Fern saunters down the corridor like she’s window shopping, so casual, so indifferent. She’s in a simple dark grey summer dress that bounces a little when she moves, coming down to her knees, scooping at the neck. She’s carrying a crisp black leather rectangle purse, so small I can’t imagine it holds more than one book. Her black leather boots click against the floor. She looks a little severe, but the way she moves makes it all seem so casual and light. My legs start burning to run to her before she’s through the official security checkpoint, so I hold myself back for as long as I can, then dash into her arms and bury my nose in her neck, inhaling her sweet intoxicating scent, always the same, still after these two years: honeysuckle and leather.
“God, I missed you,” I whisper, not really speaking to her, just needing to say it aloud. She holds me close, arms around my waist as mine are thrown around her neck. I pull back to kiss her and our lips crushing and insistent, urgently nipping with our teeth, tongues exploring and soft.
I sigh, so happy. Things just feel so right when she’s around. “I can’t wait to show you around Indy!” I say. “There are so many fun things—”
“Oh sugar, like I want to see anything except your bedroom this weekend. I have a list of scenes I want to play in,” Fern ruffles my hair and slips her arm around my waist, turning and steering us toward baggage claim. “Sightseeing I can do anytime. You, though …” she turns to me, pulls me hard against her, our lips barely brushing, foreheads touching. “I need you,” she says, and kisses me again, so hard and passionate that I swoon, my knees going weak. She holds me up.
“Take me to your place,” she says.
While we wait for the luggage we kiss luxuriously slow, giggling, as if we had all the time in the world, as if we weren’t packing two month’s worth of longing and desire into one weekend, as if we knew where this was going. I wore sheer, wet lipstick that tastes like peaches—the one she loves—and hers is dark, but it doesn’t come off on my mouth. Her hair is too perfect, piled and twisted on top of her head. I can’t wait for it to come down, to lather it with shampoo and conditioner, to brush it out for her before bed like I’ve come to do on every visit.
I drive us quickly back to my place. She keeps her hand on my thigh, pushing up my short skirt, fingertips brushing feather-light against my skin. She kisses my neck and the palm of my right hand. I’m jumping out of my skin by the time we are walking from my apartment building’s small carport through the lobby to the elevator. Fern is so calm, like she is about to walk in to a business meeting she’s running. I am talking like an idiot, babbling on about the end of college, about my roommate (out of town for the weekend, obvs), about what happened when my parents came to visit for graduation, about the internship I had that possibly maybe probably could lead to a job, maybe even in New York.
The elevator is mirrored from the waist up. There are a hundred of us reflected on all angles. I’ve always loved this elevator. Really good selfies in here. As soon as I touch the #7 button to my floor—still yammering on, this time about the super of my building and how nothing is ever fixed—Fern puts a finger to my lips to shush me, gently pushing me against the wall. I whimper, immediately parting my legs for her. She shoves her hand up my skirt brutally, knocking into my pubic bone, as she kicks my legs apart and pushes my hands above my head with her other hand. She cups her palm around my cunt and kisses me, hard this time, biting my lower lip and shoving her tongue into my mouth. “I need you, Angie, I need you,” she mutters, pinching the folders of my cunt with her fingers, causing me to cry out, wince, and start dripping. “So wet already, girl,” she coos. I moan. Damnit. She always knows I can never hide it from her: what I want, what turns me on, what I’m desperate for. She’s so hard to read, but I seem so easy for her.
Fern pushes her fingers past my thin cotton panties and slides two right into me, easy and slick. I gasp, pressing hard against her hand, willing her deeper inside. I want her whole hand, her strap-on, her mouth—I want it all.
I’m just about ready to pull her down on top of me when the elevator stops and the door opens, and we’re on my floor. Fern clears her throat, kisses me once, and slides out of me, slowly and deliberately.
I barely get the key out of the lock before she’s on me again, in the hallway in my own little apartment. “Wait, wait, let me at least close the—” I start, but Fern slams it shut with her boot and gives me this look like I am the most delicious pray and she’s been stalking me for weeks. It makes me want to run, and it makes me want her to catch me.
So I do. I bolt toward the bedroom, dropping my purse and my keys on the floor, things scattering, not caring. Fern is so fast in following me that I can feel the whoosh of air on my legs. She catches me from behind, shoving me down face first onto the bed. I’m going to get it, and I want every bit of it I’ll get.
“I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you, girl,” she growls in my ear while she pushes my skirt and panties aside. She slides her fingers in again, more of them this time, long and pressing right up against that exact spot that always needs more, and I moan into the quilt.
“Please, please,” I beg.
Fern isn’t nice when she gets like this, she’s rabid, a little vicious. I never thought that would turn me on, but now I crave it, being wanted like that, being taken down. She thrusts into me a dozen times, slow then harder and faster, until I’m shuddering and almost ready to come. “Not yet, sugar,” she says, low and syrupy, her face still so close to my ear.
She pulls up and says, “Strip,” and reaches behind her for the zipper on her own dress, sliding it off of her shoulders, revealing her freckles and moles and her lovely breasts as she pulls it down over her arms. I drop my skirt and panties, unbuttoning the silver cap-sleeved blouse I’d picked out especially for her earlier this week. When her dress falls to the floor I see that she has a strap-on beneath her dress, a dark red one that matches her lipstick and fingernail polish precisely, holstered in a red and white striped harness with a small red bow at the top in the center. The dick is so long, and her dress is so tight, that it’s tied down to her thigh with a black hanky.
My breath catches at the sight. Goddamn, she’s so sexy. She unties the dick and tightens the harness.
“On the bed,” she says, and I immediately hop up onto it and lay back, pumping a palm-full of lube from the bottle on my nightstand and rubbing it against my hole. She kneels next to me, twisting my hips so she can slide her tool in to me from behind while I’m still mostly on my back. When she enters me, I grab at the bars of my headboard for support, pushing against her, working my hips against hers, taking it all in, every inch, every thrust she can manage.
“Please more, Fern please, please!”
She fucks me harder. She’s starting to grunt and moan and I reach down to touch my own clit, cunt contracting even harder around her. I rub it fast and furious with my fingers, pushing against the headboard and against her legs. She twists around, lifting one of her feet up, boots still on, and presses it against the side of my head, pushing me down into the bed. I’m held immobile, I have to take it, it’s too much and I almost can’t, but I love it, and I open up to meet every inch of force she dishes out to me.
Harder still. I moan and cry out, begging for more, begging for her to let up, begging for mercy, but she is relentless, and focused on my hole, which is telling her all she needs to know. I breathe and quiet myself, trying to just feel it, just feel every bit of it, just let every cell in my body soak up this pleasure so I can let it seep into my skin over the next months that we’re apart. When are we going to see each other again? We don’t have another visit planned. I can’t think about that now. Just feel it, I tell myself. Just this next thrust. Just this next breath.
I start working my clit with my other hand again, face still pressed to the bed under her boot, and before I know it I come, hard, shuddering and gasping, crying out, pressing my hips into Fern as she thrusts into me.
She moves her boot and collapses next to me. “Fuck!” she declares.
I can barely move, but I nuzzle closer to her, catching my breath. “Uh huh.”
“Ange, you’re so fucking hot,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.
“Mmm. You are,” I say. “Did you come?”
She gives a short laugh. “No, I can’t come like that. I’ll just use your mouth later. Or your hands. Or maybe my hands. Hm, so many options.”
I nod, sleepy. “Whatever you want.” We lay together in the quiet for a little while, skin against skin, hands touching, caressing.
Then, suddenly: “Come on,” she says, getting up off the bed.
“Let’s go, I want a cigarette.” Last time she was here, we spent most of the time in my bedroom, the kitchen, and the little roof deck up on the 8th floor. She loves cigars especially. I’ve even gotten good at cigar service, which I learned from folks in the local leather scene at her urging.
I reluctantly oblige, pulling my softest, warmest robe from behind the closet door and slipping it on. She pulls on pajama pants and a tee shirt, and pulls my college sweatshirt from the closet.
I follow her upstairs, still giddy and buzzing. She’s a little antsy. I should probably have offered to get her off right away, she’s still all wound up. But when I get upstairs, I get the feeling something else is going on.
She lights a cigarette, playing with the lighter and staring at the flame, sucking down the smoke. I hate that I find her smoking sexy, but I do. She gets all squinty and intense, and I just want to kiss her and taste it on her mouth. We sit on the patio furniture, knees touching.
“You know I love you,” she leans, reaching over to my hands in my lap. It’s chilly out here; we’re in that gloaming time, when it’s still light but the sun is gone, and it’s not yet twilight. I wrap my robe tighter around my body.
“Of course,” I say, but she keeps going.
“You know I want to be with you. I just haven’t been able to figure out a way to do it, really. But I got some really good news at work recently. I’ve been waiting to tell you, I wanted to say it in person. They’re offering me an international position, which means I’ll be overseas probably 8 months out of the year to start. The company has a villa in France, and another in Italy—that’s where they want me first.”
I swallow. Oh shit. What is she saying?
“And school is done for you, now. I know you want to get your own job and have your own career, and I want you to, I don’t want to be in the way of that. But we have other options, too … ”
And out of nowhere, Fern suddenly has a ring in her hand. A diamond ring, a beautiful one, antique and perfect and catching all the light that the sky has left. I gasp at the sight of it.
“Angie, you’re everything to me. I want to keep exploring this, and I want you in my life every day, not just sometimes. I want you to come abroad with me. I know it’s a risk, and it will be really different and probably hard, but I want to try. Do you? Will you … marry me?”
I swallow, my mouth is so dry, my eyes are wet. “Yes. Yes baby, yes!”
Fern is relieved, visibly, and lunges forward to hug me. I can barely breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. I take a deep breath and feel better, feeling Fern’s hands on my back, her body and the perfect shape of her next to me, inhaling the scent of her. And—France! Italy! And the ring!
She pulls back to offer the ring, and I offer my finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” she says, kissing me. “My mom said she can’t wait to meet you.”
She slides it on, and it’s a perfect fit.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade. Harness featured in the story is The Betty by Velvet Nest. Cheesy marriage ending brought to you by the Supreme Court marriage equality decision over this past (pride!) weekend.