Lola has wide hips, legs overshadowed by voluminous thighs; and a heart ribbed within a cage affixed to a column that snakes to her posterior. Every crook and crevice is alight with a flare as high as noon: incisive and wakeful by day as the moon keeps her secrets.
Lola can’t keep count. She is a liar whose eyes eclipse her face. But their smoky depths only betray her when they meet likewise.
Sometimes at the bar, sometimes by the docks.
Tremors part and probe within, not unlike the schooners which anchor once they cleave the waves.
Sometimes a curious coed, sometimes a seasonal mistress.
Every time, it’s someone who passes through.
Tonight, it’s another woman. Not the usual tourist, but someone local. For Lola, the latter are few and far between.
Everyone is looking for something.
Everyone is hard up, barely breaking even if they hadn’t already broken overall.
Everyone is game to prize or prey upon. All they have is each other.
Craven kin and colleagues incapable of discretion. Too poor to afford its luxury. Too stupid to heed its necessity.
The town is too small, too coastal to share secrets.
But Lola has a hunch, and an itch she needs to scratch.
The woman, Bette, is a laundress. Her husband works the pier and leases a trawler with other fishermen. He earns enough to feed the slots after he hauls in the early catch. Bette earns their keep at the laundromat.
At last call, Bette caught Lola by surprise. Bette was impassive to a clumsy albeit avid advance from another woman.
Some shots later, Bette met Lola’s gaze. The latter recognized the beauty marks which speckle the collarbones, and the tan lines which spiral through the floral tattoo.
The former smirked and congealed the prospect of mutual interest.
Now, Lola leads Bette to a lone shack that trembles beyond the dunes. Its walls rustle in the breeze. She flicks on a lamp.
Bette uncovers, then lights a joint. When her eyes adjust, she discerns a dusty generator and a mountain of bale cushioned with burlap sacks.
Lola nears, accepts when Bette offers a puff, smirks when Bette undoes her blouse. Bette unclasps her bra, shapes the mounds in her palms, reclines to divulge absent panties.
Lola takes a long drag, then lowers to follow suit. Bette strokes between her legs, rekindles the flame that waned in the company of the woman before. Lola undresses, enjoys the show, only to join in after Bette takes her hand.
The shack grows muggy in no time at all.
The world outside dissolves as musk clouds over the world within. Firm, full breasts glisten beneath tongues wherein areolae dip and kiss. Lower, sex is manifest through breaths and hisses; and curls which tickle cheeks.
Wondrously, Bette writhes beneath Lola. She gazes upon her in a stupor, grasping her ass as she thrusts faster, harder. Like the hard tides which crash along the ridges of the shoreline.
Bette ascends when the waves disperse. She edges her knees apart, against Lola’s ears as her pubis glides over her nose. She cranes to spread Lola apart, spread her thin, suckle away any shadow of composure. Her toes curl as Lola does the same.
The lips of the sex swell to the tongues; baring, hastening the creamy pearls that crest the wet entrance. Tongues explore. Fingers too. They taste, circle, unfold. They pursue the knot of nerves that crowns the sex.
Bette is the first to tense. She claws Lola’s ankles, seethes forth, laves off her clit. Her tongue flicks even as it falls between the lips. Luscious spatter keels Lola off the edge. Bette licks as the sex weeps.
In a matter of heartbeats, the women rise and recover.
Lola gives Bette pause. She baits her with a kiss, sprawls aside to flaunt fingers which flounder and stray to assuage.
Bette swallows hard. Her breath catches. Lola urges her hand to join, trains its imprecision to the orifice that puckers below.
Bette gulps before she eases a finger in. Her heart takes a dive once she probes past the sphincter. Lola strums her sex to the beat of her desire. Slowly but surely, Bette prods in tandem. Her finger finds a rhythm and resolves to dance.
When Lola reaps her pleasure, Bette falls back to do the same. It takes her longer to adjust to the curious intrusion.
But Lola alternates too. She delves at her leisure, plying either orifice. Bette glows under her whims, between pussy and ass; replacing one finger in another, sometimes both at once.
Yet Bette wilts even as she strives to flourish. Lola urges her to cup her own breasts, stroke the peaks as she holds her gaze. Bette quivers when Lola draws a finger to her lips, presses past the seam, traces the inside of her cheek.
Then, Lola inclines Bette to turn around. Hands down. Face down. Swivelling her hips to meet Lola’s perusal. When she comes, her clit buds Lola’s palm while the stern cavity clenches around the finger Lola sinks inside.
Lola enjoys another bout of satisfaction, coasting her sex against the crook of Bette’s ass.
Then, the women tauten and go slack. There are no words. As they collect themselves, all that passes between them is a stray kiss or pawed tease.
When they leave the shack, Bette seeks to overtake Lola in stride.
Lola lets her.
Image credit: © Yaroslav Shuraev 2020Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in