Girl Fever (3 page)

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, breathing 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.

 

 

 

 

 

S
he 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.

 

 

 

 

 

W
hat 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.

The captain's head was arched so far back that O'Hara couldn't see her face, only her gorgeous, strong throat—but she straightened up when O'Hara stopped.

“Hunh?” she half gasped, half sobbed, looking at her lieutenant in dismay. “Wha… Why did you stop?”

“I want to be sure that my execution of your orders meets with your approval, Captain.”

No trace of the smug smile, she noted with satisfaction. This was a woman on the verge of begging for more. To her credit, however, the captain snatched at the vestiges of her authority.

“Yes,” she moaned, thrusting her shapely hips forward. “More, Lieutenant. That's an order.”

“Yes, Captain,” murmured O'Hara. She sank her tongue deep in the captain's cunt, drawing two, three, four lazy upward strokes to her clit to finish the job.

 

 

 

 

 

T
wo weeks post-op, I'm about to get my period and my leg feels like a sodden log. Like it doesn't even belong to me. The incision slices down my thigh and I'm supposed to be massaging it with vitamin E oil, but I don't like touching it. Sometimes I let Chelsea do it, but I don't like her touching it, either.

Our bedroom is bright and clean, lots of flowers in vases and get-well cards pinned up. A spring breeze floats through the curtains and I can hear a mockingbird yelling his head off from our apple tree. Everything is saying new beginnings, growth, beauty, blossoms and baby lambs and all I can think is,
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I hate my life!

“Earl Grey. Hot.” Chelsea sets a tea tray down on my bedside table and pulls up a chair. We both grew up with
Trekkie parents, and time was we wrote slash together, nerds that we are. Feeling too sorry for myself to crack a smile, I grab my cup and spill tea onto my chest.

“Shit!” I pull my nightgown away but can tell I've been burned. Chelsea gallops to the kitchen for an ice pack and helps me out of my nightie. She leers when my breasts are revealed, something meant to cheer me up. It doesn't.

“I feel crappy!” I snap. She drops the leer and starts mopping up the bed. I sit there with the ice pack over my titties, eating one Fig Newton after another. She looks at me.

“What?”

“C'mere.” Her eyes are lustful. I get angrier.