’s flesh. She groans at the contact, at the jolt of pleasure that races through her body like lightning.
Zelda pulls back with a smirk, admiring the wet, purple mark on her sister’s flushed throat. These lovebites never last long; Hilda always heals the visible marks, erasing the evidence of Zelda’s hard work.
Apparently, hickeys between aunts make for uncomfortable dinnertime conversation.
“Zelds, did you just give me a--”
Older sister silences younger with her lips.
Zelda loves to suck that bottom lip into her mouth, loves to worry it with her teeth. She loves to stroke her tongue along the roof of Hilda’s mouth, loves to flick the tip against the endearing gap between Hilda’s front teeth.
Her hips grind mindlessly against Hilda’s thigh and, sweet Lilith below, she’s soaking and there’s no way that Hilda’s demure, colorful dress doesn’t bear evidence of her depraved desire. This only turns her on more.
Oh, but Hilda herself burns so very hot against her own milky thigh; she will pull away with her sister’s slick all over her and the very knowledge makes her moan into Hilda’s mouth and grip hard against the loveseat. She arches her chest, grazing breast-to-breast. Zelda can feel Hilda’s nipples through her bra and her dress and the flimsy silk of her own gown.
It’s enough to make her swoon, and Zelda is grateful to be anchored against her sister’s gloriously plush body.
Zelda ruts against her sister at a frantic pace as she worships Hilda’s mouth, rejoicing in every lewd moan and desperate whimper that this activity inspires.
She has so loved to make Hilda sing through the years.
Hilda rolls her own hips up to meet her sister’s, driving her thigh that much harder against Zelda’s cunt. She sees stars, can feel the prickling, painful pleasure about to go supernova.
Hilda tugs Zelda’s bottom lip between her teeth as her hands release the loveseat and grope at Zelda’s ass, guiding her hips into a harder rhythm.
That’s all she needs to push her there and she’s coming, pulsing raw and wet and needy against Hilda’s thigh. She allows Hilda to set the pace, to help steady her erratically jerking hips as she cries out her ecstasy, clenching hard around nothing.
Zelda comes back to herself moments later, breathing hard as she rests her forehead against Hilda’s shoulder. The younger witch gently strokes her backside as Zelda’s heart races.
When she pulls back to look down at her sister, to marvel at her wickedly talented mouth, Hilda is biting her lip and grinning.
The answering surge of renewed passion is as unsurprising as it is sudden. “You better not have gotten nail polish on my gown,” Zelda warns.
“Maybe we should get this off you then, just in case?” Hilda suggests helpfully, doe-eyes alight with playful lust.
“Upstairs,” Zelda growls, unable to resist brushing her lips against Hilda’s. “I’m not nearly finished with this mouth of yours.”