Pancakes (Lauren & Beck #2)

Beck wakes up slow, taking minutes to open her eyes, shifting her spine and hips as she snuggles closer under the smooth, soft comforter. It’s already bright outside, and if the fog has already burned off that means it’s after 9am already. Beck isn’t surprised they slept in, more like pleased—she never used to allow herself that luxury, even on a weekend. She snakes her arm over to find Lauren, but no one is there; Lauren’s half of the bed is empty. That is enough to wake Beck fully, and she throws off the covers, pulls on boxers, and goes out into Lauren’s kitchen.

The smell tells her where Lauren is before she sees her: pancakes. Beck’s favorite, and Lauren’s specialty. Beck breathes in, inhaling that luxurious smell of butter and sugar, the tangy tinge of fruit. Even her senses seem more sensitive, everything feels more intense. Lauren is balancing pans at the stove: a small cast-iron skillet full of berries, a flat griddle in the center, a metal spatula in one hand. She’s wearing a simple long chef’s apron, and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

“Where’d you go,” Beck mumbles, still sleepy, tongue thick and well-used from last night’s escapades. She comes up behind Lauren and slips her arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Lauren grins, turning her head to kiss Beck as well as she can reach. “Preparing your favorites,” she says.

“It smells amazing.”

“It’s almost done. I was just thinking about creative ways to wake you up. I can’t believe you slept so late.”

“Me either. Thanks for wearing me out last night.”

Another grin. “My pleasure.”

Beck’s cunt is still sore. It was the first time she’s taken Lauren’s fist all the way, to the hilt of her wrist, thick and all-consuming. Lauren’s hands aren’t small, but that isn’t it: Beck isn’t usually willing to open. Again, it goes through Beck’s mind: everything has changed. She pushes back tears, tries to stop her mind from going into that downward spiral that leaves her in bed watching sitcoms all day.

They eat in Beck’s messy dining room, clearing the paperwork to one side of the table and laying out the fruit compote, yogurt, maple syrup, and steaming pile of pancakes on their side. Beck is famished, but it’s so deliciously indulgent to be eating pancakes on a Wednesday morning that she savors bite after bite after bite like it’s the first one. She licks maple syrup from her fingers and doesn’t even care that that is messy and improper.

Lauren watches her eat with a little sadness in her eyes, finally asking, “How are you feeling?”

Beck sighs a little. Inevitable. “Good. I’m … okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know.” Another bite. At least eating is a good excuse not to talk. She chews quietly.

“Can I … help, somehow?”

Beck shrugs, spooning compote onto another pancake. “Not really. Look, baby—” Beck puts her spoon down, reaches over for Lauren’s hand, warm and comforting. “There’s just nothing to do. I’m hungry, that’s a good sign, right?”

Lauren nods a little. “Yeah. I just … worry. You know.”

“I know.”

Beck has one more pancake, just one more, she promises herself, and finishes off the coffee with coconut cream from her favorite mug. It’s perfect, it could not be more perfect. She beams at Lauren, thrilled and grateful. This is how it happens these days: the emotional roller coaster has ecstasy in the highs and despair in the lows. The ups and downs can make Beck feel nauseous, they happen so fast.

Lauren starts clearing dishes and Beck helps, carrying plates to the kitchen, overlooking last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. She doesn’t even care about that anymore. Everything has changed. When Beck comes back in, Lauren is wiping the table with a sponge. There’s a fat drip of maple syrup right in the center of the table that she misses, and something stirs in Beck. A new hunger, more hunger, that insatiable hunger that can never be satisfied. Breakfast is barely just complete, but it isn’t about food. It’s about consumption, about devouring, about fingernails ripping into flesh and the crying out that throats make when they are gasping for air.

Beck comes up behind Lauren and circles her neck with her hand, pushing her chest first down onto the table. Lauren gasps, bare breasts crushing against the table. “You missed a spot,” she hisses in Lauren’s ear. Lauren’s forehead is almost touching the dot of syrup. Beck points, and immediately Lauren opens her mouth to try to lick the table clean, but she can’t quite reach, so scoots further onto the table. Her feet no longer touch the floor, her hips are on the table now. As Lauren’s tongue touches the sticky-sweet drip, Beck stands between her legs, parting her cheeks, taking handfuls of her juicy ass and thighs. Lauren’s slit is pink, still swollen from so much fucking last night, thick. Her pubic hair is dark and groomed, but still a little wild, a little unruly.

It doesn’t take Beck much time at all to get her mouth positioned, and she sucks Lauren’s folds onto her tongue, soft and sharp, sweet and succulent. Lauren gasps, tender in all her private places. Beck is devourous. She sucks and opens Lauren’s legs wider, holds her hips, wraps her arms around her thighs. She doesn’t use her fingers inside, just her tongue, as deep as she can get, desperate to fill Lauren up. Lauren tastes like salt and brine and sweet milk, like promise and desire itself.

“Oh god, oh god,” Lauren moans, pushing herself back toward Beck’s eager mouth. Beck laps and sucks, flicks with her tongue on just the right places, makes it hard and long for others. Beck could do this for hours. Time is irrelevant. They don’t have anywhere to be, only here, right now, doing this kind of worship, this kind of reverence. Those other things can’t possibly matter more than this.

When Lauren finally comes, she gushes hard into Beck’s mouth and down her chin, dripping onto her chest, though Beck swallows mouthfuls eagerly. Lauren trembles, finally releasing her grip on the table’s edge, letting the tension drain out of her legs. She turns as Beck rises from her crouched position on the floor. Beck pets her hair, Lauren’s tangled mess of curls, as Lauren hums, still vibrating from orgasm.

Lauren raises her head a little, an invitation for a kiss. Beck leans down close and their lips touch softly. Lauren sees the sparks still in Beck’s eyes.

“More?” Lauren asks.

Beck nods.

“Bedroom?”

Beck nods again, offering her hand. “Let’s go.” Lauren takes it, and lets herself be led down the hall.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith is a genderqueer kinky butch writer who teaches and performs, specializing in sexualities, genders, and relationships. They've written at sugarbutch.net since 2006, recognized numerous places as one of the Top Sex Blogs. Sinclair's gender theory and queer erotica is widely published in anthologies like Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica, and online at Feministing, Autostraddle, AfterEllen, and more; they are the editor of Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 and Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica, both published by Cleis Press. Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, Sinclair's first book of short erotic stories, was published in 2014. They use the pronouns they, them, theirs, themself, and live in Oakland, CA with their boy.

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