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“Fuck, Abby.”
She grins against your neck. You feel a soft, warm puff of her breath against your skin. “Like that?”
You laugh. Her hand is pressed expertly between your legs, just as you like it. You fight to keep your hips from bucking against the pressure, instead pressing the rest of your body against hers. The feel of your tits pressing against each other is heavenly, ecstatic. You wrap your arms around her, desperate for the closeness, as her fingers begin moving faster and harder against you.
You press your face into her neck, whimpering against her skin as she sees you, reliably, ecstatically, over the edge. Then, a second time – her lips wrapped around your clit, her fingers inside you. You cover your mouth with a hand, but you can’t stop the sharp, incessant moans she brings out of you.
She grins up at you after you come, her chin and lips glistening in a way that used to embarrass you, but now only turns you on. “That one got you loud,” she says with a sharp grin. That cocky, arrogant, so proud of herself it almost makes you sick, grin.
“Shut up,” you whine while simultaneously pulling her closer. After you come, all you ever want is the heavy comfort of her body on top of yours. Keeping you safe, protected. Holding your body together as your legs shake and shake and shake. “Just, c’mere.”
She huffs a laugh against your skin, but holds you tightly until you’re limp and pliant against the mattress again. “Better?” she asks, with a small smile.
“Better,” you sigh. She slides off of you and next to you, and you curl into her side. You wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. You slip your hand under her shirt, lightly scratching the small of her back until she groans.
With your face buried in her chest, you slowly, slowly slide your hand down to her hip, circling her hip bone with your thumb. She bites back a sharp gasp, but doesn’t stop you. Equal parts emboldened and nervous, you slip your hand further and further down until you feel the warmth of her through her boxers.
A thrill shoots through you – like touching a live wire – as you feel a wet spot in the fabric. Just touching you, just making you come, made her feel that good. You’re suddenly lightheaded as you tentatively, gently press your fingers down. You’re going in completely blind; Abby has never let you touch her before, so you’re basing your movements off of what you do to yourself. You wonder suddenly, wildly, if Abby ever touches herself. Surely she does, but you’ve never watched her receive pleasure like this – what if it’s new? What if she doesn’t like it? What if her body isn’t made for it? What if she’s breaking some unwritten rule?
Maybe you’re cute enough to touch, but not cute enough to be touched by. What if –
“Baby,” Abby whispers, before gently moving your arm away. You mourn the loss of warmth on your fingers, that thrill of being in the softest, most intimate part of her.
“No?” Your voice is small and embarrassingly hurt, even to your own ears. “I just…I’m sorry if I went too far, I just…”
You shrug. You can’t see her face as you curl into her chest, and you don’t want her to. You don’t want her to see your own expression. Maybe you’re just being selfish. No, not maybe. You are being selfish.
You have no claim to her body, no right to touch her. You should be lucky to even get her attention for a second, much less to be touched by her. Why do you insist on asking for more and more?
Abby sighs and tightens her grip on you. “I know,” she says softly, rubbing your back. “I know. I just wanna focus on you? What’s so wrong with that?
She nuzzles your neck with her nose; you resist as long as you can, but eventually let out a loud giggle. You feel her smile against your skin, and you wish you were someone who could hold a grudge, force a conversation. But you’d rather make Abby laugh than make her talk about something she clearly doesn’t want to.
The playful nuzzles become kisses, which become soft bites, which become a hand sliding lovingly down your belly to the crux of your thighs, still wet from your last orgasm. As you moan and shake and come for the third time in an hour, you willfully allow the question in your mind to fade away.
Two Weeks Later
You have had at least one orgasm every day since Abby told you not to touch her – in the supply room, in the clinic after your shift, in your room, in the woods on a run. She seems to delight in the variety and amount of orgasms she can give you – with her mouth, her fingers, both. Once, she held your hips and moved you over her bare thigh until you finished, shaking with sweet pleasure and sweeter humiliation.
Abby has had…zero.
Zero orgasms in the supply room, in the weapons room, in your room, on a run. None. You start to regard the idea of her touching herself with no small amount of jealousy. You want to see what she looks like when she comes. You want to know if her thighs tense like yours do, if her legs shake afterwards like yours. You want to know what sounds she makes, if she curses and begs or sighs and moans. The few times you go to sleep by yourself – always when she’s out on a run, fighting Infected or Seraphites or both – you touch yourself and try to imagine what Abby might be doing in your place, how she might like to be touched, how she might sound.
You’ve tried a few more times to touch her – in the middle of sex when she’s touching you or after you’ve already came, the result is always the same. She skillfully but gently moves you aside, refocuses her attention on you. It’s nice, being focused on. Nice to receive four, five, six orgasms in a night. But the more time that passes, the duller that feels. The sharper the loss of touching her is. You feel increasingly naïve, stupid, undesirable.
What is wrong with you that she doesn’t even want your fingers on her? Your mouth? She doesn’t even want your mouth on her chest, much less between her legs. Abby only lets you touch her chest in the shower, and even then she limits it to a minute of touching at most before pinning you against the wall and distracting you.
Maybe she’s insecure? But that doesn’t make sense. Abby has an undeniably amazing body; you’ve seen her biceps and her abs, sure – but also her small, firm tits, the surprising curve of her hips into her ass. She is the perfect mix of masculine and feminine, hard and soft, strong and delicate.
You try to accept it. You’d never dream of pushing her limits, testing her boundaries. Maybe this is just how lesbians work. The masculine one just doesn’t get touched. It’s not what you want, but maybe…maybe it’s just how it is?
You try not to focus on how her wetness would feel on your fingers, taste on your tongue. How it would feel to be inside someone else, inside her. How her thighs would feel on your shoulders, her hands in your hair, her moans in your ear. A whole dimension of your sex life, your life, that you’re missing.
You manage to wait until she’s training with Manny to really feel it. You’re on your period, almost finished with it, which is probably no small contributor to why the issue is hitting you so hard right now, but also means that sex, as you have it now, is completely off the table tonight. You sit on your shared bed, glance at a pair of discarded boxers on the floor, and for some reason, that is what does it.
You burst into tears. You pull your knees up to your chest, cover your face, and cry. And cry. And cry. Cry because you feel ugly and insecure, cry because you’re doing something wrong but have no idea what it is, cry because you’re being ungrateful and should appreciate what you have instead of wishing for more, because you love Abby more than anything in the world and want to give her what she wants and feel guilty for wanting something different. You cry because you’re sad, because you’re alone, and because you want sex but don’t want to be touched. And because you can’t have that.
By the time you hear the hinges on the door creak, your nose is running, your cheeks are red and streaked with tears, and your eyes are no doubt bloodshot and swollen. You dive into the pillow in a feeble attempt to pretend to be sleeping, but it’s not only 2:30 pm, but Abby most definitely heard your sobs through the thin door.
“Baby?” she asks, concern laced thickly in her voice. “What’s wrong?”
She’s on you immediately – sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to pull you into her arms. When that doesn’t work, she contorts herself into big spoon, pulling your body into hers. You realize, dimly, that she didn’t even take the time to take off her boots or her backpack. Abby’s normally a stickler for staying off the bed while in her outside-clothes, so you know she must really be concerned.
“Sorry,” you hiccup. “Sorry, sorry. Just – I'm on my period. Little…emotional.”
“Emotional about what?” she asks sharply, squeezing you to her. “Did something happen? Do I need to kick someone’s ass?”
“No,” you laugh thickly. “No, I’m fine, babe.”
“I’ve seen you on your period. You get grumpy and petty and need extra cuddles, but you don’t cry like this. Not for no reason.”
You bury your face in the pillow. Lying to Abby doesn’t come easy to you. You’re sure you could make something up – blame someone at the base for saying something mean, blame the general tragedies of this life. But you can’t. You can’t lie to her.
“I just…I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Her voice is broken, almost distraught when she says, “What do you mean, baby?”
“Why you won’t let me touch you."
A silence settles between the two of you. Your breathing starts to calm as you begin to match Abby’s steady, deep breaths. You wipe the tears off your cheeks as you lay there, listening to her think.
“I didn’t know it was bothering you so badly,” she whispers eventually. “I thought…I thought you’d like being focused on. I thought anyone would like that.”
You roll over to face her. “Of course I like that. But…But Abs I love you. I – I want to touch you. I want to make you feel good. It feels…It just feels really shitty to not be able to give you anything.”
“You do! You give me so much!”
“Yeah, I give you kisses and cuddles and I help you out around base,” you say. “But I can’t touch you. I can’t make you feel good. Not the way you make me feel. You won’t even let me try.”
You’re aware that you sound petulant, too petulant to be discussing something like sex. But still. You’re hormonal and being held in Abby’s arms. You can’t help but whine a little. She normally babies you when you feel like this, and you want nothing more than to be babied right now.
Abby grimaces. “I didn’t think you’d want that,” she says tightly. Clearly uncomfortable.
“Abs, I’ve tried so many times,” you say gently. “I didn’t know how to ask what was wrong…I thought you’d get the message that I knew what I wanted.”
“But you don’t need to, baby,” she says. “I don’t need all of that.”
“You don’t…need…to come?” you ask doubtfully. “Ever?”
“I mean…” She shifts uncomfortably. “I take care of that myself. If I ever want it. I don’t want you to have to deal with that. I know it’s not…”
“What do you mean?” you ask, your heart sinking.
“I just…I don’t want you to have to do the giving, you know.”
“Why? Because it’s gross?” Maybe Abby doesn’t want to do everything she does to you – maybe she thinks it’s disgusting. Maybe she hates tasting you, hates touching you. Maybe she’s trying to shield you from it. The thought makes you want to weld your legs closed, never make her endure you ever again.
“Oh my God, no!” You shift to sit up on the edge of the bed and Abby follows you, finally taking off her backpack. “Baby, absolutely not. I just…it’s not something you have to do.”
“It’s not something you have to do either!” you snap. “We’re in a relationship, and we love each other, so we touch each other. Or, at least, you touch me. You want to make me feel good, so you took the risk to touch me, and to taste me, and to learn how to…how to sex!”
Normally, your wording would have sent both of you into a fit of giggles. Right now, the two of you stare at each other, a combination of emotions written on both of your faces. Abby, agonized and frustrated. You, sad and scared and insecure.
“I…I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t think it was something you’d want. I mean, when straight girls talk about having sex most of them sound, y’know…put upon. Like they’re just doing it to please him. I didn’t want you to have to feel that.”
“Yeah, but Abby…I’m not straight,” you laugh. “I don’t understand straight sex, but it’s different than what we do. You’re not a man. You don’t fuck me just to make yourself come in three minutes then leave me hanging. You fuck me to make me come without receiving any pleasure yourself. A man could never do that.”
“You think I don’t get pleasure from that?” she asks softly, the flicker of a grin crossing her lips.
“I know you do.” Something softens between the two of you. She reaches out her hand and you take it, sitting flush to her on the edge of the bed. You lean further into her as she wraps her arm around your shoulders. “Just. I would, too. I would enjoy touching you just as much as you enjoy touching me.” You look at her profile, her clenched jaw. “Is that…hard for you to believe?”
She lowers her head. Your heart sinks.
“I just don’t understand why you’d want to.” Her voice is a rasp. “I just…I’m comfortable being the one who – who gives, you know?” She rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “In everything. That’s who I am, that’s who I like to be. I’m the one who protects you, who makes sure you’re okay. I feel…” She sighs, shaking her head. “It just makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. Letting you touch me.”
“Baby,” you say, frowning. You caress her cheek, wishing you could take all of the discomfort and angst out of her mind. “It’s not wrong. Couples touch each other all the time.”
She shrugs. “It feels different with us. Nothing we do is like what – what Manny or everyone else does. We’re never gonna get…simultaneous pleasure.”
“I mean, we could, but it would be a pretty…interesting…position.”
She laughs drily.
“Seriously,” you say. “Abs, I don’t know how good I’d be at it. But I’d like to try. I want you to get something out of this, too.” When her face doesn’t change, you soften your tone. “We can go as slowly as you need. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
There’s a long pause before she speaks again. “What if I’m never comfortable with it?”
You nod. Your first impulse is to agree with Abby. Whatever she needs, you can give. Because you need her. You’d do anything for her – wouldn’t you? You’d certainly die for her. So why not give up a half of your sex life? Some people don’t get to have sex at all – at least you get to come. Shouldn’t that be enough?
“I don’t know,” you say. Because you need to be honest. You owe Abby that, at least. “I think this is something I really want. I love what we have now, but I don’t feel…I don’t feel fully satisfied.” Her expression makes you feel guilty. “I mean, at least until I try it. Maybe I’d hate it, but right now…I feel like something’s missing.”
She nods, slowly. “I get that. I wouldn’t be very happy if I couldn’t touch you. Obviously.”
“Do you see yourself ever being comfortable with…with receiving, I guess?”
She shrugs. “I just can’t imagine it.” She shifts, uncomfortably. “But…I don’t know. Maybe I just feel that way because we haven’t tried?”
“I don’t want you to let me do something like that just because I want to. I just need you to be open, you know? As open and honest as you can be.”
She gives you a look so full of fondness it makes your teeth ache. “I’ll try, baby,” she says softly, squeezing your knee. “I’ll let you know if any of it doesn’t feel good. Okay?”
“Okay,” you say, flashing her a smile.
Two nights later, Abby makes you come twice – once on her fingers, once while you hover over her face, her hands gripping your thighs so hard it stings. While you cuddle afterwards, you lightly trace your fingers over her shoulders, over the straps of her sports bra. She groans against your skin, and you let your hands drop lower, and lower, and lower. Down to the small of her back, then up her abs, around her waistband, then up to her chest and neck. The air is thick with tension, and you feel a physical pain at having to withdraw your hand, roll over, and settle into the curves of her body. She huffs a quiet, tense laugh, but says nothing about your exploration.
After dinner the next week, you pull Abby into an empty training room.
“Wha – ” she says, before you press your lips to her neck, to the spot under her ear that always makes her gasp and squirm. You scrape your teeth over the sensitive skin and grin at the sound of her sigh. She tries to take control, attempting to pick you up and put you against a wall – a signature Abby move – but you refuse. You press your tongue against the spot before biting again. Her hands tighten on your hips, and you can feel the barely restrained desire to take off your clothes, to lay you out on the nearby table and have her way. You snake your hand into her hair and tug, softly, until her chin raises obediently.
“I forget how much you like that,” you whisper, grinning, before kissing up her throat, across her collarbone.
“Shut up,” she says, trying to sound commanding. The gasp she gives when you nip her collarbone ruins that, though.
By the time she’s manhandling you, desperate to take control, you’re aching for her touch but force yourself to pull away. “Come on,” you say, “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
She gives you a look of frustrated mixed with desire mixed with…something new. Something that gives you hope.
The next night, in the shower, you take the soap from her just as she’s about to wash herself. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing as you wash her back, her neck. You kiss her shoulders as you run your hands down her arms, then up and down her sides. Her stomach and her thighs. She bites back a breath as you sink down to your knees before her. You probably wouldn’t, except you know how fastidiously Abby cleans her shower. You let your breath ghost against her upper thighs and you bite back a grin at the sight of her muscles tensing, her hand finding you hair. You imagine what it would feel like for that hand to grip your hair, firmly and gently pushing you towards herself, holding you there. Making you taste her. Instead, you hold yourself back and wash her calves, her knees, her hips. She gives you a tense, laughing smile as you stand.
“What?” you ask innocently, quirking an eyebrow at her. She doesn’t bother to wash the suds off of her body before pressing you against the wall and making quick work of you, her fingers rough and demanding. Even when you’ve finished, leaning against her as your knees wobble with the aftershocks of the orgasm she gave you, you can still feel tension coursing through her.
Later that night, she gives you two more, her mouth desperate and hungry against you, chasing something you’re not sure she can get from eating you out.
“Abs?” you say, your voice shaking, after you finish and she groans, the sound laced with satisfaction but more than a little frustration, too.
“Yeah?” Her voice is rough and her face shines as she looks up at you, her chin and mouth wet with you.
“You can…you can take care of yourself while you take care of me, you know,” you say carefully, afraid of scaring her off.
Even in the semi-dark of your room, you can see a blush rise on her cheeks. She kisses the inside of your thigh distractedly, and you can practically see the thoughts rushing through her mind.
“You don’t have – ” you start, but Abby cuts you off.
“Sit up,” she says gruffly, gripping your thighs in that way you love, almost hard enough to hurt.
You obey quickly, scrambling up. She laughs lowly at you before pulling you to the edge of the bed. She kneels on the floor, looking up at you with all the devotion of a supplicant. She puts your thighs on her shoulders, spreads you obscenely open, and gets to work with a fervor that leaves you gasping, clutching helplessly at the sheets, trying desperately to remain upright. You struggle to keep your eyes open, just to watch Abby. You love to watch her as she gives you head – she keeps her eyes closed, an expression on her face like she just tasted the best flavor of her life. You bite back a gasp as she releases your thigh, lowering her hand to her boxers.
The sight of her hand slipping beneath her own waistband, the subtle, rhythmic movement of her hand through the fabric is possibly the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You force yourself to remain silent – as silent as possible, with Abby’s tongue on you – so you can hear the soft, soft sounds she’s making. The tiniest of groans, but they send an electric thrill through you.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fisting her hair and pulling her towards you – exactly how she likes it. She groans louder, clutching your thigh tighter and sucking hard on your clit, sending you barreling towards an orgasm. You clench your thighs against her, your legs starting to shake.
“Come with me,” you gasp. “Please.”
Her moan vibrates against your skin. Her hand is moving faster in her boxers, You can hear the sound of her touching herself over everything; she’s going fast, hard, desperate. You wait for what feels like an impossibly long time until you hear her groan so loudly, so brokenly that it can only mean she’s coming; you let yourself ride over the edge, gripping her hair like it’s the only thing keeping you connected to the earth.
Afterwards, the only sound in the room is panting. You limply pat the bed next to you and she crawls up next to you, instantly pulling you against her.
She rasps your name into the silence of the room.
“Yeah?”
“We can try that other thing,” she whispers. “Next time. Okay?”
You nestle into her chest, listening to her heart race. “Okay,” you say, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. “Okay.”
Maybe it’s the ghost of Abby’s promise echoing between the two of you, but you have your longest drought of sex since you first kissed all those months ago. Every kiss you share feels tinged with promise, with tension, with fear. You go slow, trying to keep your own anticipation in check. You gently further every kiss and pull away at the slightest hint of unease. As the days pass, however, you can tell that Abby is getting antsy. She’s more handsy in public, constantly keeping a hand on your hip or the small of your back. Her eyes linger hungrily when you change or shower in front of her. You even felt her hips rubbing softly against your ass in her sleep; was she having a sex dream? About you?
The moment comes almost two weeks after the last time she touched you. She’d been on a run for the last three days; it was relatively safe, with a relatively large group to a relatively local base. She’d returned in the morning, but you’d had no time alone since. Abby is always touchy and eager to fuck after a run, and judging by the looks she keeps flashing you, she knows that tonight’s the night.
By the time you finish dinner, return some books to the small WLF library, and get back to your room, your hands are shaking. Your mind cycles through the same anxieties: what if I’m not good at this, what if I don’t like it, what if she doesn’t like it, what if I embarrass myself, what if I hurt her.
Abby is in the shower when you get home. You close and lock the bedroom door behind you loud enough so she’ll know you’re here. Moving quickly, robotically, you take off your shoes, clothes, bra, and panties. You hurriedly slip into the one slightly sexy thing you own – a blue nightgown with thin straps, simple lace lining the swooping neckline, and a hem short enough that the slightest suggestion of your ass cheeks are visible. You’d worn it for Abby once, and it was ripped off of your body before she could get a good look at it. She’d told you, afterwards, that she wished she’d admired you in it for longer. You plan to give her what she asked for tonight.
You sit on the edge of the bed, nervously twiddling with your hair, pulling at the hem, trying not to bite your nails (you’d taken care to keep them nicely trimmed just in case the opportunity ever presented itself). When the door to the bathroom creaks open, your heart falls to your stomach. You have suddenly lost the ability to breathe.
She comes out with one towel wrapped around her waist and using another to towel dry her hair. She looks so effortlessly masculine, so boyish, it makes your mouth water. Abby startles when she sees you, at first with a soft, fond smile – then with a grin bordering on a smirk when she realizes what you’re wearing.
“I was worried you might have been a bit homesick,” you say with a shrug, feigning ease. “Thought I’d give you a taste of home.”
“Stand up.” Her voice is low, and dark, and so laced with desire that it sounds obscene.
You stand and turn, giving Abby full view of your ass peeking out of the nightgown. You meet her gaze over your shoulder, smiling innocently. “You like it?”
“I fucking love it,” she says, throwing the towel she was using to dry her hair on the ground as she crosses the room. As soon as she reaches you, it’s like you’re caught in a maelstrom of Abby.
Her hands, gripping your hips and coasting over your sides, pinching your nipples and coursing through your hair. Her mouth, on your neck and lips, your cheeks and collarbones, the top of your breasts. Her thigh, maneuvered with ease between your thighs, bare skin pressed against bare skin. Her voice, murmuring obscenities against your skin: “I could fucking eat you alive, baby” and “mine, all mine” and “This nightgown was fucking made to be worn by you.”
You rip the towel off of her hips and she doesn’t flinch, just pushes you to the bed. You like the way she practically throws you, immediately following you onto the mattress. She hovers over you, covering you in kisses, her hands everywhere, before coasting down to pull up the hem of your nightgown. You curse as her fingers make the first, possessive swipe over you. You feel her grin against your neck before nipping your collarbone.
With Abby touching you like this – her touch so familiar, so intimate – you almost forgot the reason for your nerves in the first place. But when you remember, remember her asking to be touched, asking for pleasure, you don’t feel any nerves. Not with her in your hands.
You summon enough self-control to press a hand against her bare hip, easing her down on the mattress next to you.
You give her hip a squeeze, looking into those blue eyes, before dragging your fingers, feather-light, across her skin to the soft thatch of golden hair at her center.
“Okay?” you ask, breath shaky.
She is silent for just a moment, her fingers still working at your clit, as if by muscle memory, before she nods. Just once, but firmly, decidedly.
You both lay on your back, propped up by an elbow. Her right hand is pressed familiarly between your legs in a casual, possessive way that sets you on fire. Your left hand sits unsurely on her thigh, so close to where you want to be. You glance at her; the instinct to turn to her in moments of uncertainty, of vulnerability is too strong to avoid it.
The nervousness on her face fades away to gentle fondness. With her free hand, she lowers your fully between her legs, keeping a gentle pressure – a constant, silent reassurance – until you press your middle finger between her lips to beyond.
You gasp at the first brush with wetness. Surely you don’t feel like this? Surely you don’t feel so…so…so divine? You’ve touched yourself countless times, and you’ve never felt anything as warm and silky and precious as this. Abby is warmer than you have ever been. Your fingers glide against her, and the realization that she is wet – she’s wet because of you – hits you so hard that you lose your breath.
This is heaven, you think distractedly. The sensation is so overwhelming that you hardly feel Abby’s touch; your senses all over your body have been redirected to the fingertips that are currently touching her. Nothing else matters.
Only Abby’s sharp breath brings you back down to earth. She’s looking at you with a strange concentration on her face, and you realize: this is what Abby looks like receiving pleasure.
It sends you into overdrive. “Here?” you whisper, coasting upward until you touch something familiar.
“Yes,” she breathes, “Yes.”
You explore slowly. Pressing, rubbing, fast, slow, hard, soft. You listen to her breaths, her low groans, the tensing of her arm that’s splayed across your stomach. At one point, she turns and buries her face in your hair and you know you’ve found what you’re looking for.
She likes it hard and rhythmic. Of course she does. She’s Abby – dependable and intense. Of course her pleasure would be the same way. When you directly touch her clit, she almost leaps off the bed, so you rub hard, slow circles around it, lingering slightly underneath. She moans when you reach that underneath point, and you can’t help yourself. You’re greedy.
Her own hand has gone still. Instead, she clutches at your hip. You hope wildly that she’ll leave bruises there.
She comes with a broken cry into your shoulder, her whole body shaking with tension. You crane your head to look at her face; her golden hair is limned with gold from the dim light in the room. She looks beatific, holy receiving pleasure like a gift. Her face is screwed up in something like concentration, almost pain. You leave your fingers pressed against her with the pressure she had liked so much – a trick you learned from Abby, to wring out every last bit of pleasure in her body – until she pushes you away with a gasp.
Without a word, she rolls into your arms. You wrap yourself around her broad shoulders, holding her tight. “Are you…was that okay?” you ask, timidly. Scared for the first time since you touched her.
“That was…a fucking revelation,” she sighs, raising her head to look at you. Her eyes are glinting, her cheeks flushed and rosy. “Did – did you like it?”
You nod, grinning. “I liked it. A lot. A lot, a lot.”
She laughs, and you join in. Both of you are riding a wave of giddy excitement. This is new – new and fragile, but also carrying the potential of something great. Incredibly, unbelievably perfect.
The laughter quickly devolves into kissing, and within moments, Abby is Abby. Rough hands on your hips, moving you like a ragdoll. Slapping your ass and laughing when you moan. She quickly puts you in her favorite position, knees on either side of her head, hovering over her face. She grabs your hips and pulls you down, down until you’re resting on her face.
Her tongue is rough and exacting and teasing as she works you, teasing your entrance, then your clit, avoiding the exact places you need her the most. Her head is propped up slightly on the pillow – so she can watch you come, you know from experience. She holds your hips in a vise grip, keeping you from moving against her and taking the pleasure you need. She likes to have you where she wants you; she likes to keep you there until you have to beg for more.
But there are new opportunities open to you now. You lean backwards, propping yourself up on her thighs. She’s asked you to do this before – she likes to see you splayed out for her, your entire body on display.
You can tell she isn’t expecting it when you snake a hand backward to her center. She gasps against your entrance and you pause. “Okay?” you ask. She nods. Quickly.
The position is awkward and you’re sure you’d be stiff if you weren’t so wholly absorbed in the task at hand. This time, you draw your finger down against her entrance, hot and wet and welcoming. Her tongue moves in earnest against you, almost in punishment, in reward. Your fingers move back to her clit, moving faster and deeper than before. A punishment. A reward.
When she moans against your skin, you can’t help but groan towards the ceiling. When she dips her tongue into you, you press a fingertip inside her – just a dip, but enough to make her buck her hips.
It’s a push-and-pull, a competition of pleasure. After a few minutes, you’re both cresting over that edge – you first, then Abby after a minute. She bucks her hips wildly, seeking that pressure that you’re more than willing to give. Even in the aftershocks of your own orgasm, you focus as best you can on her body. After she finishes, you collapse into a puddle of limbs next to her, your nightgown completely askew on your body. Abby pulls you against her with arms that feel just as limp as yours do.
“Goddamn,” she sighs. “Why the hell didn’t we start doing this sooner?”
“We just had to be ready. Had to give ourselves time to be ready.”
“I’m glad you could be so…understanding. Even when I don’t fully understand.”
You shrug. “We’re not straight. We’re kind of lucky, in a way…sex doesn’t really come with a rulebook. We can just do whatever we want, whatever works for us.”
She holds you extra tight for a moment, presses her lips firmly to the top of your head. “I’m lucky,” she rasps, her voice almost embarrassingly sincere. “I never thought…”
“I never thought it could be like this.” You finish the sentiment for her. You’ve been feeling the exact same way.
“Never.”
You lie there, safe in each other’s arms, for an hour. You bully each other into going to the bathroom – Abby is fastidious about this after sex, terrified of giving you an infection – then lay together, naked, lazily groping each other as you talk. You run a finger along the indents of her abs; she meditatively rubs her thumb up and down your hip bone.
It’s quiet and charged and domestic. It breaks your heart with some bittersweet joy and heals it all at once. You eventually fall asleep mid-conversation, your head resting where Abby’s shoulder and arm meet.
In the quietness of the room without your voices, Abby watches you for a long time. She has the distinct feeling that tonight has signaled the entrance to a new era of her life. She felt the same thing after the first time she kissed you, like she had turned a new page, discovered a new dimension she had never yet envisioned. This feels like your relationship has evolved from sweet and exciting, new and risky, to something solid. Dependable. Permanent.
No one else has ever seen this side of her; no one else has even wondered if that side existed.
“I love you,” she whispers to the room, to the sound of your quiet, steady breaths. “Forever.”