Dying On The Vine
Author’s Note: This is in response to a double dog dare I received from
hahnsrockstar
And in gorgeous response she created a lovely graphic for this fic. I absolutely adore it.
mp3 Dying On The Vine
“Dr. Hahn, it is you!”
I look up from my perch behind the nurses’ station to see Little Miss Suzy Sunshine making a beeline in my direction. She’s grinning and waving like she just caught a glimpse of her long-lost best friend; Sydney Heron. Are you fucking kidding me. While I can’t say she’s the very last person I want to see from Seattle Grace, there’s a pretty long line ahead of her, she’s certainly near the top of that list. I don’t do perky, I don’t suffer meaningless reunions, and I couldn’t care less about what’s going on back in Seattle.
Before my body can kick into gear and exit the station she’s got her palms braced flat on the counter and is leaning over with that bright crooked smile of hers. “I looked at the staff directory and saw ‘Dr. Hahn’. I knew it was you, I knew it was you. But, then I thought, could it really be her; we thought you dropped off the face of the earth. But, now,…Well, it’s you!” She leans back slightly and throws her arms out at me, like she’s demonstrating to any imbecile around that I am really sitting right here.
“Dr. Heron, what brings you to Kansas City?” I can steer this run in. I can be professional. I can handle this woman, until she goes back to that godforsaken place from whence she came.
Her chest nearly puffs out with pride and she grabs the lapel of her lab coat, thrusting it out for me to see the hospital’s logo. Dear god, take me now.
“First day.” She grins broadly and looks over the counter like she wants to swoop me into some kind of bear hug. The first time that woman lays her hands on me is going to be her very last. “We’re back together. Can you believe it?”
I look down, attempting to hide my annoyance as best I can. “No, I can’t.” Closing the chart with a firm movement, lending a sense of finality to any potential conversation, I tuck the chart under my arm and rise to me feet. “Welcome, Dr. Heron.”
But, she follows me around the curve of the nurses’ station, her smile growing wider by the second. I believe the woman actually thinks she has found some long-lost friend. I don’t even know her; and that’s the way I intend it to stay. The last thing I need is Miss Perky chatting me up at work. Or heaven forbid, if she wants to try and bring Seattle back into my life. That bridge was burned long ago and I have no use for nostalgia.
“Dr. Hahn, what are you doing after your shift?” She pauses for a second, as if she’s actually expecting me to respond. I’m stunned silent for a moment that she even has the courage to ask. Not recognizing my silence for what it is, she reaches out to lay her hand on my forearm. Is Sydney Heron touching me; actually daring to lay her skin on my lab coat? Does the woman have any sense about her? I think she finally notices my eyes boring into her hand and the hard purse of my lips. The hand slowly shrinks away. “I just wondered. Well, since I’m new to the hospital.” She laughs nervously and wipes her damp palm across the side of her thigh. “Do you want to get a drink at the end of the day? I can fill you in on all the Seattle Grace gossip.” Those earnest eyes return to my face, I have to give it to the woman, she doesn’t back down. “I can even fill you in on the disaster that has become-“
I know what she’s getting ready to say. I know where she’s about to go. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. It’s like a red hot fire that burns through my brain. The absolute very last thing I want to hear is the utterance of those six vile letters strung together in the expression of a name that I honestly couldn’t care less about hearing. I didn’t want Seattle Grace gossip in my professional life then, and I sure as hell don’t want it now. I moved half-way across the country, to the heart of the Midwest, to escape the play-by-play of surgeons’ private lives that whispered up and down the hallways. That hospital was a soap opera; a pathetic over-sexed bunch of teenagers with scalpels. If Sydney Heron thinks she’s bringing that drama back into my life, she’s got another thing coming.
I instantly halt her speech, moving forward to derail her train of thought. “Dr. Heron.” My voice is firm, just on the cusp of malice. “Whatever you are getting ready to say, I would strongly advise you against saying it.” As I step into her personal space, my eyes catch her swallow past the lump in her throat. “This is a teaching hospital, not a high school, like Seattle Grace. There is no personal inside these doors, we do our jobs, and we go home. We certainly don’t socialize outside the hospital, especially about things that are of no consequence any longer.”
“Erica.” The Chief of Surgery, Dr. Taylor, comes to a stop at Dr. Heron’s side, his arms crossed in front of him and that constant jovial sparkle lightening his eyes. I take a slight step back, realizing I’m much too close to her space and the glint in my eye is hard enough to cut diamond. “I see you are acquainted with Dr. Heron already. I wondered if your paths would have crossed in Seattle.” He glances between us, potentially noticing the fain sheen of perspiration on Dr. Heron’s forehead. “Some of the surgical staff are meeting at the brewery on 75th Street this evening. Sort of a ‘welcome to the family’. I trust we can expect to see you there.”
I have to swallow the sigh that rises from my chest and artificially widen my eyes to prevent them glowering in Dr. Heron’s direction. “Of course, Chief. You know I’m off duty this evening.”
“Yes, I had remembered. We’ll see you around seven, then.” Nodding in my direction he gestures for Dr. Heron to head down the right hallway. “Sydney, I’ll take you to meet the senior general surgery attending. Good day, Erica.”
“Good day, Chief. Dr. Heron.”
She looks back over her right shoulder, flashing me that crooked grin once more. “See you later, Dr. Hahn.”
***
If I didn’t know better, and frankly I don’t, I would think the woman is trying to make friends with me. Every time I turn away from the bar she’s there. Every time I grab a barstool, she’s not far behind to slide one up beside mine. She’s like the kid brother who never could take a hint that you didn’t want him around.
In Kansas City I’ve made an honest attempt to change, to be better, to teach better, to do better. The last hospital I was employed at fell in the rankings, I purposely sought out a hospital determined to raise their ranking; a staff intent to push and strive, and press for excellence. I bite my tongue with interns and residents. I suffer my colleagues and smile at their stupid jokes, trying not to point out their idiocy and inanity outside of the OR. Surgery is always a different realm. I don’t put up with anything inside those four sterile walls. I can turn a blind eye to the residents’ idiotic shenanigans outside that room. But, in the OR you’re on strictly my turf, and you’re not going to risk my reputation or compromise your own career.
In the words of one Mark Sloan, ‘I’ve turned over a new leaf’. However, my vision of that leaf never included Sydney Heron on the other side. For the sake of my colleagues, the Chief, and my reputation I can’t turn to her, clamp my hand over her mouth, and tell her wide frightened eyes to ‘shut up’. But, that vision sustains me as I listen to her chatter incessantly in my ear. Steeling my nerves I interrupt her, attempting to steer the conversation back to medicine, hopefully something that will kill the migraine building at the base of my skull. “Dr. Heron, what brought you to Kansas City?”
She sets her drink down on the table, clearly even more eager now that I’m engaging her in actual conversation. “Well, you know.” Her hand flits and her voice lilts, I have to consciously avoid checking my watch to see if I’ve stayed an adequate amount of time to justify an exit. “I passed my boards and while I could have accepted an attending position at Seattle Grace, it’s like you said, there’s so much drama. My poor little heart just got all caught up in the doctors and their private lives, and then the patients and their private lives, and some of the patients’ private lives involved the doctors, and -“
“Dr. Heron!” She immediately halts her rambling and I draw in a low, silent breath. “Why did you select St. Luke’s?”
“Right, sorry.” She smiles and chuckles nervously, taking a sip of her high ball. I could easily assume from the bubble gum color that it’s some Shirley Temple or something similar. “Well, I was looking for general surgery and looking to get out of Seattle, so here I am.” The bright grin settles on her face again. But, I don’t fail to notice the vagueness of her answer. From a woman who could drone on endlessly over nothing, it’s a rather clipped explanation.
“Really? I would have though you enjoyed Seattle Grace, as much as you’ve talked about it all night.” I can’t help the biting sarcasm that seeps into my last remark. I stare ahead trying to locate a clock on the dark barroom wall.
“Oh, I love Seattle Grace. Don’t get me wrong. But,…” For the first time, in the few conversations I’ve had with the woman, she hesitates, pauses for a breath of air. “My ex recently joined the staff and...” Dr. Heron shifts her eyes and takes a long sip of her drink, through the tiny straw. “Well. They, well, took up with an orthopedic surgeon.”
There’s only one orthopedic surgeon I know who moves that fast. Surprisingly it doesn’t infuriate me, it doesn’t touch my heart, I actually feel nothing. Exhaling a long held breath, I can feel it drain eight months of tension from the muscles in my back and shoulders. She’s moved on and I find that I honestly don’t care. It was like a weight I had been carrying around, afraid to let it go, worried about the ripples it would create in my now steady life. But, with an unwitting companion, a woman I neither knew nor want to know, I can finally let that weight drop, and it doesn’t drag me further into despair, it actually frees me to rise to the surface. Just as I feel my heart bob with the realization, the words continue to fall from her mouth.
“I know you don’t want to talk about her, Dr. Hahn. But, it just got to me.” Turning towards her, I really look at her for the first time this evening and glimpse her face growing flush. I recognize that white hot anger that glows behind her eyes. It’s what I held onto for months. But, it just burns you up inside and doesn’t affect the other person in the slightest.
“Sydney, men are all the same and well...Callie’s just Callie. You should let it go.”
She lowers her head and falls silent for the first time. “Dr. Hahn, you don’t understand. She only wanted her because she was you, but not you. She was you on the outside, but the opposite of you in every other way. She went after her because she wasn’t you, but she was.” Sydney pounded her small fist on the table for stress. I couldn’t have been more confused.
“Dr. Heron, what the hell are you talking about?”
Her bright eyes widen and she swivels on the barstool toward me, for the emphasis. I can see her teetering on the verge of pouring her heart out to me. I don’t want to clean up that mess. “Arizona, she was my first.” Sydney swallows and licks her lips. “I was an intern and she was a resident. Time flies and poof, she was gone. Miss fucking perky was gone.”
My left eyebrow cocks. Did Sydney Heron just swear, and use that epitaph to describe someone’s perkiness? And was that someone her lesbian lover? I think the cosmos is titling on some scary physics curve.
“Well, now she’s back. And someone is trying to make her you. And you’re here.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyes diverted off to the left. But, I comprehend. I can’t say I’ve not gone for my share of revenge in past relationships. I’ve just never been the metaphorical prize for such revenge. I was always the one extracting it.
I down the remainder of my scotch and consider her for a minute before responding. “So now you’re here?” Her crooked smile this time is nervous and shy. “Get your coat and tell everyone goodnight.”
***
The entire ride to my house she talks my ear off. I don’t think the woman has a shut-off valve. First it is her nervousness, how I make her nervous, how this Arizona (whatever kind of name that is) makes her angry, how Callie makes her just want to punch something. Now that last one, I can agree with her on. She talks about the new hospital and her flight and how she hasn’t found a place yet. She tries my patience to the final degree.
Once inside the house, I usher her up to the bedroom. I rifle through the top drawer of my dresser as she stands alone in the middle of the room, rambling about how nice the house is and ‘where did I get those drapes’.
Finding my hidden treasure I grunt in self-satisfaction. Holding the strap in front of me, I see her eyes widen into saucers as the light hits the bright red silicon ball. My voice comes out low and husky, even to my own ears. “I bet your precious Phoenix or Santa Fe or whatever, never had such delights, did she?” It is like handling a small child in the ER, a slight of hand, a little razzle dazzle, and they never realize your real motives.
***
She struggles against me, her hips bucking, begging for more than the gentle swipe of my tongue along the tender flesh that connects her hot center to her thigh. Thankfully the ball-gag muffles her protestations. I can still hear her efforts to talk around it, to talk behind it, to talk period. Perhaps this little contraption needs to make its way into my workbag.
“Sydney, relax.” My voice is firm and my breath insistent against her inner thigh. A low groan escapes from her chest as my tongue swipes up, opening her from stern to stem. My hands push down on her thighs, giving me room to settle in. I knew she had been with a woman, hell maybe she’s been with women, but she’s never been with me.
As my tongue dances teasingly over her clit, she can’t cry out. She can’t say my name, she can’t beg for anything. It is tolerable…hell, it is exciting. Her little pussy opens up for me, betraying the arousal that I can call forth. I flick at her with the tip of my tongue, enjoying the rise of her hips from the bed.
The ball-gag had been a whim purchase. Just one of the varied toys I thought I might enjoy on my new journey. I’d never cared for such items before. The bedroom was the last place where I wanted to play. But with women, I had discovered the bedroom had become a place I wished to linger. It wasn’t the final, unavoidable destination. It was the destination. The pleasantly anticipated reward for a nice dinner, a little hand holding, some perfunctory romantic consideration.
The toys provided a little fun variety, an excuse to play more, to stay up later, to invite more amorous attention. But, the ball-gag was the one item that never found its way out of that drawer. The one item I never desired the use of. I loved the vocalizations too much to even consider its use. There is nothing more arousing than a woman’s soft moan of supplication, her quiet whimpers of sweet agony, her screaming of my name.
But, as my tongue plunges into Sydney and she thrusts her hips against my face, I thank whatever gods exist that I kept that device buried in my lingerie drawer. I can still hear her, twisting on the bed, as sound tries to break free of her mouth. The frustration ripples down her body, enflaming her skin, heightening every sense that I touch. She’s swollen and heated in my mouth. The only sounds are the nearly silent groans in her throat and my tongue darting over her very wet folds. To prolong her torture the tip of my tongue swipes up and over her clit, suddenly leaving her bereft of any contact.
Rising to my knees and crawling over her, my breasts swing low and graze along her flesh as I move up her body. Her eyes are darkened and half-lidded with desire. I kiss around her mouth, careful to avoid her rosy lips, stretched around the ball-gag. “You want to come? Um…Don’t you?” Her head bobs up and down, the shallow breaths catching in her chest.
“First things first.” I grasp her wrist and bring her hand down between my thighs. “Maybe you need to show me why you came to Kansas City to begin with.”
I can still hear her faint small groans and I slide up, my heated sex perched over her stomach, for easier access. “Fuck me, Sydney. Show me what you got.”
Her slender fingers slide up and down my wet pussy. The moans trapped in her throat and mine falling from my lips, tell of the exercising of past demons. The small mission that draws us together. It proves rousing and stimulating, a chance for both of us to punish the past and welcome the future; the next leg of a journey, just barely started. Disgust for the woman left behind, disgust for the woman rolling her hips beneath me; all building to a heady lust that burns across my lower abdomen.
Sydney’s fingers are surprising; sure and steady against me, plunging into wetness when I anticipate, drawing up to my swollen clit when I don’t. I ride her delicate hand, forgetting all those very unremarkable memories I somehow packed up and carried with me from Seattle. Hopefully they vanish the same way for her.
I nearly cling to her, pinching her hardened nipples, my head thrown back, a low growl in my throat as I lower onto her hand. The silence is golden. Her lack of words makes my clit tingle, makes my sex clutch her sure fingers, makes me cry out as I have never done before. Sydney Heron is an experienced student, a woman who knows how to get what she wants.
Her gentle thumb brushes my clit on every stroke, the undulation of her hips up into me drives her fingers to a depth that makes me gasp. Despite myself, she makes me moan and curse above her, makes me beg for more. With a swipe of her thumb, a curl of her fingers deep inside me, a flash of white heat spreads across my abdomen and thighs, flooding her hand. Feeling the clinching, the writhing of my hips, hearing the curses from my lips, she slows and gently brings me down, drawing a shudder from me as those fingers uncurl. A smile spreads from her cheeks to her eyes. I know what was left back in Seattle, and that Santa Fe woman is an idiot.
This entry was originally posted at http://h4hahn.dreamwidth.org/35796.html
hahnsrockstar
And in gorgeous response she created a lovely graphic for this fic. I absolutely adore it.
mp3 Dying On The Vine
“Dr. Hahn, it is you!”
I look up from my perch behind the nurses’ station to see Little Miss Suzy Sunshine making a beeline in my direction. She’s grinning and waving like she just caught a glimpse of her long-lost best friend; Sydney Heron. Are you fucking kidding me. While I can’t say she’s the very last person I want to see from Seattle Grace, there’s a pretty long line ahead of her, she’s certainly near the top of that list. I don’t do perky, I don’t suffer meaningless reunions, and I couldn’t care less about what’s going on back in Seattle.
Before my body can kick into gear and exit the station she’s got her palms braced flat on the counter and is leaning over with that bright crooked smile of hers. “I looked at the staff directory and saw ‘Dr. Hahn’. I knew it was you, I knew it was you. But, then I thought, could it really be her; we thought you dropped off the face of the earth. But, now,…Well, it’s you!” She leans back slightly and throws her arms out at me, like she’s demonstrating to any imbecile around that I am really sitting right here.
“Dr. Heron, what brings you to Kansas City?” I can steer this run in. I can be professional. I can handle this woman, until she goes back to that godforsaken place from whence she came.
Her chest nearly puffs out with pride and she grabs the lapel of her lab coat, thrusting it out for me to see the hospital’s logo. Dear god, take me now.
“First day.” She grins broadly and looks over the counter like she wants to swoop me into some kind of bear hug. The first time that woman lays her hands on me is going to be her very last. “We’re back together. Can you believe it?”
I look down, attempting to hide my annoyance as best I can. “No, I can’t.” Closing the chart with a firm movement, lending a sense of finality to any potential conversation, I tuck the chart under my arm and rise to me feet. “Welcome, Dr. Heron.”
But, she follows me around the curve of the nurses’ station, her smile growing wider by the second. I believe the woman actually thinks she has found some long-lost friend. I don’t even know her; and that’s the way I intend it to stay. The last thing I need is Miss Perky chatting me up at work. Or heaven forbid, if she wants to try and bring Seattle back into my life. That bridge was burned long ago and I have no use for nostalgia.
“Dr. Hahn, what are you doing after your shift?” She pauses for a second, as if she’s actually expecting me to respond. I’m stunned silent for a moment that she even has the courage to ask. Not recognizing my silence for what it is, she reaches out to lay her hand on my forearm. Is Sydney Heron touching me; actually daring to lay her skin on my lab coat? Does the woman have any sense about her? I think she finally notices my eyes boring into her hand and the hard purse of my lips. The hand slowly shrinks away. “I just wondered. Well, since I’m new to the hospital.” She laughs nervously and wipes her damp palm across the side of her thigh. “Do you want to get a drink at the end of the day? I can fill you in on all the Seattle Grace gossip.” Those earnest eyes return to my face, I have to give it to the woman, she doesn’t back down. “I can even fill you in on the disaster that has become-“
I know what she’s getting ready to say. I know where she’s about to go. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. It’s like a red hot fire that burns through my brain. The absolute very last thing I want to hear is the utterance of those six vile letters strung together in the expression of a name that I honestly couldn’t care less about hearing. I didn’t want Seattle Grace gossip in my professional life then, and I sure as hell don’t want it now. I moved half-way across the country, to the heart of the Midwest, to escape the play-by-play of surgeons’ private lives that whispered up and down the hallways. That hospital was a soap opera; a pathetic over-sexed bunch of teenagers with scalpels. If Sydney Heron thinks she’s bringing that drama back into my life, she’s got another thing coming.
I instantly halt her speech, moving forward to derail her train of thought. “Dr. Heron.” My voice is firm, just on the cusp of malice. “Whatever you are getting ready to say, I would strongly advise you against saying it.” As I step into her personal space, my eyes catch her swallow past the lump in her throat. “This is a teaching hospital, not a high school, like Seattle Grace. There is no personal inside these doors, we do our jobs, and we go home. We certainly don’t socialize outside the hospital, especially about things that are of no consequence any longer.”
“Erica.” The Chief of Surgery, Dr. Taylor, comes to a stop at Dr. Heron’s side, his arms crossed in front of him and that constant jovial sparkle lightening his eyes. I take a slight step back, realizing I’m much too close to her space and the glint in my eye is hard enough to cut diamond. “I see you are acquainted with Dr. Heron already. I wondered if your paths would have crossed in Seattle.” He glances between us, potentially noticing the fain sheen of perspiration on Dr. Heron’s forehead. “Some of the surgical staff are meeting at the brewery on 75th Street this evening. Sort of a ‘welcome to the family’. I trust we can expect to see you there.”
I have to swallow the sigh that rises from my chest and artificially widen my eyes to prevent them glowering in Dr. Heron’s direction. “Of course, Chief. You know I’m off duty this evening.”
“Yes, I had remembered. We’ll see you around seven, then.” Nodding in my direction he gestures for Dr. Heron to head down the right hallway. “Sydney, I’ll take you to meet the senior general surgery attending. Good day, Erica.”
“Good day, Chief. Dr. Heron.”
She looks back over her right shoulder, flashing me that crooked grin once more. “See you later, Dr. Hahn.”
***
If I didn’t know better, and frankly I don’t, I would think the woman is trying to make friends with me. Every time I turn away from the bar she’s there. Every time I grab a barstool, she’s not far behind to slide one up beside mine. She’s like the kid brother who never could take a hint that you didn’t want him around.
In Kansas City I’ve made an honest attempt to change, to be better, to teach better, to do better. The last hospital I was employed at fell in the rankings, I purposely sought out a hospital determined to raise their ranking; a staff intent to push and strive, and press for excellence. I bite my tongue with interns and residents. I suffer my colleagues and smile at their stupid jokes, trying not to point out their idiocy and inanity outside of the OR. Surgery is always a different realm. I don’t put up with anything inside those four sterile walls. I can turn a blind eye to the residents’ idiotic shenanigans outside that room. But, in the OR you’re on strictly my turf, and you’re not going to risk my reputation or compromise your own career.
In the words of one Mark Sloan, ‘I’ve turned over a new leaf’. However, my vision of that leaf never included Sydney Heron on the other side. For the sake of my colleagues, the Chief, and my reputation I can’t turn to her, clamp my hand over her mouth, and tell her wide frightened eyes to ‘shut up’. But, that vision sustains me as I listen to her chatter incessantly in my ear. Steeling my nerves I interrupt her, attempting to steer the conversation back to medicine, hopefully something that will kill the migraine building at the base of my skull. “Dr. Heron, what brought you to Kansas City?”
She sets her drink down on the table, clearly even more eager now that I’m engaging her in actual conversation. “Well, you know.” Her hand flits and her voice lilts, I have to consciously avoid checking my watch to see if I’ve stayed an adequate amount of time to justify an exit. “I passed my boards and while I could have accepted an attending position at Seattle Grace, it’s like you said, there’s so much drama. My poor little heart just got all caught up in the doctors and their private lives, and then the patients and their private lives, and some of the patients’ private lives involved the doctors, and -“
“Dr. Heron!” She immediately halts her rambling and I draw in a low, silent breath. “Why did you select St. Luke’s?”
“Right, sorry.” She smiles and chuckles nervously, taking a sip of her high ball. I could easily assume from the bubble gum color that it’s some Shirley Temple or something similar. “Well, I was looking for general surgery and looking to get out of Seattle, so here I am.” The bright grin settles on her face again. But, I don’t fail to notice the vagueness of her answer. From a woman who could drone on endlessly over nothing, it’s a rather clipped explanation.
“Really? I would have though you enjoyed Seattle Grace, as much as you’ve talked about it all night.” I can’t help the biting sarcasm that seeps into my last remark. I stare ahead trying to locate a clock on the dark barroom wall.
“Oh, I love Seattle Grace. Don’t get me wrong. But,…” For the first time, in the few conversations I’ve had with the woman, she hesitates, pauses for a breath of air. “My ex recently joined the staff and...” Dr. Heron shifts her eyes and takes a long sip of her drink, through the tiny straw. “Well. They, well, took up with an orthopedic surgeon.”
There’s only one orthopedic surgeon I know who moves that fast. Surprisingly it doesn’t infuriate me, it doesn’t touch my heart, I actually feel nothing. Exhaling a long held breath, I can feel it drain eight months of tension from the muscles in my back and shoulders. She’s moved on and I find that I honestly don’t care. It was like a weight I had been carrying around, afraid to let it go, worried about the ripples it would create in my now steady life. But, with an unwitting companion, a woman I neither knew nor want to know, I can finally let that weight drop, and it doesn’t drag me further into despair, it actually frees me to rise to the surface. Just as I feel my heart bob with the realization, the words continue to fall from her mouth.
“I know you don’t want to talk about her, Dr. Hahn. But, it just got to me.” Turning towards her, I really look at her for the first time this evening and glimpse her face growing flush. I recognize that white hot anger that glows behind her eyes. It’s what I held onto for months. But, it just burns you up inside and doesn’t affect the other person in the slightest.
“Sydney, men are all the same and well...Callie’s just Callie. You should let it go.”
She lowers her head and falls silent for the first time. “Dr. Hahn, you don’t understand. She only wanted her because she was you, but not you. She was you on the outside, but the opposite of you in every other way. She went after her because she wasn’t you, but she was.” Sydney pounded her small fist on the table for stress. I couldn’t have been more confused.
“Dr. Heron, what the hell are you talking about?”
Her bright eyes widen and she swivels on the barstool toward me, for the emphasis. I can see her teetering on the verge of pouring her heart out to me. I don’t want to clean up that mess. “Arizona, she was my first.” Sydney swallows and licks her lips. “I was an intern and she was a resident. Time flies and poof, she was gone. Miss fucking perky was gone.”
My left eyebrow cocks. Did Sydney Heron just swear, and use that epitaph to describe someone’s perkiness? And was that someone her lesbian lover? I think the cosmos is titling on some scary physics curve.
“Well, now she’s back. And someone is trying to make her you. And you’re here.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyes diverted off to the left. But, I comprehend. I can’t say I’ve not gone for my share of revenge in past relationships. I’ve just never been the metaphorical prize for such revenge. I was always the one extracting it.
I down the remainder of my scotch and consider her for a minute before responding. “So now you’re here?” Her crooked smile this time is nervous and shy. “Get your coat and tell everyone goodnight.”
***
The entire ride to my house she talks my ear off. I don’t think the woman has a shut-off valve. First it is her nervousness, how I make her nervous, how this Arizona (whatever kind of name that is) makes her angry, how Callie makes her just want to punch something. Now that last one, I can agree with her on. She talks about the new hospital and her flight and how she hasn’t found a place yet. She tries my patience to the final degree.
Once inside the house, I usher her up to the bedroom. I rifle through the top drawer of my dresser as she stands alone in the middle of the room, rambling about how nice the house is and ‘where did I get those drapes’.
Finding my hidden treasure I grunt in self-satisfaction. Holding the strap in front of me, I see her eyes widen into saucers as the light hits the bright red silicon ball. My voice comes out low and husky, even to my own ears. “I bet your precious Phoenix or Santa Fe or whatever, never had such delights, did she?” It is like handling a small child in the ER, a slight of hand, a little razzle dazzle, and they never realize your real motives.
***
She struggles against me, her hips bucking, begging for more than the gentle swipe of my tongue along the tender flesh that connects her hot center to her thigh. Thankfully the ball-gag muffles her protestations. I can still hear her efforts to talk around it, to talk behind it, to talk period. Perhaps this little contraption needs to make its way into my workbag.
“Sydney, relax.” My voice is firm and my breath insistent against her inner thigh. A low groan escapes from her chest as my tongue swipes up, opening her from stern to stem. My hands push down on her thighs, giving me room to settle in. I knew she had been with a woman, hell maybe she’s been with women, but she’s never been with me.
As my tongue dances teasingly over her clit, she can’t cry out. She can’t say my name, she can’t beg for anything. It is tolerable…hell, it is exciting. Her little pussy opens up for me, betraying the arousal that I can call forth. I flick at her with the tip of my tongue, enjoying the rise of her hips from the bed.
The ball-gag had been a whim purchase. Just one of the varied toys I thought I might enjoy on my new journey. I’d never cared for such items before. The bedroom was the last place where I wanted to play. But with women, I had discovered the bedroom had become a place I wished to linger. It wasn’t the final, unavoidable destination. It was the destination. The pleasantly anticipated reward for a nice dinner, a little hand holding, some perfunctory romantic consideration.
The toys provided a little fun variety, an excuse to play more, to stay up later, to invite more amorous attention. But, the ball-gag was the one item that never found its way out of that drawer. The one item I never desired the use of. I loved the vocalizations too much to even consider its use. There is nothing more arousing than a woman’s soft moan of supplication, her quiet whimpers of sweet agony, her screaming of my name.
But, as my tongue plunges into Sydney and she thrusts her hips against my face, I thank whatever gods exist that I kept that device buried in my lingerie drawer. I can still hear her, twisting on the bed, as sound tries to break free of her mouth. The frustration ripples down her body, enflaming her skin, heightening every sense that I touch. She’s swollen and heated in my mouth. The only sounds are the nearly silent groans in her throat and my tongue darting over her very wet folds. To prolong her torture the tip of my tongue swipes up and over her clit, suddenly leaving her bereft of any contact.
Rising to my knees and crawling over her, my breasts swing low and graze along her flesh as I move up her body. Her eyes are darkened and half-lidded with desire. I kiss around her mouth, careful to avoid her rosy lips, stretched around the ball-gag. “You want to come? Um…Don’t you?” Her head bobs up and down, the shallow breaths catching in her chest.
“First things first.” I grasp her wrist and bring her hand down between my thighs. “Maybe you need to show me why you came to Kansas City to begin with.”
I can still hear her faint small groans and I slide up, my heated sex perched over her stomach, for easier access. “Fuck me, Sydney. Show me what you got.”
Her slender fingers slide up and down my wet pussy. The moans trapped in her throat and mine falling from my lips, tell of the exercising of past demons. The small mission that draws us together. It proves rousing and stimulating, a chance for both of us to punish the past and welcome the future; the next leg of a journey, just barely started. Disgust for the woman left behind, disgust for the woman rolling her hips beneath me; all building to a heady lust that burns across my lower abdomen.
Sydney’s fingers are surprising; sure and steady against me, plunging into wetness when I anticipate, drawing up to my swollen clit when I don’t. I ride her delicate hand, forgetting all those very unremarkable memories I somehow packed up and carried with me from Seattle. Hopefully they vanish the same way for her.
I nearly cling to her, pinching her hardened nipples, my head thrown back, a low growl in my throat as I lower onto her hand. The silence is golden. Her lack of words makes my clit tingle, makes my sex clutch her sure fingers, makes me cry out as I have never done before. Sydney Heron is an experienced student, a woman who knows how to get what she wants.
Her gentle thumb brushes my clit on every stroke, the undulation of her hips up into me drives her fingers to a depth that makes me gasp. Despite myself, she makes me moan and curse above her, makes me beg for more. With a swipe of her thumb, a curl of her fingers deep inside me, a flash of white heat spreads across my abdomen and thighs, flooding her hand. Feeling the clinching, the writhing of my hips, hearing the curses from my lips, she slows and gently brings me down, drawing a shudder from me as those fingers uncurl. A smile spreads from her cheeks to her eyes. I know what was left back in Seattle, and that Santa Fe woman is an idiot.
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