Read Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets Online

Authors: Robin Watergrove

Tags: #lesbian romance, #lesbian erotica, #fingering, #lesbian sex, #lesbian oral sex, #lesbian love story, #lesbian dating, #butch lesbian, #lesbian couple, #lesbian happy ending

Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets (5 page)

BOOK: Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets
13.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

I sit on her hips and trace the under curves
lightly. Maybe it’s just the way she’s looking up at me, nearly
naked with her hair mussed on my bed, that makes her look so
fragile. I slide my thumb gently up and over one nipple, “Can I use
my mouth?”

Maria nods.

I curl over her and put both of my hands on
her ribs, with my fingers wrapped around the back. I breathe hot
and slow over one nipple and she arches up, pushing it into my
mouth. I make a muffled noise and lower her back to the bed. I lick
with a flat tongue, then a pointed tip. I suck and pinch the nub
between my teeth. I flick it back and forth with my tongue, then
massage it in my mouth. Each time, I’m listening to see how she
responds, which movement makes her breath catch. Sucking made her
groan, so I suck on the other nipple and massage the first with my
fingertips. I suck harder and her stomach jumps. I reach down,
quickly, and stroke my hand firmly up her pussy. She makes the
sound I’m searching for. An open-mouthed moan that judders out,
breath fighting with sensation. I do it again, sucking hard and
stroking her. Maria twists and stretches under me. She lifts her
chest closer to me and pushes her hips down into my touch. I keep
going. The cardinal rule of sex with a girl: when you’ve found
something she likes, don’t stop doing it. Just keep going and
going. Do it for as long as you can. Until she tells you to
stop.

Maria gets louder and her body keeps coming
apart in my hands. I move back and forth between her nipples,
pulling those dark circles into my mouth. I alternate between
pressing my hand flat against her to rub firm, slow circles into
her clit with my palm, and drawing my fingertips up the length of
her. I can feel my middle finger parting her labia and pressing
just inside. Stroke, stroke, stroke, I can feel the wetness in the
fabric seeping through.

The best thing about fucking girls is that
it’s not obvious when exactly you begin to fuck. Is it when you
first touch her through her clothes? When your tongue touches her
clit? What about when you’re kissing her labia? What about her
thigh? Is it when you put your fingers in? If you even get that
far, if she even wants that. Or is it as soon as she’s naked in bed
with you? There’s no clear start. You just start fucking somehow,
trip into each other’s arms, and slide downhill into ecstasy.

Maria is huffing, breathing heavy. Her sounds
are growing higher and clearer. I push back quickly, pull her
underwear aside, and lick up the length of her pussy. I want to
surprise her, to get her worked up with my hands then catch her
breathless with the crisp pleasure a tongue can give.

It works. She makes the most incredible
noise. If my roommates weren’t awake already they probably are now.
I pull back and slow down. Her inner labia show just a little
between the outer, like four lips in a row. The inner pair are dark
purple and textured, with a thin, clear strand of wetness reaching
out from between them, stretched to a long, wet line in her
underwear.

I settle my face against her and drag my
closed mouth up her labia, wetting my lips. I use my tongue as
lightly as I can, making her nerves reach for the sensation. It’s
easy to overwhelm a girl, particularly the first time you go down
on her. Turning her on and helping her relax enough to enjoy it
aren’t the same thing, and sometimes everything is so taught you
can only do one or the other. I try to ease Maria back from that
gasping point, where all her muscles are braced but the sensation
is still strong enough to force her breath.

I wet every crease, pushing my tongue between
her lips just enough to separate each pair. I return to the center
and push the tip of my pointed tongue inside of her. It’s not deep
enough to feel like penetration, but enough for her to feel the
spread. She’s salty and slick. I groan with the tang at the back of
my tongue. I pulse in and out slow, going a little deeper each
time.

I settle my hands on her hips and squeeze.
Now I’m swimming in it, her smell, her taste, the way the skin on
her mound is nearly white under that dark hair. Something heady and
urgent spikes behind my ears; now we’re fucking. Now I’m inside
her.

I look up to see her looking down at me,
slack-jawed with lidded eyes. She closes her mouth and bites her
lip with a little smile. I want to say, ‘don’t worry about what you
look like,’ but my mouth is busy. I reach up and tug on her bottom
lip until she opens her mouth again.

Maria laughs, breathy and soft. She licks the
corner of her mouth playfully. I make a muffled noise against her
and peak my eyebrows in the center, to say, ‘more like that, put on
a show for me, you’ve got me hook, line, and—’

Maria puts her hand on my head and blanks my
mind to a bright white buzz.

When you fuck a girl, you have to be willing
to work right in front of her. To be watched while you try to give
her pleasure. But you might find yourself making love to her. Then
you’ll be showing her a hell of a lot more than just your earnest
effort to make her feel good. You’ll find yourself naked in front
of her, all your clothes on and your heart stripped bare. She’ll
watch you. Split open and incomplete. Whimpering out months of
loneliness in helpless little sounds while you eat her out.

You can work. Make something from nothing,
but those same thin hands and ready mouth will betray you. You will
show her every dream you had about her. You will breathe heavy,
with a closed throat, when she invites you closer. You will give
yourself up for her judgement. And you will both know it doesn’t
matter if she comes.

It’s a hook up. I hook myself to her like I’m
drowning and she can carry me back up.

It’s enough. Just like this. The pleasure
alone is enough. More than enough. More than I could ever ask for,
or expect from another person. Giving her pleasure is a consuming
calling. An honor that takes precedence over everything else. I
breathe in through my nose and hum, just sliding my tongue up and
down her clit. No worry, no shame, no sense of time, nor goal in
mind. Just the girl in front of me.

She’s so wet now. Her pussy is full and red.
The bottom is pushed out and the lips are separated in an engorged
U. I can just see inside, a dark, warm cave that I taste before
filling with my fingers. I lose an hour inside her. I taste her
skin while she strokes her fingers through my hair and moans.

Maria pushes me off when her thighs are
shaking on my shoulders. I crawl over her to kiss her and we fall
in a heap. I spread her legs with my knee and press her pussy to my
hip.

I kiss her lips over and over, feeling them
quiver with arousal and overstimulation. She pulls my shirt off and
wrestles with my utilitarian sports bra for a minute, until she’s
laughing too hard to make progress and I take it off for her. She
draws her fingernails from the outer edges of my breast to the
nipple. She kisses the pad of her thumb and presses it to my nose.
I feel like that means something but I’m too undone to ask.

I wrap her up in a blanket and throw on a
sweatshirt to search the bathroom for a hairbrush. I find three of
my roommates’: one with stiff plastic bristles, a scratchy nylon
one with bristles like a fake Christmas tree, and a fine-toothed
comb. I grab a banana from the kitchen on my way back to her.

I never asked if she was hungry, but feeding
her is the first way I learned to take care of her and I’m not
giving that one up. Maria takes the banana with an amused smile and
peels it without a word.

I hold out the brushes and comb, “Which of
these do you like?”

She points to the one with stiff plastic
bristles, “Use this to brush. But hold onto the comb. Do you know
how to braid?”

I drop the brush and comb in her lap and
crawl behind her on the bed, “Of course I know how to braid. I was
a seven-year-old once.”

She laughs, “Braid my hair,” and hands me a
hair tie.

I sit behind her, my legs spread on either
side of her, and brush out the knots we made with our rocking and
twisting. I smell her hair. I say, “It can’t just be honey and egg
yolks.”

She laughs and I can feel it through her
back. It seems like she’s laughing every three breaths when she’s
with me. That’s right, my ego nods, that’s right; I’m good at this.
I can see her bare breasts and half of her face in the narrow
mirror hanging on the back of my door. I can see a sliver of my own
face behind her. I’m surprised by how sleepy I look, with tousled
hair and gentle eyes. I part her hair down the middle and braid one
side. It’s horribly messy. The three ribbons of hair are all
different sizes. They wobble between too tight and too loose. In a
couple places, little tufts of hair leave one ribbon and join
another.

“It’s perfect!” I exclaim while she laughs.
Really laughs. Laughter that trips into deeper, fuller laughter.
She covers her mouth and I pull her hand away. I chuckle too
because I want her to keep laughing. I wrap my arms around her
waist and murmur, “Perfect. Just like this. Wabi sabi.”

She tucks her head toward her shoulder, so
the messy braid rests against my forehead, “What’s that?”

“It means imperfection is beautiful.”

She’s very still for a second. She hums
quietly, to let me know she understands. No “mmhmm” this time. I
hold her a little tighter and she nestles in.

I watch her braid the other side into a
perfectly symmetrical rope. She leaves my braid in place and tilts
her head back and forth to see both sides in the mirror on the
door.

Then she pulls my sweatshirt off and
unbuttons my pants. She’s more direct than I’m expecting. She pulls
my underwear down and pushes my legs open. She puts her mouth on my
clit.

It feels like someone snapped a rubber band
on my skin. I’m so wet my body talks for me. It arches and rolls.
My hips stutter. If I open my lips I’ll be moaning loud enough for
the neighbors to follow along, so I hold my breath. Maria keeps up
a steady rhythm on my clit. She never pauses, doesn’t wander around
with her tongue, doesn’t use her fingers. She shoves me straight
over the edge. I come.

There’s something I forgot about sex. About
amazing sex. When it’s unbelievable and your body doesn’t need any
coaxing, orgasm is just something that happens. It just happens,
whether or not you chase it. Nothing like the slow draw of getting
yourself off with your fingers, it’s this crazy shake that climbs
and climbs, rearranges you, then rockets up and tops out.

I hold her to my chest as I recover. She
tells me I taste good and I pet her uneven braids.

There are no clocks in my room. I show her
how to play all the games on my phone while we lay in a slack
spoon. Her reflexes are better than mine. She sets new high scores
for me and I kiss her bare shoulders. She starts kissing me back
and we fuck again. You can’t tell when the fucking ends, either. It
never really ends.

We hold hands with our fingers interlaced
while I go down on her. I push my tongue in deep and pull out the
thick, white goo her body made earlier. Her labia are soft and
loose to the touch. Her body is so warm inside. She tilts her hips
against me like she wants more and wants it right now. I’m careful
when I put my fingers in. I keep them buried to the knuckle and
just twist and curl, rubbing the skin of her g-spot. I don’t want
to rub her raw with too much friction.

At one point, I turn off my lights so she can
see the moon through my window. Her sounds get louder, like no one
can hear us in the dark.

I make her toast and we fuck again. She keeps
complimenting all the little things in my room. The bedspread, the
expensive, over-the-ear headphones on my desk, the pile of bandanas
next to my closet.

She says she has to pee, so I pull our
clothes on and walk her to the communal bathroom with my arms
around her waist and her feet standing on mine. My phone says it’s
almost 5 am. When she comes out, I walk her back to my room.

We put on our shoes and go out. I walk her
around the best lit blocks in my neighborhood so I can see her in
the streetlights. The city is dead. The quiet hours are about to
end. When we get back to my apartment, we start fucking the second
I close my door. Like we were both holding it in, holding our
breath, letting the urge build, waiting to exhale.

I make her come with my fingers and tongue. I
can feel her body contracting around me. She’s loud and I tell her
to get louder. I can hear my roommates moving around beyond my
walls. I know they can hear her and I don’t care. Sorry guys. I’ll
make you both cookies or something. I bet they can hear me too,
moaning with my mouth full.

She pulls my hair. I fuck her deeper. I moan
like this can’t be real. She says my name and it feels so good. I
breathe her in. I love sex. This is what I want. Whatever this is.
Is this a hook up? What do you call this? What would you call this
if she was here all the time and never left?

We talk nose to nose. There’s this pink flush
across her cheeks and she keeps smiling in the pauses. She tells me
she’s afraid of loud showers because someone might come in and she
wouldn’t hear it. I tell her I’m afraid of dogs. All dogs. Even
little ones. She laughs and I shake my head, smiling, “They can all
bite. Every single one of them.”

I stare at her while she gets dressed in the
pale blue morning light. I don’t think this is a hook up. She says
she has to be somewhere in half an hour. I don’t know what to say,
how to end a night like this. Inexplicably, I’m aching.

I walk over to where I threw my pants, in the
corner by my closet, and pull them on. I feel the wad of cash in my
phone pocket and pull it out. Of course. I walk over to her and see
her. I really see her.

Her back is to me and I can make out the
notches of her spine through her skin. She pulls her shirt over her
head. Can that thin layer of fabric do anything to protect her? She
pulls her white braids out of the collar and lets them fall down
her back. Hers is still impeccable and mine is unraveling.

BOOK: Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets
13.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Catch as Cat Can by Rita Mae Brown
Worthy Brown's Daughter by Margolin, Phillip
Meeting Her Match by Clopton, Debra
The Paradise War by Stephen R. Lawhead
The Last Second by Robin Burcell
Amongst Silk and Spice by Camille Oster
Burn Girl by Mandy Mikulencak