Ağu 31

Impact 15: of The Bitch

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For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of The Bitch

My room is hot and still, I can hear traffic moving on the avenue, but it’s light and my block is quiet. I think this is my favorite time with Claire, when it’s too early, the murky climb out of unconsciousness into her embrace.

Claire and I are facing each other. One of my arms is trapped under her neck, the other hand is squeezed between her thighs. Her arms are thrown over her head, one bicep pressed over her eyes. Her mouth is open and she is snoring slightly. She had fallen asleep so abruptly last night I thought she was making a joke. When I realized she wasn’t I had felt bad that I hadn’t seen how tired she was; that I hadn’t realized how badly jet lagged she still was.

It had been a sticky restless night, the two of us moving around on the bed in the heat and humidity. Still, every time I woke up Claire and I were touching. Sometimes just a hand on a belly, other times our legs were twisted together, once her face was on my breasts, her arm around my waist – everywhere our skin touched would be wet with sweat.

And then at some point, very late, or very early, I had jerked out of a dream, my heart hammering. She was behind me, her arms wrapping my arms tight, pinning them.

“Shhhh,” she had urged. She had held me tight until my heart had slowed and my breathing had calmed. All the time she was breathing as if she was still asleep. Maybe she was. Her arms were so strong and sure. My breath slowed to match hers, her muscles relaxing with mine, the two of us slipping right back to sleep.

In the light of day my dream is forgotten. There are tiny beads of sweat on Claire’s upper lip. I blow on them softly, wanting to cool her. The way her lips sit on her teeth when it’s open this way makes her overbite look exaggerated. She must have been an adorable little girl… but so very naughty. Even at rest the corners of her mouth curl mischievously.

I think of what my mother told me about catching me naked with Katherine McNamara. I try to picture where we might have been. I have a sense memory of sitting naked on the shag carpeting of the guest bedroom, of sunshine, of still being wet from the pool… hiding behind the bed? Something about the idea tickles a memory, my mother’s face looking down on me, both shocked and amused. I wonder if I had a naughty smile when I looked back at her?

Claire’s eyes are moving under her lids – the fast chaotic movements of REM sleep.

She sometimes laughs in her sleep, but when I ask she never remembers why, or tells me it makes no sense. Still it makes me happy for her. I wish I could share her dreams, that I could laugh with her in my sleep.

Even with the window open my room smells like sex, like pussy, like our sweaty bodies; us. My scalp is damp, a drop of sweat prickles my forehead. Still, the heat and humidity of the city is cool compared to the wet boiling inside me. I remember how it felt to cum with Claire, straddling her cunt, my cunt flooding her, hers flooding me.

My hand is squeezed between Claire’s sticky sleeping thighs. I push gently upwards, finding her lips with the edge of my index finger.

Her skin is soft and moist, so perfectly smooth and hairless. I think of her doing that for me, of making time to get a Brazilian as soon as she arrived in Paris. I picture her, on her back, her knees at her chest, spread wide. Did she gossip with her beautician about me the way I gossiped with my saleswoman at the chemists? I try to picture her babbling happily… Somehow it doesn’t ring true, but I’m really not sure.

I am moving my finger against her lips, just smoothing them against each other – lip and tip. Her skin is damp and tacky in the heat. I feel the fringe of her labia, a sliver of her delicate inner “lips” – her petals. No more than a thread of flesh, they are moist too but in a very different way than her outer lips, exuding slippery pearlescence. In my mind’s eye I can see the thin flaccid edge of pale pink peeking out, almost like a tongue – but so flat, so unlike any other part of our bodies in that way; the brink. I know exactly what those petals feel like on my tongue, all the different ways she tastes.

Physically, I know Claire more intimately than anyone I’ve ever known, and she knows me far more intimately than anyone has ever come close to. Emotionally I feel much closer to her than anyone in the world, even my mother. But in other ways I hardly know her at all, our friendship is so new.

Still, I like picturing her with her legs spread and feet in the air happily babbling in French with a pretty Polish lady as she plucks hairs from Claire’s pussy.

Somehow my mind jumps from that image to Claire telling her mother about us. I picture Claire’s mother as an older version of Claire, although she’s told me she Antep Escort takes after her father. It’s vexing that I don’t have a clear image of her mother, but I can very easily imagine Claire in that situation, can picture her expression, the volume of her voice as she explains herself earnestly.

Claire is wet enough that my finger moves easily against her. My slick fingertip rides the shallow crease of her still closed sex. I am dragging tiny amounts of slippery moisture upwards. Each stroke I am able to go a little further, sliding back with greater ease. Beneath the sliding surface I can feel her clitoris, heated and hard. Insistent but still buried and held secret in the soft, fleshy grip of her outer lips.

“Mine,” I whisper, watching her lashes flutter at the sound, the movement of her eyes under her lids, the bulge of her pupils tracking dream objects, in dream rooms, with dream lovers. There are no wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, no lines mar her brow, her cheeks are smooth and unblemished.

My mind jumps again and I picture my mother’s face when I told her how old Claire was, when she realized Claire was closer to her in age than to me. She had asked out of the blue. The two of us had been having coffee my last morning. I’d gotten up first and started the pot. She came in just as it was ready and I poured us each a cup. She gave me a kiss, she hadn’t brushed her teeth, her breath smelled of sleep. I gave her the mug with a picture of the pope on it; John Paul – “THE Pope,” my father had always said. I took one I’d given her. It had a glazed square of Pantone red – 186

We had sat across from each other in silence for a bit, both still dazed from sleep, lost in our own thoughts. I was getting up to get the pot, to give us each a warm-up when she asked.

“How old is Claire?”

She was looking out the side window at her car parked in the driveway.

“Thirty six.”

Her expression hadn’t changed, her attention had stayed fixed on the car, but her head had bobbed back in surprise.

When she turned to look at me, it was because I was offering to refill her mug. She had looked into my eyes, her expression calm, but clouded. And then Wes had shuffled in.

She and I didn’t say much more to each other, about anything, after that. I should have called her when I landed, to tell her I was safe. She should have called last night, to be sure I made it home OK.

I had expected her to be hysterically upset about Claire and I, for her to attack me in a fury, accusing me of perversion and sin.

“What are you doing?” I’d expected her to hiss as soon as Claire was out of ear shot. “Have you lost your mind?!?”

She had been so calm. She hadn’t even seemed surprised. Part of me was still amazed she hadn’t thanked God dad wasn’t alive to see this. But that could still be coming… maybe she was just overwhelmed, didn’t have emotional bandwidth for hysteria. Maybe the only thing that kept her from losing her shit was exhaustion.

I could hear her screaming, “HOW COULD YOU?! HOW COULD YOU BRING THAT SIN INTO THIS HOUSE?!? YOUR FATHER’S NOT EVEN IN THE GROUND!” I dread talking to her, dread what time and distance might allow her to say.

Claire’s eyes open. A slow reveal of bright clear hazel beneath thick lashes, still clouded by sleep, but she looks happy. My fingers are in her now, stroking slowly. I am moving from the wet source all the way up to the little fountainhead, which I have lubricated and exposed. Her flesh is slippery and warm, soft and giving. Pushing in deep feels like fingering a warm mousse. The image makes me smile, although I’m certain Claire would hate it.

“Why are you laughing?” she asks, her voice quiet, her breath strong and funky.

“I like how you feel,” I tell her.

“I feel very good,” she whispers, opening her legs and arching her back for me; stretching. “Such a wonderful way to wake up.”

She turns on her back, her arms over her head reaching and stretching and then dropping, limp. With her legs open my hand is free to move. I’m pumping my fingers into her slowly, but pushing hard. I want to be gentle, but I want her to feel what’s to come.

“It’s already so hot,” she complains. “We should go to the beach this weekend.”

“Really?!” I cry. The reaction is so immediate, so unfiltered and reflexive and unintentionally comic, I blush. It’s as if she had offered ice cream to a child. She gives me a wry look, amused by my girlish excitement.

I pull my arm from under her neck and wag my ass with glee as I work my way down the bed, lowering my mouth to her nipple to suck. I open my eyes wide with an exaggerated innocence while pushing my lips at her, like a girl enjoying a lolly. She laughs at my coquettish hamming, but she also twists her body with real eagerness, her breast pushing her stiff nipple into my mouth.

“Who do we know who has a car?” she demands, tight teeth betraying her attempt at dispassion. My clowning moves her.

“Kippen,” I slurp, making my voice high and Antep Escort Bayan lispy, my tongue moving in opposition to the girlish goofing. Its movements are adult and sure, like a serpent circling her nipple, seducing her.

“Ohhhh… I’d like to meet Kippen!” she moans, her hips starting to roll. “Does Kip have a boyfriend?”

“Tons,” I quip, popping my lips free with a smack to make the joke, then dropping again, returning to my suck. I’m looking up at her, fingers inside her, thumb polishing the underside of her clit, her head is lolling, neck bent back, she can’t see me. I let my girly mask slip, relaxing my eyes, lifting my mouth, letting my tongue circle and drool.

“I liked last night,” I tell her, pushing two fingers in as deep as I can.

“Mmmnnnn… I did too,” she groans, stretching her leg as far apart as she can, opening like a flower. And then after a long breathy pause, “My young Sarah rode me….”

Her eyes are closed, head wagging slowly from side to side, arms still over her head, one hand tight over her other wrist, as if she’s restraining herself, or pretending to be restrained. My fingers are in and out with pneumatic smoothness and force. I am sucking hard, and softening my mouth to lick and caress by turns.

“It was so good,” she moans. I wonder if she is imagining being held down and fucked.

“I loved having you over me that way, feeling your body weight on me, your hips moving against mine…”

My hand is moving faster now, making wet little pat pat pat sounds. Her breast and my mouth and chin are sopping, both coated with my saliva. My nose is dripping wet. I’m drooling.

“Do you… fantasize during sex?” I ask her.

“It’s exciting to think about last night,” she admits. “To talk to you about it. You were so beautiful the way you mounted me, to be ridden like that… oh fuck, you-“”

And it’s true, I can feel the effect of it on her, she is growing heated and animated. She almost called me a name… she’s getting close, but nowhere near to done.

“Do you imagine other nights, other lovers?” I ask, my fingers starting to jack rabbit in her, making my arm and shoulder ache. My thumb is battering her clit.

“When I’m with you?” she asks, her voice bouncing a little with my movements. She raises her head to look at me now, to show me her face. Her breasts jiggle and she takes a long deep breath, she’s trying to focus, to show me how earnest she is, but I’m distracting her. Her expression is almost pained. “Not other lovers, you preoccupy me… you are all I can think about… when I was away… ah fuck, Sarah AH FUCK!”

“What did you fantasize about while you were away?”

“I fantasized about you telling me you loved me… about having you with me… what that would have been like… aaah… c’est trop bien!”

“What about having me with you?”

“Mmmnn… that you were with me at a party and one of the women we were speaking to asked me in French, ‘est-elle bonne?’ – you understood but didn’t understand, but I did and it made me angry. I told you to lick my cunt and without hesitation or even a questioning look you got on your knees and ate me out while the bitch watched.”

“I would.”

“I know… ah! …fuck!”

“What about before?” I ask, trying to focus on my thumb, moving my hand with my wrist, my thumb almost like a pivot point. My fingers curl as they withdraw and straighten as they thrust, forcing themselves against the roof of her vagina.

“Cunt!” she spits, throwing her head to the side and regaining herself. “Before what?”


“Before my Young Sarah?” she groans, her breath tightly controlled but still jumping with the thrusts of my fingers. “Yes, I would fantasize during sex I think… not always but often… you?”

“Always,” I tell her. “…about girls mostly- before I mean.”

“And… now?”

“About us,” I whisper, watching her color rise, her beauty taking focus – her pleasure like a lens. She is soaking my hand, which is making crude wet sounds. “About you.”

“When… I was gone?” she gasps.

I think of the beautiful butch women in their workout clothes, their tattoos and muscles, their dykey haircuts.

“I fantasized about you,” I tell her. We are staring at each other. Her hair is wet with sweat. My sweat is dripping into my eyes, stinging them. The muscles of my arm burn and my wrist aches.

“What was I doing?” she wants to know.

“We were in a workout class,” I tell her, surprised by how exciting it is to tell her. “You were showing me what to do, in front of the other women. You were very strict.”

“CumminGAhhh…” she gasps, going still, a plume of heat rising off her body, a burst of sweat beading her skin. I move myself up to kiss her deeply as she cums. Her legs clamp down on my hand, forcing me to stop, but I keep my fingers in her. My tongue is in her mouth, her teeth are clamping down on my teeth as I force my tongue as deep as it will go.

Her hands are squeezing my shoulders with bruising force, Escort Antep we stay like that until her crisis passes, until she goes slack and I go slack with her. I am kissing her face, drinking her sweat.

“You can again,” I tell her.

“For you…” she admits weakly.

“I want to eat your cum”, I whisper into her mouth. “I want to lick you clean, to lick you until you cum again, until you cum in my mouth. I want to drink you”

“Oh Sarah…” she croons, releasing my shoulders and reaching for my face, pulling me in for a long deep kiss.

“I don’t ever want to stop,” I tell her as I begin moving down the bed.

“I love you more today than I did yesterday,” she whispers, her voice earnest, thick with postcoital desire.

“And tomorrow?” I prompt, kissing her mons.

“No,” she murmurs with a resigned sigh as I push my tongue into her. “Not anywhere near as much as tomorrow…”

Her second orgasm is as gentle as a spring. Like hot water rising silently up through already warm earth. Moans my name softly as she floods my mouth, and as promised I drink her and lick her clean, her fingers playing with my hair while I do.

“If you’re not careful I will again, and again, and again…” she murmurs.

“What was it like when The Bitch was watching?” I ask, my breath reflecting the wet heat of her cunt back at my lips.

“I told you to make me cum fast and hard. I wanted to make The Bitch jealous, for her to see how good you are,” she tells me. And then pushing her fingers into my hair, and gripping me in her fist, she says, “I was very strict.”

I make her cum fast. Her third orgasm is loud and frantic and leaves her spent. I climb up the bed and back into her arms, my scalp feeling a little bruised and her cries echoing in my ears. It wasn’t clear if she was calling me bitch or calling to The Bitch, but either way I was excited to have made her swear.

“…bitch,” she says once more, this time a soft murmuring in my ear.

We have time for a cuddle and sweet nothings before we finally get up. While Claire is in the bathroom, I make us espresso with my little stovetop Omsk, warming our doughnuts in the oven at the same time. I watch the pot, waiting for it to perk – I’ve found the trick for a perfect espresso is to get the pot off the flame the instant BEFORE it starts to sputter and blow air, otherwise the espresso gets a burnt peanut shell taste.

“It’s really good when you do it,” Claire tells me, tasting hers. I have to stop myself from swishing, I’m so happy.

“Why are they called ‘apple cider doughnuts’?” she wants to know, but I’m stumped. We are naked, sitting across from each other at my little oak table. I reach across to brush sugar from her lip, which she pushes out to meet my fingertips. The intimacy and trust is effortless. “I like them,” she decides.

I ask her to show me pictures of her mother. She gets her phone and begins scrolling back.

“Here she is, these!” she says, handing me her phone. “There’s a bunch…”

It’s her mother in big sunglasses at an outdoor cafe. She is pulling a face that I recognize, making me laugh.


“No, no,” I assure her. “You make that same face, that’s all.”

There are a few pictures of her in the glasses, she looks animated. like she is telling a story that outrages her. I think of the way Claire waves her hands to show how wrong something is, or how important it is.

Then there is a picture of Brigitte smiling with her glasses off. She is still talking, but she is beside an older man, with thick white hair, who must be Morris. The remains of a meal are in front of them, glasses of white wine.

Brigitte is much different than I imagined. Her mouth is wider than Claire’s, the shape of her eyes are different.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, swiping through the series of Brigitte and Morris in a picturesque square.

“This is the Grand-Place,” she says, pointing behind her mother. “It’s more charming than I remembered.”

I can imagine Claire standing back, herding Brigitte and Morris into place, asking her mother to look into the camera, to smile.


“She’s very vain,” Claire warns me, smiling.

“She has a right.”

“The women in my family age well,” she tells me with pride. “… and she’s had some work done.”

“She doesn’t look it…” I meant it. Her mother has none of the tells I associate with plastic surgery.

“Morris can afford for the work to be very good I guess,” Claire says, with a smirk of mild disapproval. But then, after a pause she says with a sympathetic sigh, “Brigitte hates growing old.”

“Do you?”

“Hate getting old? Never before meeting my Young Sarah… but now I sometimes wish I was younger.”

“I don’t,” I tell her truthfully. “I only wish we had met sooner.”

“Yes, I wish that too. But I’m afraid I would have scooped you up and taken you away. That you would never have gone to Brown and started InfoPorn… so maybe it’s best we waited.”

The idea of being swept away as a girl by Claire is so exciting, that for a moment I am almost blinded by the ideals. I push the thought away and finish scrolling through her pics, of the fairs, Brussels. Groups of people, Claire with strangers, some smiling, some serious.

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