Lovers (lesbian) (Katherine T.)
The following entertainment is for adults only, and anyone not an adult is hereby warned to go away.
All comments to the author will be greatly appreciated. Contact me at katherinet_@hotmail.com
A repository of erotic fiction by Katherine T. can be found at the following URL: ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Katherine_T
Author's note: I wrote this story some years ago under another title and another pseudonym. Frankie's lesbian politics are a bit antiquated, but politics is politics, and since not all people evolve politically at the same rate, the story is probably still relevant. This is a story of a particular troubled lesbian relationship, and like any story of a relationship, it may not be descriptive of other relationships. I've made some minor changes and I'm now posting this new version for the first time.
Lovers
by Katherine T.
What you see is not what is there.
What is there is something else.
-- Unknown
EIGHT: FRANKIE
At three o'clock in the afternoon in a large downtown auditorium, the Illinois Bar Association gathers to honor one of its own. Frankie arrives early and she decides to take a seat up front. She hopes maybe sitting near the dais will force her to keep her eyes open. These gatherings of attorneys are a professional necessity, but always so insufferably boring. Is there anything more boring than a pontificating attorney?
Gradually, the seats in the auditorium begin to be occupied, blue and gray suits worn by both the men and the women, an occasional flamboyant sport jacket adorning a flamboyant trial lawyer. As the noise in the room increases, Frankie opens the New York Times to read about the latest Wall Street scandal. She hopes the paper will screen her from old law school acquaintances she has no desire to meet again.
When the meeting begins, Frankie puts the newspaper away and she listens to a succession of speakers reviewing significant local events in the legal profession. Frankie takes notes because she likes to have a record of who talked about what at these meetings. The high point of the afternoon is the bestowing of a career award on an old teacher of Frankie's, Judge Elwood Beale. Frankie has little interest even in this event, except that when Judge Beale is called to the dais, he is assisted by a stunning young blonde whose beauty and grace produce a quickening of Frankie's pulse. Who is she? Frankie finds the young woman an incitement to lust, fantasy, a sharp quivering in her belly. Is she so sexually bereft that she needs to respond like this to any attractive female? No, this one is something special, a rarity, tall, long-boned, a perfect face with high cheekbones, a wide mouth painted a light pink. The blonde is ravishing, a delight for the eyes. She assists Judge Beale to the podium, and then she sits on a nearby chair as if to watch over him. Who is she? Frankie only half listens to the judge's words as he begins speaking in a slow hoarse voice. Her attention is instead fixed on the blonde, on the blonde's face, her classic beige dress, the lines of her lovely legs in beige hose, the delicate shoes with modest heels. She's past thirty but not more than thirty-five, a blooming young woman with an appearance of an intense vitality. And as Frankie stares at her, the young woman finally turns her head to look at Frankie. Not a glance, but a look, a long look, a meeting of the eyes, a contact both electric and definite.
Oh yes, Frankie thinks. She has a sudden desire to throw herself on the dais and find the blonde's cunt with her mouth. Oh yes indeed.
The judge speaks only briefly, graciously accepting the award with an amusing story about his youth in law school. When he finishes, the attorneys in the audience applaud with gusto, happy one of their own has been honored, happy the dull meeting is at last finished. Frankie immediately leaves her seat and she goes to the dais to greet her old teacher.
Judge Beale doesn't recognize her at first, and then his eyes turn wide and bright and he says: "Ah, Frances Hooper, how are you?"
Frankie chats with the old judge, and before long the judge turns to the blonde young woman. "Alison, meet Frances Hooper, one of my best students. Frances, this is my daughter."
Frankie's mission is accomplished, the introduction achieved. The blonde's name is Alison and she's the judge's daughter. How marvelous.
"Hooper?" the blonde says. "I know a tennis coach named Sally Hooper."
"A distant cousin."
The blonde smiles. "How nice."
More talk. Frankie helps Alison get the old judge off the dais. Other attorneys are approaching now, the judge shaking hands, nodding at old friends.
Frankie looks at Alison and asks if Alison is an attorney.
"Oh no," Alison says. "I was a bad girl and I avoided law school. I'm in advertising."
She runs a small agency specializing in fashion. Frankie is impressed, more interested than ever, almost quivering with a need to know her better.
But before long it's time to leave, and sanity requires a polite exit.
"Well, goodby," Frankie says.
Alison smiles. "Thanks for helping me with Dad."
An hour later Frankie sits in her office in a state of distraction. She can't think of anything but the blonde, the judge's daughter, the blonde Alison Beale. Behind Frankie, the law books catch the light of the dying western sun. Her desk is huge, uncluttered because she hates a cluttered desk. The two large windows overlook the western part of the city, the sprawling avenues that go on and on to the far horizon. On most afternoons she enjoys watching the sun make its descent, the orange sky, the first lights of the city twinkling in the dusk. But this afternoon all she thinks about is Alison Beale.
At last, with a sigh, Frankie reaches for the phone book on the shelf behind her and she flips the pages to find the Beales. Beale and Beale and Beale. And finally Alison Beale and two listed phone numbers, one residential and the other a downtown office. Frankie calls the office number, and she feels a wave of happiness when she's put through immediately to Alison Beale.
"I thought we might have lunch sometime," Frankie says.
And on the other end of the line, Alison Beale says yes, she'd like that, she'd like that very much.
They agree on a day and a place, and when Frankie puts the phone down she looks at the instrument as if to recognize for the first time what a definite miracle it is.
Alison Beale will have lunch with her in a few days.
Frankie quivers, a sudden heat rising in her belly, a sudden uncontrolled passion for a woman hardly met and hardly known. Not known at all, really. Is it merely a woman she wants? Is that it? Giddy with her success at connecting with Alison, Frankie abruptly decides on a lark. Yes, why not? Oh my yes, she thinks, what a lovely idea.
It's almost five o'clock when Frankie enters the lobby of the North Michigan Avenue hotel. Valerie has already been notified not to expect Frankie home until eight or nine, and the hotel has already been contacted to provide a room for the evening. And so when Frankie approaches the desk and gives her name, the arrangements require no more than five minutes, and after that she has her key and a pleasant smile from the desk clerk as he says, "Have a nice stay, Ms. Hooper."
Upstairs in the room, Frankie calls down to order a bottle of chilled Chablis, and then she makes another call to a number outside the hotel, holding a credit card in her hand as she speaks softly into the telephone with her eyes on the window looking north along the busy boulevard. In a few moments the phone is down again, and Frankie sighs as she lies back on the bed thinking well, it's done, so stop worrying about whether you ought to do it because you've already done it. What she feels now is a marvelous tingling anticipation. She tells herself this is one way, at least, not to think about Alison Beale.
The wine arrives. After the hotel porter leaves, Frankie draws the drapes across the window and she pours herself a glass of cool Chablis. She feels good now, much much better. More settled. The anticipation is still there, the boiling under the surface, but she has the lid on enough to keep her mind clear.
Time passes. As she finishes the second glass of wine, someone knocks on the door.
Frankie goes to the door and opens it, and there stands a thin blonde in a red dress, a string of Italian beads around her neck, a large leather shoulder bag, charcoal stockings and black heels.
The girl smiles at Frankie. "Hi, I'm Carol."
Frankie holds the door open as the girl walks past her and into the room. After Frankie closes and locks the door, she follows the girl and says: "Would you like some wine?"
"Sure, thanks."
Frankie pours the wine as the girl drops her purse on one of the chairs near the window. As she hands the glass to the girl, Frankie says, "I'm glad you could make it so quickly."
The girl smiles. "I never lose any time when they tell me it's a woman."
Frankie chuckles. As she sips the wine, she looks the blonde over from head to toe. "You're very attractive," Frankie says.
The girl smiles again, sits on one of the two easy chairs and crosses her long legs. "What would you like me to call you?"
"Frankie."
"Hi, Frankie. Gee, this wine is good. I'm glad it's wine and not something stronger. Sometimes I just drink too much."
"That's not good for you."
"I guess not. Would you like me to get more comfortable? You just tell me what you want. Suppose I take my dress off."
Frankie nods. "All right, go on and do that."
Apparently happy, the blonde puts her wine glass on the table beside her chair and she rises. She weaves her hips from side to side as she begins unbuttoning the row of small white buttons down the front of her dress. "I can tell we're going to have a good time," the girl says.
"How can you tell?"
"Just instinct, I guess. I just look at you and I know it. Sometimes I get these phony old bitches and they're so dull. They don't know what they want or if they want it or whatever. Am I talking too much? Just tell me and I'll stop."
"No, it's all right."
But Frankie has no interest in the blonde's account of her experiences. She watches the girl as she slips out of the red dress. Carol now shows a red lace bra and panty set, and a red lace garter belt with long straps to hold up her charcoal stockings. The girl does a turn to exhibit her body, and when she faces Frankie again she giggles as she casually cups her crotch with her hand.
"Getting undressed for a woman always turns me on." Then Carol sits down again, crosses her legs and lifts her wine glass, sips her wine and then uncrosses her legs and leaves them open. Her crotch is revealed, still covered by the panties, but the plumpness of the mound evident.
Frankie's need is to be gruff, to emphasize the imbalance. She's paying for it, isn't she? If she wanted a romantic interlude, false as it might be, she could easily find one in a girl-bar. No, this is something different, an amusement requiring no commitment. And all because of Alison Beale, because if it hadn't been for that blonde Alison the little demons in Frankie's head would never have been allowed their voice.
"Show me the tits," Frankie says.
Carol blushes, aware that Frankie is suddenly the butch she appears to be in the first place. After placing her wine glass on the table, Carol unsnaps the front of the skimpy bra and she gets rid of it completely. She pulls her shoulders back to emphasize her small breasts, but she has hardly enough there to make a display. This annoys Frankie, who would rather have a girl with breasts than a girl without breasts, but then of course it's her own fault for not asking for it on the telephone.
Maybe Carol is aware of it. With an artful attempt to compensate by deliberately calling attention to herself, Carol takes her pinkish nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and she pulls them outward. "I'm not very big in the tit department." Then she slides a hand between her legs, her fingers tugging at the crotch of her panties, and she gives Frankie a coy look. "Should I take these off?"
Frankie takes in the offering. Carol's fingers have pulled enough of the panty-crotch aside to reveal part of her sex, almost all of the left outer lip, puffy, hairless, and definitely more interesting than her breasts.
Frankie nods. Yes, she'll have a look at the cunt now. She sips her wine as Carol hurriedly raises her hips and slides the panties down her thighs and off her stocking-clad legs. For a moment, the panties are caught on a stiletto heel, but finally they're free and Carol drops them on the table on top of her discarded bra.
Now when the blonde opens her legs, her shaved cunt is visible, a ripe looking fig split by the pinkish-brown stripe of the closed inner lips. Without waiting for Frankie to ask for it, Carol sensuously glides her fingers down to pry apart the short wattles.
"You're making me hot," Carol says, her voice sultry.
Is it feigned? Frankie has no idea. For the moment her attention is fixed on the displayed cunt. She asked for a blonde and a blonde is what they sent her. Now the question is how closely this blonde cunt resembles the blonde cunt of Alison Beale. Are they similar? Stupid games, Frankie thinks. She tells herself to forget about Alison for the time being and concentrate on the moment.
Frankie rises, making a gesture to get Carol to do the same. When Carol stands, Frankie makes another gesture with her hand and Carol smiles and slowly turns to show her ass. The buttocks are full, round, pale white, framed by the red garter belt and the red garter straps and the tops of the charcoal stockings. Frankie moves forward to place the flat of her right hand on the split between the two buttocks, her finger sliding down, curling in to find the hairless lips of girl's vulva.
Carol makes a whimpering sound of delight as she moves her legs apart and then bends forward a bit from her waist. "Hey, I like you."
Frankie's left hand moves to Carol's belly, and then upward to close over one of Carol's small breasts. "Bend forward some more."
Carol bends. Frankie helps by pulling on the breast she holds with her hand, pulling it down until Carol is now bent forward enough so she needs to position her hands on her thighs to balance herself. About to say something, Carol suddenly moans as she feels Frankie's fingers penetrate her cunt from behind.
Frankie now shifts her body backward a bit, so she's now more directly behind Carol, her left hand still holding one of Carol's breasts while the fingers of her right hand pierce the opening of Carol's vagina. Pinching the blonde's nipple between her thumb and forefinger as she continues to hold the breast, Frankie starts fucking the blonde with the fingers of her right hand.
Carol groans. Now there is no question of artifice. The groan is definitely not feigned. The blonde hips are weaving slowly from side to side as Frankie's two fingers slide in and out of her wet opening.
"Oh baby, fuck me," Carol says with a whimper.
And for the next half hour, Frankie does exactly that, two fingers and then three fingers and then two fingers again, until her wrist is tired, her mind exhausted and she wants nothing more of the silly blonde and her swollen little cunt. Frankie sends her away without ever removing her own clothes. Later, in the hotel bathroom, Frankie masturbates in the shower with a bar of soap as she thinks of Alison Beale again.
NINE: VALERIE
Valerie is preparing herself. She has the blinds open, the sunlight in the room to make it easier to see her face in the mirror as she applies the makeup. Except for the thigh-high stockings with elastic tops, she's naked, but the stockings are temporary because she hasn't yet decided to wear these or another pair. These stockings are a cool blue-grey, and she isn't certain about the color. Maybe Cleo won't like them. Maybe plain beige would be best. Cleo said dress up, and so Valerie is doing that, but without any certainty that what she's doing will meet with Cleo's approval. Poor little baby, Valerie thinks. Her lipstick is a pinkish red, carefully applied to the outline of her lips, greasy enough to make her lower lip shine seductively. The shade is new, deliberately chosen in accordance with Cleo's declaration that a woman's lipstick ought to be the same shade as the color of her sex lips. And so Valerie passed a serious time at the Saks cosmetics counter attempting to match the color of her petals. Not too easy, since she's never been that good with colors. She thought of taking a dozen lipstick tubes into a dressing room somewhere to make a match, but the idea seemed unworkable.
After she finishes the makeup, she preens a bit in front of the full length mirror attached to the door of the bathroom. She stands in front of the mirror and she turns her body to look at her profile, her breasts and belly and ass and legs in the blue- grey stockings. Now she wants a pair of heels, and she hurries to closet to find her blue-grey suede sandals. Yes, they're perfect, and after she has the straps buckled she prances back to the mirror to see the full effect again, her body now lifted four inches by the high heels, the muscles in her calves more prominent, her legs more curvaceous.
After that she dresses in bikini lace panties and a lace bra sheer enough to show her nipples. Both bra and panties are blue because Cleo likes her in blue. Valerie thinks she looks better in red or black underwear, but if Cleo wants blue, Cleo gets blue. Valerie doesn't mind it, she's thrilled she has a lover who cares about the color of her underwear.
She chooses a white dress, knee-length with spaghetti shoulder straps, a tucked bodice and a flaring pleated skirt. A necklace of small white pearls and small pearl earrings complete the ensemble. You're not bad, she thinks. She tells herself she looks good today. Her face looks rested and she has an attractive flush in her cheeks because of the excitement she feels about her date with Cleo. Then she has a sudden worry she'll get wet thinking about Cleo and she doesn't want that because she might lose control and masturbate and she might get sweaty enough to ruin her makeup. No not now, she thinks. Fearful another moment in front of the mirror will make her too hot, she grabs a small white purse and she hurries out of the apartment.
"I like the dress," Cleo says, turning her attention from the traffic to smile at Valerie.
Cleo is driving her black Trans Am, and now they're rolling west on Addison. Valerie has no idea what the destination is, a friend of Cleo's, a house somewhere, maybe an afternoon party of some kind.
Cleo extends her right hand to stroke Valerie's knee. She continues driving like that, her left hand on the wheel and her right hand on Valerie's knee. Then Cleo's fingers gather the hem of Valerie's white dress, and she pulls the dress back far enough to reveal the top of one stocking and a garter attachment.
"Blue garter belt," Cleo says with a soft laugh.
"You told me you like blue."
"That's right, doll." Cleo's fingers tickle Valerie's thigh above the top of the stocking, and then the fingers slide toward Valerie's belly dragging the hem of the dress with them.
Valerie groans. "Cleo, someone will see us."
Cleo glances down at the edge of the exposed blue panties, her fingers now finding the wetness in the crotch. "Hey, you're gushing," Cleo says with a chuckle. She tugs at the edge of the panties to release a tuft of Valerie's dark pubic hair.
Valerie groans again, closing her eyes, relinquishing any attempt to caution Cleo about passing cars or the people in the street. So what if anyone see them. People see worse these days.
Cleo has her fingers under the nylon now, her middle finger gently stroking the shaft of Valerie's clitoris, prodding it from side to side as they continue rolling west on Addison. It's not enough to make Valerie come, but it's enough to drive her crazy and Cleo knows it.
Cleo says: "Slide forward a little."
"You'll get us in trouble, Cleo."
"Slide forward, honey."
Valerie does it. She slides her hips forward on the seat, which makes it possible for Cleo to get her middle finger inside her vagina. Cleo stirs the finger around in the wetness, and then finally she pulls her hand away and she brings it back to her mouth to taste Valerie's syrup.
"Sweet doll."
Valerie groans. "Oh Cleo, I love you."
"Give me the panties. Take them off and give them to me."
Quivering, Valerie gets her hands underneath her dress and she lifts her hips and then slides the panties down her thighs and off her legs. When she hands the wisp of blue nylon to Cleo, the firm-jawed blonde immediately brings the panties to her face to sniff the crotch.
"Valerie's little rose garden," Cleo says with a laugh. "I love it."
They walk into a small clapboard house on a quiet residential street near Western Avenue. In the front hallway, voices can be heard from somewhere. Cleo seems to know the house well, and she leads Valerie along the hall to an open doorway and into a large living room.
Four women are in the room, sprawled in various places, on the sofa, on the chairs, one woman on the rug. As Cleo and Valerie enter the room, the four women stop talking and look up at them.
"Hey, how's it going?" Cleo says. "This is Valerie."
Of the four women, two are obviously butch, one a heavyweight bruiser. The two femmes are blondes in their thirties, curled hair and heavily made up faces and red lipstick. One of them has her blouse unbuttoned down to the waist of her skirt, a white lace bra visible in the opening.
All the women look at Valerie, who manages a weak hello as she stands there under scrutiny during an awkward moment.
Finally the scrutiny ends and the two newcomers are welcomed, offered a drink and told where to find it.
The heavyweight dyke goes by the name of Brady, and it appears the house is hers. "I guess we're all here, so I'm locking the front door," Brady says. She gives Valerie a long look, her eyes lingering on Valerie's breasts and then dropping down to glance at Valerie's shoes. This deliberately sexual look makes Valerie quiver, and she immediately turns away to find Cleo and sit beside her on the sofa.
Someone switches on the stereo, a wild song by Ina Morgan. Valerie sips her wine as she watches and listens to the others. She thinks the two femmes aren't as pretty as she is and she's grateful for it. She hates being at a party and hardly knowing anyone, but at least she can feel confident about her looks. The two femmes could almost be sisters, except that one is much taller and probably a real blonde while the other one looks bleached. Valerie isn't certain yet if the femmes and butches are permanently coupled. Sometimes you think it's a couple and then it turns out it's just a casual date. Anyway, what's the difference? she thinks. For the moment, all that really concerns her is keeping her dress down because Cleo has her panties in her pocket.
The other butch is Ricky, and now Ricky says: "Hey, Doreen, how come you're not dancing?"
Doreen is the smaller blonde. She smirks as she gets to her feet. She gives Valerie a cool glance, and then she snaps her fingers and she starts dancing.
Valerie is surprised because Doreen is actually good at it, a smooth dancer with a willowy body. She's wearing a tight skirt and heels, but she still manages to move with abandon to the heavy beat of the music.
Then after a while Cleo calls out: "Give us the mogambo."
And Ricky agrees. "Yeah, the mogambo, baby."
Valerie has no idea what the mogambo is, but Doreen is now smiling as she begins unbuttoning the front of her blouse while she continues dancing. She moves her hips and legs and shoulders as she slowly undoes one button after the other.
Valerie soon understands the intention, and she feels a quickening of her pulse as she leans against Cleo shoulder and watches the blonde. The room feels like a hothouse now, and Valerie is worried about her lack of panties, worried she'll stain her dress. Then she tells herself the hell with it and she sips more of her wine.
Doreen gets the blouse off, and Valerie is shocked when she sees the low-slung breasts captured by a bra with its tips cut away to expose the nipples. The lewd exposure of Doreen's brown nipples seems to electrify everyone, and in response to that Doreen sways her hips and smiles and then pulls her nipples out with her fingertips.
Luanne, the other blonde, now slides into Brady's lap and she giggles as Brady squeezes one of her breasts through her dress.
Valerie trembles as she feels Cleo's hand sliding between her knees. She wants to tell Cleo to stop but her body wants something else. With a soft moan against Cleo's shoulder, she opens her legs wider to give Cleo's hand more room.
Doreen is now dropping her skirt. She's wearing a garter belt and stockings and crotchless panties, the cutaway crotch a suitable complement to the cutaway bra, her pubic hair bulging through the open crotch like a dark forest. She tosses the skirt away, and after a mocking glance in Valerie's direction, she starts dancing again.
Cleo now turns to Valerie, and she kisses Valerie's mouth. "Remember what you promised?"
Valerie shudders. "Do they know?"
Cleo chuckles. "Sure they know. That's what the party is all about."
With a groan, Valerie closes her eyes. "Oh Cleo, I don't know . . . "
"Why don't you get up and dance for us? You've got a better body than that bitch Doreen."
"I don't know if I'm up to this."
But she gets up and she moves forward. Brady and Ricky immediately start clapping when they see Valerie's intention. Still dancing, Doreen looks up and down at Valerie before moving aside to make room for her.
Valerie starts dancing. She moves easily to the music, aware of all the eyes on her, especially Cleo's eyes. Then she tunes the others out and she concentrates on Cleo. She dances only for Cleo. She keeps her eyes on Cleo as she begins unbuttoning the front of her dress. Someone claps as she slips the spaghetti straps off her shoulders one after the other. They clap again as she pushes the dress downward past her hips. Brady curses when it becomes evident Valerie isn't wearing panties. Valerie drops the dress completely, her dark thicket exposed at the joining of her thighs. She steps out of the dress, her legs sleek in the blue- grey stockings, and then, as she faces Cleo, she cups a hand over her crotch as she continues dancing.
Ricky laughs, says something to Cleo, and then she gets up and she starts dancing opposite Valerie. They dance facing each other, and Valerie blushes as she see Ricky's eyes drop to her mound. Valerie gasps as Ricky reaches out to touch her. She looks at Cleo, but Cleo is only smiling and nodding and telling her it's all right. Too late now, anyway. Ricky already has her middle finger hooked inside Valerie's cunt, Valerie hooked on the finger as they continue dancing together.
Before long the other women rise one after the other until all are dancing near Valerie. For the first time, Valerie notices that Luanne has her clothes off, everything stripped off except a single gold bracelet around her left wrist. Luanne seems far away as she dances, as if she's in her own dream world.
Brady takes Ricky's place in front of Valerie, and when the massive woman extends her thick fingers to probe Valerie's cunt, Valerie closes her eyes as she humps her pelvis backward and forward. She tells herself Cleo wants it. She's doing this for Cleo. This and what will happen later. It's what will happen later that really frightens her. She doesn't mind Brady's finger inside her cunt. The big woman is as strong as an ox and she knows how to use her finger in there. Before long Brady pulls her finger out of Valerie's cunt and she smiles at Valerie before she licks it clean.
"Hey, Luanne, come here," Brady says, and when tall Luanne wiggles across the rug to her lover, Brady slides her hand over Luanne's ass and pushes her wet finger between Luanne's buttocks. Luanne groans and closes her eyes as she gets Brady's finger in her ass. Valerie can't see it, but she knows what's happening and her heart pounds as she watches it.
Valerie lies on her back across the bed with two women on either side of her, Brady and Luanne on one side and Ricky and Doreen on the other side. Cleo stands at the side of the bed between Valerie's feet with a can of Crisco in her hands.
"Put your knees up," Cleo says.
Valerie puts her knees up, keeping them well apart, her cunt now exposed completely to everyone, but especially to Cleo as she stands in front of Valerie looking down at her.
Cleo talks about the Crisco as she starts smearing it on her right hand. She says the nice thing about Crisco is that it washes out easily. All it takes is a single douche to get all of it washed away.
Valerie listens, but she's still afraid. She's also rattled by the presence of the four other women. Brady now has a hand on one of Valerie's breasts, her thick fingers teasing the nipple. Valerie is still puzzled by the arrangement here, who belongs to whom, and why does Cleo allow her friends to touch her so much? All that fingering while they were dancing. She gets jealous each time she sees Cleo touch one of the other femmes.
Cleo now reaches down to touch Valerie's cunt with her greased hand. "Start relaxing, doll."
Her knees up, Valerie trembles as she waits for it. She wonders what Frankie would say if she saw her now. Frankie would scream. The image of Frankie screaming at her makes Valerie giggle. Cleo thinks it's because she's tickling Valerie, and the blonde immediately works another finger inside Valerie's cunt. She has four fingers in the opening now. In another moment she folds her thumb into the other fingers and she starts the full penetration. When she gets to the knuckle hurdle, she pushes firmly. "Relax, doll."
Valerie feels it. She feel the whole hand going in and it makes her crazy with excitement. She feels Cleo clench and unclench her fist and it drives her wild. She looks at Cleo and she sees Cleo smiling.
"See, I told you it was easy," Cleo says.
Valerie groans and she looks at the others watching her, watching Cleo's wrist, watching Cleo fucking her with her fist.
This is serious, Valerie thinks. This is serious fucking. Oh my yes.
TEN: FRANKIE
"I hope you like the salad," Alison says.
They are sitting in the small dining room of Alison's apartment. Alison called Frankie at her office in the morning to ask if they could have lunch in Alison's apartment instead of in a restaurant. Frankie, of course, agreed immediately, delighted by the promise of a more intimate setting.
And now Frankie is even more delighted because Alison appears so receptive to a friendship.
This is Alison's lunch, prepared by Alison, a lovely salad, fish, white wine, an elegant table set near a wide window overlooking Lake Michigan. Alison wears a becoming beige silk dress, casual and at the same time chic. Frankie wears a tailored suit and a red string tie. The afternoon sun is brilliant on the lake, but since the windows face east the sun is not directly in the room.
Frankie feels as though she's falling in love. She gazes at Alison's face, at the curves of Alison's breasts in the silk dress, at Alison's hands, then again at Alison's lightly painted mouth. Frankie tells herself Alison is perfect, a stunning creature, unbelievably exciting. What a miracle to meet such a woman at a gathering of lawyers!
Frankie says: "The salad is delicious. And the view is lovely."
"Yes, the lake is pretty, isn't it?"
"I meant another view. I meant the view across the table."
Alison blushes, but it's only a slight blush, and she has no trouble meeting Frankie's eyes as she says: "Were you surprised that I suggested we have lunch here?"
"Yes, I was."
"I thought I'd like to prepare a lunch for you. I don't do it often, but I thought I'd like it."
"And do you?"
Alison laughs. "Yes, very much."
"Good."
"Now I'll ask a personal question. Do you live alone?"
"No, I'm living with someone. Her name is Valerie and we've been together almost two years."
Alison seems unruffled, her eyes once again meeting Frankie's. "All right, I won't ask any more questions."
"Don't be silly, I don't mind it."
But Alison rises and she goes to the kitchen. When she returns, she says: "Before I moved into this apartment, I lived with a woman nearly three months."
"Do you still see her?"
Alison shakes her head. "She's in Paris. She's French. She was here at the consulate. No, it's finished. It was never meant to be anything anyway. I'm telling you about it because I want you to know there was nothing before it and nothing after it. I'm not very experienced, you see."
They stand at the window. Alison faces the lake, and Frankie stands beside her with her head turned as she kisses Alison's ear. The kiss is light, grazing, indefinite. Now Frankie's left arm slides around Alison's waist, and she moves behind her to kiss the side of her neck. Alison shivers, but she does not pull away. Frankie kisses her neck again, a longer kiss, her wet lips sliding down to the soft place where Alison's neck joins her shoulder.
Now Alison shifts her body to the side as if to pull away. As she does this, she turns her head toward Frankie and Frankie immediately kisses her mouth.
The kiss seems to freeze Alison, and her body remains motionless as their lips press together. Frankie's mouth is open, her tongue mobile, aggressive, pushing between Alison's lips as Alison gradually yields to the kiss. Frankie's hand now slides upward to gently stroke Alison's breasts through the front of her silk dress. Alison moans against Frankie's mouth, her body bending backward against the support of Frankie's left arm.
Her hand leaving Alison's breasts, Frankie slips a shoulder strap down over Alison's shoulder. She does the same to the other shoulder strap, the front of the dress falling, Frankie's fingers tugging the silk downward until the lace cups of Alison's white bra are exposed, the cups almost demi-cups, the naked upper part of each breast offered up like a ripe fruit. Frankie frees Alison's left breast completely, and she bends her head to take the full pink nipple in her mouth.
Alison makes a sound of pleasure in her throat. She lifts her head back as Frankie takes her breast. Frankie sucks at the nipple, flutters her tongue over it. At the same time she gathers the front of Alison's silk dress with her right hand and she quickly raises it and she slides her hand between Alison's thighs. The blonde moans again, and then her legs part and Frankie's fingers glide into the warm crotch of Alison's pantyhose.
Anxious to get beyond the first crisis, Frankie is insistent with her hand. Of course the reinforced nylon crotch of the pantyhose is a nuisance, but she does her best with it, her fingers rubbing everywhere over the lush vulva until she's able to find the top of the groove and then finally the stiff little promontory of Alison's clitoris. At this moment there is no time for niceties, and so Frankie uses her hand to rub all of Alison's cunt without favoring any part of it, a vigorous and relentless rubbing that soon has Alison gasping as she comes against Frankie's palm.
Frankie is thrilled at the gushing wetness of Alison's cunt, the total yielding. Her hand remaining cupped over Alison's crotch, Frankie waits until the orgasm is finished before she says: "Let's go to the bedroom."
Alison opens her eyes, groaning. "Frankie, please..."
Frankie tells Alison she wants to suck her, but Alison pleads no, she's had enough for now, it's not possible.
"That's absurd," Frankie says.
But Alison insists. She's expecting a business associate. She can't take any more now anyway. She promises to see Frankie again soon. "I promise," she says.
After a while Frankie leaves her.
In the elevator, Frankie sniffs at her fingers and she almost has an orgasm as she catches Alison's scent.
Midnight.
Frankie lies in the bed in the dark.
She has her knees up under the sheet, her eyes open as she peers through the darkness at the ceiling. Her body feels sweaty, her pubic hair damp. Valerie is asleep beside her, turned on her side, her back to Frankie.
Frankie thinks about Alison. She feels a sudden burst of sexual heat in her belly as she remembers what happened with Alison in Alison's living room. She recalls the feel of Alison's breasts in her hands, the spongy stiffness of Alison's nipples in her mouth. Dropping her knees, Frankie crosses her legs and she flexes her thigh muscles to apply pressure against cunt. No, it's no good. She raises her knees again, shifting her buttocks on the bed.
The most exciting memory is the memory of Alison's cunt responding to her fingers. And Alison's long blonde eyelashes as she kept her eyes closed. Frankie remembers the sweetness of her victory as she watched Alison come, as she watched Alison's lips open, Alison exposed.
The memories have now aroused Frankie to an unbearable restlessness. She continues to evoke erotic images as she slides a hand between her legs. But no matter how vulnerable Alison seemed at the moment of her orgasm, she is still an enigma to Frankie, a mystery unfathomed.
Frankie finds her clitoris and she slowly rubs it. She stifles a soft groan as Valerie continues sleeping beside her. The hot desire in Frankie's belly demands its due. She rubs her clitoris with her fingers, applying more pressure as the orgasm approaches.
You're lost, she thinks. She understands she hasn't a glimmer of reality about Alison. Her mind is filled with Alison, filled to a point of bursting. All she can think of is Alison's wet cunt.
Frankie comes. She does her best to control the shaking of her body as a fury of passion overwhelms her.
Valerie sleeps on.
Frankie is in the bathtub.
It's nine o'clock in the evening and she's having a bath after a long day at court. Her body is extended, soaking in the warm water. Earlier, Valerie seemed puzzled by Frankie's fatigue and suggested that Frankie might be sick. But Frankie replied she was only tired.
At this moment Frankie feels the bathroom is a refuge. Poor Valerie. How awful it must be to live with me, Frankie thinks. Does Valerie understand anything at all about her? What she thinks, why she does certain things? Frankie strokes her body under the water, the firm flesh of her thighs. She looks at her hands, at the slender fingers that she wishes were stronger. She has always wanted to be physically strong.
The air in the bathroom is filled with moisture, the light in the ceiling scintillating through the mist. Frankie wipes away the sweat that has gathered on the bridge of her nose. She has a sudden memory of Alison's ass in that silk dress she wore when they had lunch, Alison's buttocks shimmering under the silk as she walked back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. Frankie is annoyed because so little really happened that day, not as much as she wanted, not as much as she'd imagined. She'd had hot fantasies about the first time with Alison, searing images of herself doing things to Alison, kissing her everywhere, her cunt, her clitoris, her ass, rimming her little anus with the tip of her tongue and hearing Alison cry out with pleasure.
Frankie looks at her arms now, wondering if she ought to add more bath oil to the water. She wipes her chin with a wet cloth. What fascinates her about Alison is the hunt, the scheming seduction of a woman as intelligent as herself. Oh god, how juicy she was! Frankie quivers as she remembers Alison's wet sex gushing on her fingertips.
Frankie hears a knock on the bathroom door, and then Valerie's voice. "Is it all right if I come in?"
Frankie says yes, and the door opens and Valerie enters the bathroom. "Aren't you wilting?" Valerie says.
"No, I like it this way."
Valerie sniffs at the perfumed oil in the bath. She wears a blue robe that Frankie thinks would look better on a blonde. But she loves Valerie, she does love her. A cherished love. She's always happy to see Valerie's mouth spread in an open smile. She watches Valerie as she turns to look at herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. The blue robe is thin enough to reveal the shape of Valerie's buttocks, and Frankie feels a tingling in her cunt as she remembers their last lovemaking when Valerie was particularly responsive, her clitoris like a stiff little pod between Frankie's lips.
Without turning from the mirror, Valerie says: "Would you like me to wash your back?"
Frankie feels a sudden desire for her. "Sure, why not?"
Valerie's turns and smiles, her happiness evident, her pretty face reminding Frankie how perfect Valerie is for her sometimes. So feminine. It was Valerie's easy femininity that attracted Frankie so strongly in the beginning, her delight in the feminine trappings, garter belts, makeup, endless jewelry. When they met, Frankie thought Valerie a lovely young woman with a sweet heart, breasts like ripe mangoes in her hands.
Their eyes meet and Valerie blushes, her lower lip pouting seductively. "I'll take my robe off so I won't get it wet."
Frankie nods. She wants Valerie more than ever now, her fingers itching for it as she watches Valerie pull her hair back before slipping out of her blue robe.
Under the robe, Valerie is quite naked. For a moment she stands there without moving as if she's on the edge of a chasm between them. Then finally she steps forward to approach the tub where Frankie is half immersed in the soapy water.
Frankie's eyes are riveted on Valerie's gently bobbing breasts. She feels a great desire to take one of the tender nipples in her mouth and bite it until Valerie moans.
Now Frankie sits up in the water as Valerie crouches beside the tub to wash her back. As Valerie slides the soap over Frankie's shoulders, Frankie drops her right arm over the side of the tub and she curls it around Valerie's thigh to fondle her ass.
Valerie giggles. "You'll make me drop the soap."
"Darling, this was your idea."
Frankie wants her in bed, but that can wait until later. She slides her hand down over Valerie's ass to find Valerie's cunt with her fingers. From long habit, she knows exactly how Valerie needs to be opened this way, how to get the proper angle from the rear to make penetration into the tight vaginal canal easy.
Valerie groans. Her eyes closed, she no longer bothers moving the soap over Frankie's back.
"Stand up," Frankie says. "It'll be easier when you're standing."
Valerie rises. Her face flushed, she stands with her legs apart as Frankie penetrates her vagina again. This time Frankie has her thumb on Valerie's clitoris, the ball of her thumb massaging the pearl as her fingers churn in the wet opening.
Valerie groans. "Oh Frankie." As the orgasm approaches, she begins moving her hips, humping her pelvis at Frankie's hand.
Frankie gazes up at Valerie's face, watching the climax, watching Valerie's pleasure. "Sweet pet," Frankie says. She keeps her fingers working, thrusting, churning in the hot opening.
ELEVEN: FRANKIE
Frankie waits three days before she telephones Alison. The blonde's voice is cool, uncommitted. "I don't know about this afternoon."
Frankie says: "What about tomorrow?"
"I don't know."
"All right, forget it. I'm getting the picture."
"No, this afternoon is all right."
"Are you sure?"
Alison says yes, she's sure, and they agree Frankie will visit her at three o'clock.
After Frankie hangs up the phone, she sits in her office simmering with expectation, memories of her hands on Alison's body. Maybe it's a mirage. Maybe none of it is real. Does that lovely blonde really want her? Frankie slides a hand under her grey flannel skirt to hold her crotch through her panty hose. She can feel the dampness, the heat of her cunt. Alison is truly a miracle, a vision who suddenly walked into her life, a ripe fantasy. So ripe. Frankie tells herself she has never seen anyone so ripe for it. She has work on her desk, but now after talking to Alison she's unable to concentrate. She wants Alison in her arms, the fabric of Alison's dress rubbing against her skin, Alison's firm ass beneath her hands. That blonde skin. Frankie quivers as she remembers the softness of Alison's breasts, the feel of Alison's wet cunt. She remembers Alison's slender hips, the soft curves, the pink shells of Alison's ears. Christ, you're in love, Frankie thinks. She rises from the swivel chair and she walks to the wall between the two windows where a small mirror is centered on the wall. Her face looks flushed. Is it Alison or is the room too warm? She wishes she had on a real suit instead of this grey tailored hybrid. How nice it would be to go to Alison in drag. The idea amuses Frankie.
With a view of the lake in front of them, Frankie kisses Alison.
They stand at the window in Alison's living room, Alison facing the lake but her head turned to accept Frankie's kiss. Then Alison pulls away and she smiles. "You ought see the view here at night. When the moon is full."
"All right, I'll stay this evening."
Alison laughs softly. "No, you can't, I'm going out this evening. Anyhow, I don't think there's a full moon until the end of the month."
Frankie imagines Alison as a scamp when she was a girl, blonde Alison mischievous and laughing. But the present moment has more impact. Frankie kisses her again, this time her tongue more insistent as it pushes between Alison's lips to find her teeth. Is she wet? Frankie wants to feel the moisture with her fingertips, but she restrains herself. No savage lust this time. She wants more than last time, a more definite possession. She strokes Alison's breasts through her blouse, remembering how she nursed on Alison's nipples. The light in the living room is so bright because of the wide windows overlooking the vast lake. And here, in this apartment, the two women stand in their own special world. She wants to saturate herself with Alison, feast on Alison while Alison's nerves vibrate with happiness. She kisses Alison's lips again. As Alison turns her body, Frankie hears the rustling of nylon. She drops a hand to Alison's belly, feeling an imperative need to ravish her. Alison protests with a soft laugh, but Frankie's hand is already beneath the linen skirt, her fingers already stroking the blonde puffy sex through the nylon crotch of her panty hose.
"We'll cause a crash on the Outer Drive," Alison says, laughing again as she attempts to pull away.
Yes, maybe someone in a car on the expressway down there will look up and see two women at a window, one woman with her hand beneath the other woman's skirt. Alison wants to pull away but Frankie prevents it. Frankie holds her in place, her left arm wrapped around Alison's narrow pliant waist as her right hand does its work between Alison's legs. Alison closes her eyes, her hips moving, a delicate flush beginning to suffuse her face as the volcano nears eruption. Frankie's fingers are relentless, her middle finger extending underneath to rub the nylon protecting Alison's sweet little anus. Does she feel it? What a vision she must be without clothes. Frankie imagines Alison naked, her pink nipples erected, her lovely virtuous face twisted by passion. She kisses Alison again, rubbing her cunt with the heel of her palm. It's a violation, a possession by her fingers. Pity she lacks another hand to take those delicious breasts. If only she could pinch Alison's nipples at the same time. Instead she bends her head to kiss Alison's throat. She imagines she can feel Alison's clitoris against her palm and she rubs it with more vigor. Certainly the wetness is there, the syrup seeping through the nylon into Frankie's sliding hand. Now she drops her left hand, and she gets it under Alison's skirt in the rear to fondle Alison's buttocks through her panty hose. Alison groans, her thighs buckling.
"Please . . . "
"Let's go to the bedroom."
Alison groans again. "Yes."
The bedroom is decorated in pink. Frankie is astounded because she expected something different, but it's all pink, the walls pink, the bedspread pink satin, the lamp shades of pink silk. A pink room. Frankie looks at the pink bed and she imagines Alison writhing on it, her legs shaking in an ecstatic release, her ripe breasts jiggling. Is Alison always on this bed alone?
Frankie kisses Alison and she starts undressing her. Alison remains passive, pliant, with a look of faint amusement as she watches Frankie's hands working to get her clothes off.
"You're very forceful," Alison says.
"Don't you like it?"
Alison laughs. "I'm not answering that."
"What sort of girl were you? Were you rebellious?"
"Yes, very."
"I thought so."
Frankie's hands tremble as she unhooks Alison's brassiere. The blonde's breasts are full, heavy enough to show a slight droop, the stiffness of the pink nipples quite evident. With deliberate restraint, Frankie does no more than rub a fingertip over one of the turgid points. "You're beautiful."
Alison laughs. "My breasts?"
"All of you."
"When I was a girl, I was always afraid my breasts would be too small. Now I'm sorry they aren't."
"No, they're perfect."
"My swinging tits."
Frankie smiles. "Quite perfect."
"You make me feel nasty when you look at me like that."
"Then I won't look, I'll just finish undressing you."
Frankie is thrilled. Having Alison gradually become naked like this is a delightful treat. Alison supports herself with a hand on Frankie's shoulder as Frankie tugs her panty hose down her thighs and off her feet. The closeness of the blonde's belly tantalizes Frankie, and her excitement becomes intense as she imagines she can smell Alison's heat, smell her sweet cunt hidden by those soft blonde curls.
When Frankie rises again, she whispers in Alison's ear. "I'm going to suck you dry."
Alison shudders. "Tell me more."
"On the bed, girl."
With a moan of passion, Alison throws herself on the bed. She rolls her naked body from side to side, and then finally she settles on her back with her legs open. "I like what you do to me."
Her eyes on Alison's blonde cunt, Frankie quickly drops her clothes. When she's down to her underpants, she climbs onto the bed and she immediately drops her head to run her tongue over Alison's belly. Alison moans, raises her knees and opens her thighs in a definite invitation. Frankie's tongue leaves a wet trail of saliva as she slides her mouth down into the blonde bush. When she glances up at Alison's face, she finds Alison watching her, Alison's blue eyes fixed on her mouth, Alison waiting.
Returning her attention to the pink flower directly under her chin, Frankie extends her tongue for the first touch. Alison groans, raising her knees further and holding them up with her hands. "Don't tease me."
That's what they all say, Frankie thinks. Don't tease me. But they love it anyway. Frankie blows her warm breath on Alison's open cunt, grazing the flesh with her mouth, teasing her. She flutters her tongue along the outer lips, up and down, inside the wet socket and then up to the pink little clit. Her own cunt tingles. She slides her hands under Alison's ass and she lifts the lower part of Alison's body to feast on her. Alison groans, her mouth open, her neck craned as she over her belly to watch Frankie's mouth take possession of her cunt. When Alison comes it's like a fine dessert for Frankie, a sweet cake spiked with brandy, the juices gushing out thick enough to be a definite turn-on. Oh, how she adores a gushing pussy!
Frankie lies on her back. She still wears her Jockey underpants, the cotton crotch soaked by her leaking cunt. She keeps her legs closed, listening to Alison as Alison talks about her college days at Northwestern. Rich man's daughter at a rich girl's school. Frankie turns on her side to watch the shadows fall across Alison's breasts. She understands Alison better now. Alison likes to maintain decorum. Alison is a woman who adored ruffles as a ten-year-old. Alison favors the luster of the upper class. Frankie is surprised the old judge is that rich, but apparently he has millions. Property everywhere. She wants Alison again. She wants to lunge at her, take her forcefully, but instead she tells Alison to come on top of her. "On my face," Frankie says.
Alison evidently likes the idea. She climbs over Frankie, straddles her and shifts forward to get her hands on the headboard. The blonde settles in, squatting over Frankie's face, her cunt lubricating heavily again.
"Is this all right?"
Frankie pulls her down. She wants her nose in that valley of love. She runs her hands over Alison's buttocks. The blonde's cunt is open like a pink conch. Maybe she ought to press her ear to it and listen for the sea. Does Alison understand how much she adores her? Her tongue extended, Frankie sips at the liquid flowing out of Alison's source. The fountain has a good yield and she has no qualms about sucking everything. Sometimes she dislikes the subservience implied by this position, but not with Alison. The blonde has a certain quality that makes the presence of her cunt on Frankie's face seem appropriate. Frankie now wishes Alison had worn stockings, sheer nylons that would rub against her skin as she sucks the blonde's sex. Dear god, what a lovely pussy she has, the lips pouting, the interior seeming to quake each time Frankie's tongue touches a sensitive place. Frankie uses her tongue to polish the long groove, strong efficient lapping everywhere. Alison's cunt seems to vibrate in response to the ardent attention. In a deliberate attempt to be provocative, Frankie nibbles with her teeth. She tugs at the blonde pubic hair. She slides her fingers into the crack between Alison's buttocks and she teases the blonde's anus with a wet fingertip. When Alison feels the fingertip she moans, the sound causing Frankie to push the finger at the tight orifice until she's able to slip it inside to the first knuckle. Enough for now. She yearns for the cunt. She glances up at Alison's face, but the blonde's eyes are closed. She sucks at the flowing juices as she slowly works her finger in and out of Alison's rectum. When Alison comes, her body suddenly jerks forward. She moans and posts, bobbing up and down on Frankie's mouth as Frankie drills her finger more firmly inside her ass.
"I think you've been ignoring me," Marcia says.
They sit in a booth at lunch in a downtown restaurant. Frankie thinks the food is rotten. She's annoyed that she allowed herself to be coaxed into this lunch with Marcia. Can't Marcia accept the fact that it's over? But Marcia still looks interesting, that lovely chunky body and those full calves in the dark stockings. Frankie remembers how Marcia quivers when her belly is stroked. She's a pet, really. She'd like to have her on a beach somewhere, take her on the sand while they listen to the surf. Why does she have such a penchant for women like this one?
Marcia says: "You're not even listening to me."
"What did you say"
"I said I think you've been ignoring me."
"Yes, maybe it's true. I've been awfully busy."
Marcia pouts. "Is that all it is? I hope it's nothing more than that. I hope you're not going to dump me. I hate being dumped."
Frankie wonders how she can dump Marcia when they've never had a real relationship.
"You know I'm living with someone."
Marcia nods. "But that doesn't mean you have to dump me."
"I'm not dumping you."
"I'd like to suck you off right this moment. Maybe I could get under the table and do it."
"Marcia, please . . . "
Marcia giggles. "If the waiter hears me, you'll never be able to come here again."
"Then don't talk so loud."
"You know what I don't like about most dykes? They're too serious. You're too fucking serious, Frankie."
Frankie doesn't bother to answer. It's no good. She thinks of Alison. She has Valerie at home and Marcia here in the restaurant, but all she wants to think about is Alison. Only Alison represents something positive in her life. Everyone she knows seems so trivial compared to Alison.
She wants Alison.
All comments to the author will be greatly appreciated. Contact me at katherinet_@hotmail.com
A repository of erotic fiction by Katherine T. can be found at the following URL: ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Katherine_T