1,388 words
It happens like this.
She makes teasing come-ons and flirts and glances just so in such a way that she hopes will be seen as harmless joking if unwanted and known to be sincere if not, but dreads that the opposite is more likely.
The day passes and they're alone, and it's dark and it's cold and her stomach is tightened in knots with fear and dread and desperate hope and her every nerve tells her not to (begs, pleads, but she has to take the chance, because even if she isn't stupid, she's certainly reckless and impulsive and she'll never goddamned know until she tries, so), she says it. Plainly, simply, no teasing or joking around. Her meaning cannot possibly be more clear.
She doesn't know how this will turn out. At this point it's a toss up in her head - she's so confused and has gotten so many mixed signals that she can't tell whether it's more likely that her feelings are returned or not.
With mounting hysteria, she simply wishes that, more than anything else, she knew how she wants the other girl to react.
The passing of time is agonizing, and she wants to throw up, or leave, or laugh and say it was a joke, or throw up, or hide in a corner until she dies, or just simply die right then.
She feels the bile in her throat and the sting in her eyes and the pounding in her head and surely it's been years but it's been just seconds, and she wants this to be over, or to have never happened, she would give anything just for a reset button, anything, anything.
She wishes for sweet oblivion, or at least for a couple of nyquil and to puke, because just maybe that would make her feel better.
The girl in front of her looks surprised (and that makes her almost laugh, because, really, she isn't very subtle - was she so truly repulsive that no one wanted to think of her wanting them? - but not quite, because it's really not very funny.) and then, hesitantly, nods.
She doubts that an orgasm could ever top the relief she feels right then.
Hesitantly, awkwardly, they lean into each other and kiss, and it's not perfect, and there are no fireworks, but it's warm and nice and comforting to even be doing this so it doesn't really matter so much that the experience isn't living up to the fictional ideal. Their tongues slide against each other, and it's wet and strange and she leans forward and tangles her fingers in the other girl's hair self consciously to bring them closer together.
Her mind tangles and trips over itself and she doesn't want this to stop because it's amazing and she never expected to have it, but she's greedy and she wants more, always more, so her hands slide down from the other girl's hair and cup her breasts.
The other girl makes a breathy noise that she takes as an invitation to continue, which she does, gratified, slipping her hands under the other shirt and sliding around the back to unhook her bra, and then sliding back up front to pinch at the other girl's nipples and rub at the undersides of her breasts, and she's become almost so distracted by this that she almost doesn't notice the other girl reciprocate.
And oh, oh. Warm, touching, sensitive, touching, and it feels strange, so strange, and she wants to call it off right then because she shies away from being touched at all usually, from pats on the back or hands ruffling her hair, and this is so very, very much more, but she can't bear to be the one to stop, because she wants this so much, and now that she's gotten a taste she somehow finds a way to want it even more than she had before.
She shudders, and kisses the other girl hard, still hesitant and awkward but now desperate more than anything else, and when she is met with the same desperation, the same raw need she knows that they're going to see this through.
They start peeling their clothes off, then. Shirts first, then bras, socks, and then stop.
Their certainty drains away, leaving them cold and lonely and feeling more awkward and miserable than surely they ever had before or hopefully would again, because if they did, they would break.
The moment passes, and they kiss each other fiercely again, and the other girl's hands slide up, under her skirt, and she is aware of every point of contact - the other girl's hands at her thighs, their breasts, their tongues and lips.
Their breasts.
The hands between her thighs, moving steadily upward, rubbing soothing, wonderful, torturous, brilliant, terrible circles.
She gasps, and feels the thoughts pour through like a flood, insistent and unstoppable and contradictory and she hopes that tears aren't streaming down her face because she's sure that the other girl wouldn't appreciate them.
They are, and realizing that only seems to make them flow more, and she hopes that the other girl doesn't mind (of course she does), but the other girl simply continues kissing her and traces circles with her fingertips, though she doesn't move any further upward.
Finally, with a shuddering breath the tears halt, and she kisses the other girl apologetically, and is met with intense, overpowering comfort. "It's okay" the other girl whispers into her ear, and she finds herself believing that.
The hands between legs move upward, and soon they tug at her underwear, and, feeling almost unbearably self conscious, she lets the other girl pull them off.
To her relief, the other girl then tugs off her own jeans and underwear, so she isn't the only one naked and vulnerable there.
"Are you okay?" the other girl asks her, and she says that she is, though she isn't, not really, but perhaps the only thing more agonizing, more unbelievably awful than doing this would be not doing it, and that would be infinitely worse, so horrible that she can scarcely imagine it right then, and the very thought fills her with cold and pain and grief.
She pushes that to the side however, and leans in and settles her hands at the other girl's hips and places her lips near the other girl's ear. "Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do." she asks, pleads, and she is only referring to now, to this moment, because she can't bear to consider what the other girl will want outside of this, can't bear the thought that it might not be her.
And the other girl blushes, and clearly is embarrassed, but she guides her through, and their fingertips danced across each other's skin.
It's awkward and strange and if hands at her breasts had felt strange then hands between her legs felt just completely wrong, unbelievable, nice but...
It's better than when she does this herself, much better, (but that isn't truly very hard, because she had never been very good at it) but it's still far too strange and awkward and uncomfortable to be anything close to the searing touches and mind-blowing orgasms of fiction.
She flicks her hand across the other girl's clit in a particular way and is rewarded with a startled gasp, so she repeats the motion, glad that other girl likes it.
She is startled when her orgasm hits, her fingers had been cramping and she had begun doubting that she would ever get off, and it isn't magical and there certainly is no fade to white with sparkles, but it feels good.
She isn't sure what she does then, but it is apparently something right, because with a strangled, shuddering gasp, the other girl comes as well.
They slide under the bed covers then, and she has to restrain a choking sound that she can't tell as being either a laugh or a sob.
More than anything else, she decides, the best part of this entire thing was this moment, holding each other close.
She's exhausted, hasn't slept in days, but she doubts she'll fall asleep.
She's wrong.
***
In the dream they are lying on a grassy hill, gazing up at the sky and naming the stars all wrong.
She makes teasing come-ons and flirts and glances just so in such a way that she hopes will be seen as harmless joking if unwanted and known to be sincere if not, but dreads that the opposite is more likely.
The day passes and they're alone, and it's dark and it's cold and her stomach is tightened in knots with fear and dread and desperate hope and her every nerve tells her not to (begs, pleads, but she has to take the chance, because even if she isn't stupid, she's certainly reckless and impulsive and she'll never goddamned know until she tries, so), she says it. Plainly, simply, no teasing or joking around. Her meaning cannot possibly be more clear.
She doesn't know how this will turn out. At this point it's a toss up in her head - she's so confused and has gotten so many mixed signals that she can't tell whether it's more likely that her feelings are returned or not.
With mounting hysteria, she simply wishes that, more than anything else, she knew how she wants the other girl to react.
The passing of time is agonizing, and she wants to throw up, or leave, or laugh and say it was a joke, or throw up, or hide in a corner until she dies, or just simply die right then.
She feels the bile in her throat and the sting in her eyes and the pounding in her head and surely it's been years but it's been just seconds, and she wants this to be over, or to have never happened, she would give anything just for a reset button, anything, anything.
She wishes for sweet oblivion, or at least for a couple of nyquil and to puke, because just maybe that would make her feel better.
The girl in front of her looks surprised (and that makes her almost laugh, because, really, she isn't very subtle - was she so truly repulsive that no one wanted to think of her wanting them? - but not quite, because it's really not very funny.) and then, hesitantly, nods.
She doubts that an orgasm could ever top the relief she feels right then.
Hesitantly, awkwardly, they lean into each other and kiss, and it's not perfect, and there are no fireworks, but it's warm and nice and comforting to even be doing this so it doesn't really matter so much that the experience isn't living up to the fictional ideal. Their tongues slide against each other, and it's wet and strange and she leans forward and tangles her fingers in the other girl's hair self consciously to bring them closer together.
Her mind tangles and trips over itself and she doesn't want this to stop because it's amazing and she never expected to have it, but she's greedy and she wants more, always more, so her hands slide down from the other girl's hair and cup her breasts.
The other girl makes a breathy noise that she takes as an invitation to continue, which she does, gratified, slipping her hands under the other shirt and sliding around the back to unhook her bra, and then sliding back up front to pinch at the other girl's nipples and rub at the undersides of her breasts, and she's become almost so distracted by this that she almost doesn't notice the other girl reciprocate.
And oh, oh. Warm, touching, sensitive, touching, and it feels strange, so strange, and she wants to call it off right then because she shies away from being touched at all usually, from pats on the back or hands ruffling her hair, and this is so very, very much more, but she can't bear to be the one to stop, because she wants this so much, and now that she's gotten a taste she somehow finds a way to want it even more than she had before.
She shudders, and kisses the other girl hard, still hesitant and awkward but now desperate more than anything else, and when she is met with the same desperation, the same raw need she knows that they're going to see this through.
They start peeling their clothes off, then. Shirts first, then bras, socks, and then stop.
Their certainty drains away, leaving them cold and lonely and feeling more awkward and miserable than surely they ever had before or hopefully would again, because if they did, they would break.
The moment passes, and they kiss each other fiercely again, and the other girl's hands slide up, under her skirt, and she is aware of every point of contact - the other girl's hands at her thighs, their breasts, their tongues and lips.
Their breasts.
The hands between her thighs, moving steadily upward, rubbing soothing, wonderful, torturous, brilliant, terrible circles.
She gasps, and feels the thoughts pour through like a flood, insistent and unstoppable and contradictory and she hopes that tears aren't streaming down her face because she's sure that the other girl wouldn't appreciate them.
They are, and realizing that only seems to make them flow more, and she hopes that the other girl doesn't mind (of course she does), but the other girl simply continues kissing her and traces circles with her fingertips, though she doesn't move any further upward.
Finally, with a shuddering breath the tears halt, and she kisses the other girl apologetically, and is met with intense, overpowering comfort. "It's okay" the other girl whispers into her ear, and she finds herself believing that.
The hands between legs move upward, and soon they tug at her underwear, and, feeling almost unbearably self conscious, she lets the other girl pull them off.
To her relief, the other girl then tugs off her own jeans and underwear, so she isn't the only one naked and vulnerable there.
"Are you okay?" the other girl asks her, and she says that she is, though she isn't, not really, but perhaps the only thing more agonizing, more unbelievably awful than doing this would be not doing it, and that would be infinitely worse, so horrible that she can scarcely imagine it right then, and the very thought fills her with cold and pain and grief.
She pushes that to the side however, and leans in and settles her hands at the other girl's hips and places her lips near the other girl's ear. "Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do." she asks, pleads, and she is only referring to now, to this moment, because she can't bear to consider what the other girl will want outside of this, can't bear the thought that it might not be her.
And the other girl blushes, and clearly is embarrassed, but she guides her through, and their fingertips danced across each other's skin.
It's awkward and strange and if hands at her breasts had felt strange then hands between her legs felt just completely wrong, unbelievable, nice but...
It's better than when she does this herself, much better, (but that isn't truly very hard, because she had never been very good at it) but it's still far too strange and awkward and uncomfortable to be anything close to the searing touches and mind-blowing orgasms of fiction.
She flicks her hand across the other girl's clit in a particular way and is rewarded with a startled gasp, so she repeats the motion, glad that other girl likes it.
She is startled when her orgasm hits, her fingers had been cramping and she had begun doubting that she would ever get off, and it isn't magical and there certainly is no fade to white with sparkles, but it feels good.
She isn't sure what she does then, but it is apparently something right, because with a strangled, shuddering gasp, the other girl comes as well.
They slide under the bed covers then, and she has to restrain a choking sound that she can't tell as being either a laugh or a sob.
More than anything else, she decides, the best part of this entire thing was this moment, holding each other close.
She's exhausted, hasn't slept in days, but she doubts she'll fall asleep.
She's wrong.
***
In the dream they are lying on a grassy hill, gazing up at the sky and naming the stars all wrong.