Girl Fever Page 2

  Then came the nudge and bump of the strap-on between her thighs. Along her crack.

  “Get up on your knees for me. I just want to play. You work from home but I’m a slave to the time clock. I only have an hour,” Joyce said.

  Joyce yanked her by the waist and Amy found herself on hands and knees, ass high in the air, legs parted to accommodate the body pressing her from behind.

  She glanced in the mirror: Herself, naked and damp from the shower. Joyce, larger than she was, dyed black hair standing on end, firm naked body strapped with leather. Wielding a cock.

  Their eyes met in the reflection and Amy grinned.

  “An hour? We can do an hour.”

  And then the smooth silken glide of silicone pressing into her moist cunt. Fingers that she loved gripped her hips with an almost painful grasp. Slim hips she liked to trace with her tongue undulated and the payoff was the fullness and the goodness and the blips of pleasure.

  “Stay right there.” Joyce grabbed her by her wet hair. Amy watched as the other woman wound the long locks around her hand twice and used them as a rein. “Good girl. Good, good, good fucking girl,” she was chanting.

  Big brown eyes shiny with lust, body moving with force, filling Amy with her cock. And Amy knew that nubbin on the inside of the harness was kissing and flicking and working her lover’s clit.

  Between the hank of hair in her fist and the friction of the toy, Joyce looked nearly possessed.

  “Touch yourself for me,” she demanded. And still they stared each other down in the mirror.

  Blue eyes meeting brown. Soft, curvy body accepting cut, toned body. Amy worked her clit with slippery trembling fingers, bit her lip, tried to wait, but when Joyce rammed deep and made that sound—that half growl, half sigh sound—deep in her chest, Amy lost her battle.

  She came, eyes forced wide, hair tugged back, neck exposed, body bowed. Watching the whole scene play out as she took a few more strokes, saying, “Please, baby, please.”

  And Joyce came. Bowing her head to her lover’s back, her lips pressed to damp skin.

  She laughed, a long, low laugh. “There’s still time left in our hour.”

  “So there is. You hungry?” Amy asked, meaning lunch.

  Joyce’s eyes came up again and stared her down. Amy shivered and blushed when Joyce said, “I am. Roll over on your back.”

  They really could do amazing things in an hour.

  GOOD MORNING

  Emily Moreton

  Hey, baby.”

  Rebecca rolled over onto her back, checking the alarm clock. “You’re late.” She heard Enid’s boots hit the hall floor, the rustle of her coat coming off. “Good night?”

  “Yeah.” The bedroom door opened and Enid wandered through, pulling out the pins holding her bun in place. “Just long.”

  Rebecca sat up, letting the covers pool at her waist. When she reached out, Enid took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in for a kiss. “Too much coffee.”

  “Probably.” Enid’s hands were cool, not cold, when they brushed Rebecca’s bare arm. She must have been inside a while, even though she was still in her uniform. “Stopped by Steph’s, she snuck us a free cup.”

  “PC Watts, illicit coffee, what’s next?” Rebecca ran her hands through Enid’s hair, her nails catching slightly.

  “You gonna put me in handcuffs?” Enid snuggled in closer. “You’re warm.”

  “I’ve been in bed all night. In this nice warm flat, curled up under this duvet…”

  Enid groaned. “You think I wasn’t thinking about that while I was dealing with drunken fools at three in the morning?”

  “I wouldn’t like to speculate.” Rebecca wrapped her arms around Enid’s waist, tipping them both back onto the bed. Enid’s belt dug into her stomach, the buckle cold against her skin where her T-shirt had ridden up a little, but that was easy to ignore as Enid kissed her again. “Tell me,” Rebecca said against Enid’s mouth.

  Enid shook her head. “Can’t. You’ll be late.”

  “I’m in charge, I can be late.”

  “Tell that to Mrs. Betts when she’s on the phone at nine thirty wanting to know about, I don’t know, whether she gets a mint on her pillow during her Highlands coach tour.”

  “She doesn’t.” Rebecca started on the buttons of Enid’s shirt. “Lavender soap though, new every morning.”

  “Stop talking. Or stop undressing me, pick one.”

  Rebecca ran her hand over the curve of Enid’s breast, dipping inside her bra to stroke her nipple. “I like undressing you. But you did ask about Mrs. Betts.”

  Enid caught Rebecca’s upper arms, tucked one leg behind her knees and rolled them so Rebecca was on top. “I thought about you like I am now,” she said firmly. “On your back in this bed.”

  Rebecca unfastened the last button, pushing Enid’s shirt open, then off when Enid lifted her upper body slightly. “Tell me more,” she said against Enid’s collarbone.

  “I thought about you just like this, in your flannel pants and your old T-shirt. With your hair a mess and pillow marks on your cheek.”

  “Sexy,” Rebecca said dryly. Enid’s cotton bra tasted faintly of washing powder, but it was familiar, and anyway, she loved the way Enid’s breath hitched as she bit gently at Enid’s nipple through the material.

  Enid stroked her hands down Rebecca’s back, cupping her ass. “I like you like this. You’re my girl like this.”

  Rebecca would swear, if asked, that the reason she shivered just then was the feel of Enid’s hands on her ass, but the truth was, she loved the way Enid’s voice sounded when she said, “My girl.” Loved hearing it applied to herself, and that was why she raised her head, kissed Enid hard on the mouth, tongue thrusting inside, her hand tightening on Enid’s breast without her entirely meaning it to. “What else do you think about?”

  “Put your mouth on me again and I’ll tell you.”

  Rebecca trailed one hand down Enid’s perfectly smooth stomach—foot patrol, swimming every morning, an hour at the gym three times a week, and it showed, the effort she put into her body—then tickled across the waistband of her trousers.

  “Your mouth,” Enid repeated, sounding mildly impatient.

  “Trust me, you’ll like where I put my mouth.” Rebecca sat back on her heels, needing both hands to open the stiff leather of Enid’s belt and ease it free. It didn’t hurt that sitting up meant she got to look at Enid, topless but for her bra, unreasonably sexy for being from Marks and Spencers; her hair spread dark across the pillows, her eyelids heavy with lust. Rebecca shifted slightly, getting just a tiny bit of friction where she needed it. “You’re so hot.”

  “You’re so procrastinating.”

  “Big word for someone who fantasizes about me in bed asleep.”

  “In bed in your pajamas,” Enid corrected, then, when Rebecca started on the top button of her pants, she went on. “You were wide awake. Thinking about me.”

  That was true enough, though two years together had been enough for Rebecca to lose the unreasonable fear that something terrible would happen to Enid on every shift. She eased Enid’s zipper down, then nudged her hips up so she could pull the trousers down. Enid was wet, her curls damp when Rebecca pushed her underwear aside.

  “Thinking about what I’d do to you if I was in bed with you. How I’d—Becca, please, don’t tease—how I’d get you naked, put my fingers inside you.”

  “Keep going,” Rebecca said, and went down on Enid, licking at her just the way she liked, not too deep, but fast and hard, loving the way Enid tasted, the way her thighs trembled under Rebecca’s hands.

  “I thought about you touching yourself,” Enid said, very fast, sounding breathless. “Stroking inside your thighs, pinching a little.” Rebecca groaned, making Enid shudder. “And teasing yourself—over your pants, getting your pants all wet, smelling yourself on your fingers; I thought about how you’d close your eyes, your pretty mouth panting.”

  She broke off, breath
ing hard, rocking her hips a little in time with Rebecca, who eased up, stroking one thumb up the crease of Enid’s thigh.

  “I can’t,” Enid said, her voice tight. “I can’t, fuck; I thought about you fingering yourself, trying to make it last, the way you look when you’re nearly there and you keep—you can’t keep still, the way your voice sounds when you say my name, I thought about you—fuck, Rebecca, please, please, oh—”

  Rebecca pressed her hands firmly to Enid’s hips, holding her down, scraping her teeth against Enid’s clit. Enid trembled, her voice cracking on a stifled cry, her cunt fluttering under Rebecca’s mouth as she arched her back and came.

  Rebecca kept going until Enid sighed, said, “Enough,” patting clumsily at her hair. Then she lifted her mouth away, resting her cheek on Enid’s thigh as she licked the taste of Enid from her lips.

  “I thought about you fucking yourself until you came on your own hand, shouting my name,” Enid said, sounding remarkably composed for someone who’d just come.

  Rebecca shivered. “You’d better be going to make good on that.”

  Enid pushed her relentlessly away, rolling to her own feet. “No time, alarm’s about to go off.”

  Rebecca flopped onto her back, glaring up at Enid, who grinned back mercilessly.

  “I hate you.”

  “You think I’m hot,” Enid corrected, disappearing toward the bathroom and leaving the door open.

  Rebecca followed. She knew an invitation when she saw one.

  SHE WRITHES BENEATH ME

  Roxy Jones

  She writhes beneath me, gasping and arching—my hungry fingers coaxing low moans and supplications, prayers to the god of hotel-room carpets and fluorescent lights. My hand is slick with her, bathed in her need, and my thighs are sore but greedy still—pushing, taunting, fucking in a daze of amazement at my luck to have such a handsome feast laid out for eager hands to grasp, darting tongue to discover.

  When we finally venture downstairs, eyes blinking in the light, craving coffee and day-old pastries, we don’t notice the glances of our shocked, sleepless neighbors at first as they pick at their Frosted Flakes, but then it swells up behind us like massive waves of jealous whispers, and their hollow eyes betray the hours they lay still, listening with cold, blue envy. They wonder, I imagine, how we were entwined, whose sweaty skin slid on sheets, whose knees were spread and held, whose face met the sky with a growl and a whimper as we arched up off the bed like we had learned to fly. They’re desperate to ask, to guess at which of us lay back to receive and which dealt it out, those hours of savage recklessness, the audacious pounding that drove the bedpost into plaster walls over and over throughout the Sweet. Silent. Night.

  I smile at them with a wicked pride, like a lion in the sun, because I know. I know the color of her thighs, the shape of her belly when we dance tight, the smile that belongs to me and no one else. I know her smell, her touch, the look in her eyes when I slammed her up against the cold, dirty, brick alley wall and we melted together in the darkness.

  They’re all guessing, but I know.

  I know the sound of her thirteenth orgasm, begging for release. (I count them like wanton rosary beads, head bowed in prayer, devoted lips mouthing my zeal.) I know the sweet, salty thrust of her hips, tense with desire. I know the woman inside the man, the clit behind the catalog cock that rocked between us, linking pussy to cunt like two massive steam engines racing recklessly together on the same track, headed for one glorious, shuddering collision after another.

  So I smile again, sweetly, and broader than the first, and they turn away, suddenly red.

  I wonder if it’s the knowing in my eyes that makes them look away, afraid of what would happen if they asked, or what they would hear if I answered. Terrified to know that all their shocked and horrified hand-wringing, their frenzied, frantic dreams of bodies entwined, coiled and bent in feverish passion, didn’t come close to the fiery, fierce heat that burned between us all night.

  They sit, frozen but for fluttering hearts, afraid of what they’re guessing at, afraid of what they’d ask, and desperately, but politely, afraid of what they’d hear.

  Because they know in their guts, from the sparkle in my eyes, that I might just tell them.

  Everything.

  OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

  Cha Cha White

  What we need,” said the captain, her ass testing the twill fabric of her pants as she strode down the corridor, “is some girl-on-girl action.”

  “Come again, ma’am?” Lieutenant O’Hara struggled to catch up as the captain neared the engine room of the alien craft they’d captured when their own ship was destroyed.

  O’Hara wished the captain would wear the regulation uniform jacket, instead of the black muscle tee that showed her sculpted arms, set off her brown skin and emphasized her perfect, braless tits. Combined with the snug pants hugging toned legs and that wonderful ass, the sexy tee was a major distraction.

  “You heard me, Lieutenant. Assemble the crew. Our hostage is dead, we have no way home but this hijacked craft and we have forty-five minutes to charge that fuel cell before the star we’re orbiting goes nova.”

  Mystified, O’Hara rallied the crew of the former Lesley-Ann IV in the alien craft’s control room.

  “Gentlemen,” the captain began. This was her idea of humor; most of the crew were female. “When we captured this alien craft, we had no idea how its drive worked. Now we know the aliens relied on electrical activity in the brain to charge the fuel cell. Our hostage was charging it for us, but that hostage has died.”

  A collective gasp ran through the room. The captain held up a hand.

  “Apparently a suicide. This is no time to panic, gentlemen. I’ve studied the electroencephalogram from the alien’s brain activity and compared it to a human readout, and I’ve made a discovery that could save our sweet asses.”

  Some sweeter than others, thought O’Hara, with an involuntary glance at the captain’s posterior.

  “There is a process that creates similar activity in the human brain,” the captain continued. “Anyone want to guess what it is?”

  No one spoke.

  “Orgasm. Specifically, female orgasm. So what I need now are two volunteers. Preferably two highly orgasmic ones.”

  A snicker from the audience. The captain brought her fist down on the console.

  “This is not a joke, people. I need two volunteers. You can do each other, or you can get off by yourselves, I don’t care. I need two brave women to stand and deliver. We need this done and we need it done now.”

  Feet shuffled. Female crew members exchanged glances. O’Hara felt a rosy blush creep up her cheeks.

  “No volunteers? Fine, I’ll get the ball rolling myself.” With one swift gesture, she stripped off the black muscle tee that had maddened O’Hara since the start of her tour of duty. O’Hara’s mouth fell open as she took in the sight of the most beautiful pair of naked brown breasts she had ever seen.

  Hands shot up all over the room. O’Hara blushed harder, her own hand in the air, fingertips tingling with excitement.

  The captain scanned the room, a glint of amusement in her eyes, a slight smile curling her lips.

  “That’s more like it. O’Hara!”

  O’Hara jumped, then elbowed a random ensign out of the way. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You know how to operate this contraption. Since you also volunteered, you may as well stay. The rest of you, prepare the ship to leave orbit as quickly as possible. I’ll give the order as soon as the fuel cell is charged.”

  As the crew filed out, with a few curious backward glances, O’Hara attached the electrodes to her own temples and the captain’s. She thoughtfully observed the captain’s smug smile, her arrogant posture. With all due respect, Captain, she thought tenderly, I’m going to wipe that smile right off your beautiful face.

  The setup finished, the captain stepped forward, and O’Hara sensed her uncertainty. The captain, always cocksure in front of a
crowd, had no idea how to make the first move. Instead she compensated, assuming a stern, swaggering air.

  “You up for this, O’Hara?”

  “Oh, I’m up for it, Captain,” O’Hara replied. She slid her hands under the waistband, undid the button and pushed the twill pants down with one gesture. At long last she could cup that magnificent ass in her palms.

  “Nice initiative, Lieutenant,” said the captain. Her breath came fast; her voice trembled slightly.

  “If there’s one talent of mine that goes wasted around here,” said O’Hara, kissing the captain’s exposed throat, “it’s my talent for eating pussy. Now sit down and shut up.”

  The captain’s brows drew together. Clearly, she was not accustomed to being told to shut up. O’Hara gave her no time to vent her displeasure. Pushing the superior officer down on the console, she found the small, shocked clit and warmed it with her breath, moistened it with the point of her tongue. At the same time, O’Hara’s right hand slid down to find her own pussy, already soaking wet, and she teased her own clit without mercy.

  “Insubordinate—aunhhhhh…” gasped the captain, burying her hands in O’Hara’s red curls. Her clitoris promptly swelled and began to throb under the deft strokes of O’Hara’s tongue.

  With expert pressure, O’Hara brought the captain to the brink. Blindly, with her free hand, she stroked the lovely dark breasts, teasing the nipples. But with practiced discipline she kept her attention focused on the captain’s inner thighs; her warm, wet pussy; and her clitoris, now engorged almost to the point of pain. Ever the good lieutenant, she thought. If orgasms were needed, then orgasms she would provide.

  But despite the urgency of the situation, O’Hara couldn’t resist pulling back when the captain’s rushed breathing told her orgasm was imminent. Panting, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, O’Hara regarded her captain with all the coolness she could muster.

  “Good?” she inquired.