Pancakes (Lauren & Beck #2)

Beck wakes up slow, taking minutes to open her eyes, shifting her spine and hips as she snuggles closer under the smooth, soft comforter. It’s already bright outside, and if the fog has already burned off that means it’s after 9am already. Beck isn’t surprised they slept in, more like pleased—she never used to allow herself that luxury, even on a weekend. She snakes her arm over to find Lauren, but no one is there; Lauren’s half of the bed is empty. That is enough to wake Beck fully, and she throws off the covers, pulls on boxers, and goes out into Lauren’s kitchen.

The smell tells her where Lauren is before she sees her: pancakes. Beck’s favorite, and Lauren’s specialty. Beck breathes in, inhaling that luxurious smell of butter and sugar, the tangy tinge of fruit. Even her senses seem more sensitive, everything feels more intense. Lauren is balancing pans at the stove: a small cast-iron skillet full of berries, a flat griddle in the center, a metal spatula in one hand. She’s wearing a simple long chef’s apron, and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

“Where’d you go,” Beck mumbles, still sleepy, tongue thick and well-used from last night’s escapades. She comes up behind Lauren and slips her arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Lauren grins, turning her head to kiss Beck as well as she can reach. “Preparing your favorites,” she says.

“It smells amazing.”

“It’s almost done. I was just thinking about creative ways to wake you up. I can’t believe you slept so late.”

“Me either. Thanks for wearing me out last night.”

Another grin. “My pleasure.”

Beck’s cunt is still sore. It was the first time she’s taken Lauren’s fist all the way, to the hilt of her wrist, thick and all-consuming. Lauren’s hands aren’t small, but that isn’t it: Beck isn’t usually willing to open. Again, it goes through Beck’s mind: everything has changed. She pushes back tears, tries to stop her mind from going into that downward spiral that leaves her in bed watching sitcoms all day.

They eat in Beck’s messy dining room, clearing the paperwork to one side of the table and laying out the fruit compote, yogurt, maple syrup, and steaming pile of pancakes on their side. Beck is famished, but it’s so deliciously indulgent to be eating pancakes on a Wednesday morning that she savors bite after bite after bite like it’s the first one. She licks maple syrup from her fingers and doesn’t even care that that is messy and improper.

Lauren watches her eat with a little sadness in her eyes, finally asking, “How are you feeling?”

Beck sighs a little. Inevitable. “Good. I’m … okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know.” Another bite. At least eating is a good excuse not to talk. She chews quietly.

“Can I … help, somehow?”

Beck shrugs, spooning compote onto another pancake. “Not really. Look, baby—” Beck puts her spoon down, reaches over for Lauren’s hand, warm and comforting. “There’s just nothing to do. I’m hungry, that’s a good sign, right?”

Lauren nods a little. “Yeah. I just … worry. You know.”

“I know.”

Beck has one more pancake, just one more, she promises herself, and finishes off the coffee with coconut cream from her favorite mug. It’s perfect, it could not be more perfect. She beams at Lauren, thrilled and grateful. This is how it happens these days: the emotional roller coaster has ecstasy in the highs and despair in the lows. The ups and downs can make Beck feel nauseous, they happen so fast.

Lauren starts clearing dishes and Beck helps, carrying plates to the kitchen, overlooking last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. She doesn’t even care about that anymore. Everything has changed. When Beck comes back in, Lauren is wiping the table with a sponge. There’s a fat drip of maple syrup right in the center of the table that she misses, and something stirs in Beck. A new hunger, more hunger, that insatiable hunger that can never be satisfied. Breakfast is barely just complete, but it isn’t about food. It’s about consumption, about devouring, about fingernails ripping into flesh and the crying out that throats make when they are gasping for air.

Beck comes up behind Lauren and circles her neck with her hand, pushing her chest first down onto the table. Lauren gasps, bare breasts crushing against the table. “You missed a spot,” she hisses in Lauren’s ear. Lauren’s forehead is almost touching the dot of syrup. Beck points, and immediately Lauren opens her mouth to try to lick the table clean, but she can’t quite reach, so scoots further onto the table. Her feet no longer touch the floor, her hips are on the table now. As Lauren’s tongue touches the sticky-sweet drip, Beck stands between her legs, parting her cheeks, taking handfuls of her juicy ass and thighs. Lauren’s slit is pink, still swollen from so much fucking last night, thick. Her pubic hair is dark and groomed, but still a little wild, a little unruly.

It doesn’t take Beck much time at all to get her mouth positioned, and she sucks Lauren’s folds onto her tongue, soft and sharp, sweet and succulent. Lauren gasps, tender in all her private places. Beck is devourous. She sucks and opens Lauren’s legs wider, holds her hips, wraps her arms around her thighs. She doesn’t use her fingers inside, just her tongue, as deep as she can get, desperate to fill Lauren up. Lauren tastes like salt and brine and sweet milk, like promise and desire itself.

“Oh god, oh god,” Lauren moans, pushing herself back toward Beck’s eager mouth. Beck laps and sucks, flicks with her tongue on just the right places, makes it hard and long for others. Beck could do this for hours. Time is irrelevant. They don’t have anywhere to be, only here, right now, doing this kind of worship, this kind of reverence. Those other things can’t possibly matter more than this.

When Lauren finally comes, she gushes hard into Beck’s mouth and down her chin, dripping onto her chest, though Beck swallows mouthfuls eagerly. Lauren trembles, finally releasing her grip on the table’s edge, letting the tension drain out of her legs. She turns as Beck rises from her crouched position on the floor. Beck pets her hair, Lauren’s tangled mess of curls, as Lauren hums, still vibrating from orgasm.

Lauren raises her head a little, an invitation for a kiss. Beck leans down close and their lips touch softly. Lauren sees the sparks still in Beck’s eyes.

“More?” Lauren asks.

Beck nods.

“Bedroom?”

Beck nods again, offering her hand. “Let’s go.” Lauren takes it, and lets herself be led down the hall.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Morning After (Angie & Fern #3)

“Good morning, baby,” I whisper, kissing Fern’s neck as I spoon her from behind. She mumbles something sleepy into the pillow and presses her hips back into me. Her skin is so smooth, I can feel the bone of her hip under my hand and it feels strong, thick, capable.

Even though my body is calibrated to an earlier time zone, I always wake up before Fern. She’s kind of a night owl—she’d sleep until noon if it wasn’t for me. She’s been keeping me up late, but I still can’t sleep much past nine.

I stretch my toes and circle my ankles in her big bed; the cotton sheets caress my legs. Our bodies are touching, still nude after last night’s play time, and I hear her sigh just a little and nestle deeper into the covers. It still smells like sex in here, like her come and my come and our sweat all mingled together. And under it all, that honeysuckle smell, but just a hint of it, not too sweet. The leather of her furniture balances it out, too—that dark, pungent smell of oils and skin. I know I keep going on about her sheets, but—my god, her sheets! I’ve never felt sheets this good. I really have to ask her where she gets them, what makes them so perfect. I feel like I’m in water, they’re so smooth and soft. Her hair is tangled behind her and tickles my nose as I nuzzle into her neck, trying unsuccessfully to wake her. Lying down, we fit together so well: my breasts against her back, her butt against my hips. We just fit.

I shift my body around and manage to turn her hips so she’s lying flat back on the bed, and then I start kissing my way down her body. First her clavicle, the tops of her breasts, then her nipples, where I pause to suck so, so slowly and gently, so soft that she won’t even wake up, just feel something pleasant and keep dreaming. Her nipple gets hard in my mouth, they are long when they get hard and it feels like sucking a clit. I purse my lips and work my mouth around it, barely touching, just enough to keep it in my mouth. I suck the other gently into my mouth, roll it around on my tongue. Then I kiss her stomach, her hip bones, while I slide down further under the covers and my feet and calves dangle off the edge of the bed. I kiss at the crease of her hip, where her thigh meets her torso, that delicate tendon. I latch my mouth onto that, too, and suck again, just enough to get my mouth wet and salivating, enough to get her relaxed and opening her legs even more.

Fern sighs, her hips and shoulders open, eyes still closed. She might be more awake now, but she isn’t showing it. Either she’s faking or she’s still dozing.

I can smell her cunt now, the sharp sweetness and salt of her juices, and I loop my hands around the backs of her thighs. I explore every inch of her cunt with my lips, my cheeks, my nose, brushing as lightly as I possibly can, breathing warm air and inhaling in her scent. The sun is starting to come in through her bedroom window and I take a moment and just look at her, too. Her labia are asymmetrical and pink, her curls are blonde and fine. She looks a little swollen, a little turned on. Her outer lips are thickening, her clit is just barely visible when I gently, gently use my hand to spread her lips apart.

She tenses, pushing her hips up toward me, and I open my mouth to meet her, letting it rest on her cunt, nuzzling my chin a little more so she can feel me against her. My own pussy throbs, I can feel it getting wet and longing to be touched.

I use the wide of my tongue to lap at her softly, with the full width of me but without much pressure. Lots of softness, sweetness. She tastes delicious, I want to lap her up. Who would’ve thought I would like the taste of pussy so much. But after just a few days, I’m craving it, moaning and gulping it down like it’s my last and favorite meal.

With the tip of my tongue, I start tracing the contours of her cunt, the crevasses and divots. But not hard, not jabby—just the softest tip of it, gently against her tenderest places. She shifts again, a little “mmmmm” coming out of her like a half-sigh, half-moan, her arms opening up on either side of her. I like the noises she makes. She’s so relaxed, open. I take this as a good side and keep working my tongue against her, focusing a little more on her clit, but making wide circles around everything.

As I start gently pushing my tongue against her hole, she stirs even more, and when I get up to suckling on her clit, taking it between my lips and working it up and down like a tiny cock, she gasps and sits up halfway.

“Girl! What do you think you’re … doing, ohhh …”

I giggle, but also don’t want to stop. I stretch my tongue and talk between lapping at her clit with the tip of it. “Oh, I thought you said—” Lap lap lap. “That it was okay?” Flick flick. “I can stop—” Lap lap lap. “You know, if you want me to.” Suck, lap, flick.

She collapses back on the pillows and moves her hand into my hair, holding my head where it is. “Don’t you dare move. God that’s good.”

Fern is wide awake now, and so am I. I use every trick I know, all the things I know I like on me, and when she moans or presses even harder into me, I keep at it. She pushes my head down harder and I use more pressure, then she pulls up on my ears and I use less. I follow her lead. She guides me. I suck on her clit like it is dessert and I will eat every single drop of it.

When she comes, she thrashes and stomps the bed with her feet, bent-kneed and flailing. She cries out in big gulps of air, holding my face down against her hard, my tongue working as hard and fast as I can make it go. I can barely breathe. She holds me there, her hands fisting my hair, and I lighten my touch and offer long, slow licks until she is ready to let me go.

She’s breathing hard, body thrumming with blood and pulse and aliveness, when she pulls me up against her and holds me close. I fit perfectly against her, curling up and tucking my legs under me. She wraps her arms around me and we both sigh, giddy with pleasure.

“Angie, goddamn … I … wasn’t expecting that,” Fern finally manages to say.

“It’s my pleasure. Truly,” I say, kissing her neck.

She pulls me even closer and tilts her head to kiss me, her lips soft, mouth opening against mine. I probably still have her salty sweet taste in my mouth.

“My turn,” she declares, and turns out from under me so fast I barely even notice what’s happening until she’s between my legs, on top of me, and holding my thighs open with her knees. I gasp and moan, feeling exposed.

Please, I think. “Please,” I whisper.

She has a sparkle in her eye, and she begins kissing my neck, holding the palm of her hand against my cunt as she travels down my body.

*

Still sex-hazed and loopy, I stand in Fern’s flower-printed robe in the kitchen flipping banana pancakes. She had a craving, and the Bisquick, so we went for it. Fern is unusually quiet, setting the table and pouring coffee, orange juice, water, and getting plates out. She tossed on a white teddy, this short little slip of a dress with spaghetti straps and lace trim, and when she bends it shows off a matching white thong. Note to self, buy better lingerie.

I bring the serving plate over to the small breakfast nook in her apartment’s kitchen, bright and white with lace-edged curtains over the lower half of the windows. The white tile is bright and clean, the floor is immaculate. Either she doesn’t spend much time in here, or she has a housecleaner. My money is on the latter.

I eat two pancakes with yogurt and cut strawberries and maple syrup before I notice that Fern hasn’t said a word. I put down my knife and fork. “Fern?”

She doesn’t look up, but keeps staring at her pancakes, moving the fruit around with her fork. “Yeah.”

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“It’s just … Oh, god, Angie, we just have to start being honest here. Okay?” She kind of pauses, glancing up at me, but hurries on. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I mean, you’re going back to school in wherever the fuck you’re from—”

“Indianapolis,” I offer.

“—Wherever. And I live here. I mean, we can’t really do this. So we may as well just call it good. Don’t get me wrong, I like you. But there’s no future here.”

I try to breathe in but suddenly my body doesn’t work that way. Call it good? We can’t do this? I feel dizzy. I try to speak. “What … what do you mean?”

“I mean, how many more days are you here? Two? This is silly. I’m being silly, thinking we can make something of this. You should go. I mean, you should finish your breakfast, but then you should go.”

“I should … go?” I can’t keep up. She’s talking too fast. I thought … but I wanted …

“I just can’t see a way. You still have school. I’m not moving there. I don’t do long distance. We may as well rip the band-aid off now,” Fern mumbles, and I can feel that she is trying to convince herself, too.

“But, there have to be options—”

“There’s no way, Ange,” her voice is soft and betrays her sadness. She really has feelings for me. I stand up and go over to her, tentatively touch her shoulder. She reaches for me roughly, her arms around my waist and her head against my chest. Fern looks up at me and I see her eyes are wet and wide, bare and open. She’s not quite crying, but not far from it. She buries her head against me.

“There has to be,” I say softly, holding her close, and at that moment, I make a vow to myself to make it work.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.