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She smiles wistfully. “It was hard for me,” she says.
“And it was hard for me,” I say. We’ve played some on the dark side since our return, but it’s not been deep enough and we both know it. We’re still gun-shy, almost too timid to begin without the others.
“But the satisfaction…” she says, with a dreamy look in her eye.
In the kitchen, I pop a red grape into my mouth, while I watch her leaning back seductively against the counter, her chest pushed out revealing every curve and swell of her sensuous breasts. I sit down at the table and stare at her. I can’t seem to take my eyes from her. I like to watch her lips very closely when she speaks, they move so erotically.
“You know, I wonder sometimes if it really happened the way I remember it,” I say, feeling wistful myself.
“Did it?” she queries back.
“You read the stories and tell me?” I suggest.
“The truth has a lot of versions, Cassidy, yours is just a single one.”
She moves away from the kitchen counter, and I follow her with my eyes as she slips into the dining room and rustles through one of the bags lying on the table. She returns to me. I look up at her face, at the smile, at the dark eyes, and the dark skin. There’s something moving between us that defies explanation.
I hear a noise and look away to see Munchkin perched on the window sill as she washes her paw with her long pink tongue.
Peach, behind me, massages my shoulders and I lean back, letting the warmth of her hands pour into me, loosening the tension that has made them stiff. Then I feel something encircle my neck, a slip of cloth I think. Studying our reflections in the window with care, I see the ribbon. I watch mesmerized as she ties it into a neat tight bow. I’m amazed how easily she does this, as if she’s done it a thousand times before.
“Does it matter how it happened, or whether it even did?” she asks. “Does it matter where we’ve been, or just where we aim to go?”
A silent subtle stirring ripples over my body, taking me back into the dark obsessive side of me. I wear the feelings like a welcoming shroud…
It’s Elizabeth’s eyes I see in the window, and Anastasia’s voice I hear, and Samantha Clarisse’s hands I feel, all knocking at the wide rude door of my other self. I see the light around me flicker as if it’s getting dark, and I hear the beat of pagan drums as the ribbon collar seems to tighten around my neck.
“Take me back, take me back, take me,” I say somewhere in my psyche, as I feel the first rude snap of a whip against my thigh.
The Demise of the Diva: Lesbian S&M
Chapter One
Leslie ran her hand along Rosalie’s thigh, moving it between her legs to where she was soft and very wet, causing the sweet Latino woman to grovel back against the subtle invasion, her body rising and falling to the crescendo of her inner sexual beat.
“More chica, fuck me hard,” Rosalie gasped in her husky voice. Leslie’s hand slapped each pulsing thigh to part them wide. She wanted the interior, right in the middle where Rosalie’s purple pink cunt throbbed. One finger after another slipped inside the juicy portal; while Leslie’s mouth came down to cover the hard bud of her lover’s clit.
“Ooo, that’s right little bitch,” Leslie egged her on, slapping Rosalie’s thighs between laps of the growing pool of liquid in her hand. She watched the broad rear buck and the tawny breasts bounce again her chest. Leslie’s squeezed a nipple and listened for the sound of feigned protest to follow, then she let the nipple go to see it remain a tight bud, a fine little knot she’d soon bite one more time, until it really hurt. She wanted to hear Rosalie’s gasp of pain.
“Si! Si, si! Harder!!” Rosalie screamed. The sweating girl squeezed her inner muscles against Leslie’s hand. Then she released her grip and her whole torso relaxed, only to clench one more time. She did a strange orgasmic shimmy while spouting Spanish Leslie didn’t understand, then collapsed into the bed’s soft cotton sheets, panting. A hot afternoon sun bathed them both, making their sweaty bodies cling to each other in a sticky pool of sexual sensation.
“Ah si, I’m in love,” Rosalie, murmured.
“And I’m in love with your body,” Leslie replied, as she drifted int
o her own world, lying back in the pile of rumpled sheets. She was thinking of Rosalie, but also thinking of other lovers, the ones that weren’t available to her now.
“And why not be in love with my body?” Rosalie answered, smiling broadly. She moved around to recline on her side and stroke Leslie’s naked belly, running a long red nail down the surface of her skin and leaving a tiny red line.
With a bright sunshine face, Rosalie had claimed nearly three months of Leslie’s time. It was much more than Leslie thought she’d give the sweet, brown-skinned girl. Then again, Rosalie was hardly a girl, being somewhere between twenty-five and thirty; although her Latina form, the long black hair and wide dark eyes, made her look so innocent—as if she were still a child. Truth was, Rosalie wasn’t sweet at all. She was a fucking hellion in bed, and she did what she damned well pleased—which was okay with Leslie, since she had no plans for a permanent relationship with this woman.
Rosalie was convenient, however, giving Leslie a good excuse to stay home at night, avoid bars and those awkward intimate moments with women she really didn’t want to go to bed with. She could enjoy Rosalie’s voracious appetite for sex, and her delicious body. Even the Spanish she sprinkled into their lovemaking had an exotic quality that Leslie relished. They were two grown, free thinking women who had come together because it was easy and fun—no strings, no regrets.
The phone jangled noisily, and Leslie reached out to answer it, knocking the whole thing to the floor.
“Leslie, Leslie!” She heard a man’s anxious voice on the other end.
“Yeah, Yeah, I’m here,” she answered, sitting up while pulling the phone from the floor by the cord.
