“I’ve never done this before” she would say, as Grace unbuttoned her dress, and Grace would smile and kiss her and whisper:
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll find the way”
Distracted, Inspector Whitley put down the UNESCO report on the ivory artefact trade. It wasn’t her fault, really. Not her fault that the latest case involved a cache of Edo Period dildos found in an attic. Not her fault that they were intricately carved with scenes that made her blush. But she guessed it was her fault, perhaps, that she had allowed that arousal to spill over into her professional life.
Grace had been walking down a corridor on the way who knows where when she collided with a figure that stepped in front of her. It was a full body collision and she’d sent the figure flying. It was a woman of about her height, wearing a floral dress like hers, but probably self made. She had sandals on like her and her hair, though shot with grey and coloured bright blue swept about her shoulders just as Grace’s did. She also wore pink lacy knickers sewn with flowers and in that brief akimbo flash Grace saw behind the lace the dark glimmer of her hair.
Blushing, she leant down to help her up, and face to face it was a little like looking in a mirror. Although her eyes were muddy green and her lips pale, her nose small and retrousse, her face was much the same shape, if freckled.
“No, no, my fault” this woman was saying as Grace helped her up, “didn’t look at all.” With their hands still clasped she turned it into a shake. “Pargeter. Miriam. Call me Miriam.”
And Miriam threw a hand at the open office she’d shot out of. “I’m in OC”
So this was the new Organised Crime lead. Essentially one of Grace Whitley’s many bosses.
Pargeter dusted down her skirts.
“Yes, call me Miriam. I mean, we’ve already become so close!” And the older woman laughed and looked up from her skirts, and Grace could see past her face to the contents of her scallop-necked bodice. She saw the weight of her cupped by the cloth, the bare skin rounded, pale and mobile and suddenly could feel that instant of their colliding bodies, the intimacy of it, hip and belly, thigh and breast all printed together for an instant. And in that moment Grace knew that she was lost.
So here she was, leafing through a dildo catalogue, fantasising about a boss and trying very, very hard not to. Not to let her fingers drift to her lap. Not to listen to the building squall of arousal beneath her pelvis. Not to come up with a thinly veiled excuse to have a meeting. God. A meeting with Miriam. The very thought of it made her mouth ache. Her mouth, her tits, her cunt. Christ. She needed to get home. Maybe wank it out.
Grace giggled at the thought. Because that’s always worked, hasn’t it, Grace? Having a few rubs and pokes? They just melt away don’t they? Fuck, there’s still teachers you wank about you daft bitch.
Oh for crying out loud.
Grace’s cunt, as if with a life of it’s own, was throbbing at the promise of her fingers. She could feel herself filling and unfolding, knew exactly how it would feel to slip her hand inside her knickers. Flat hard tug of the waistband across her knuckles. Whorls of hair under her fingers, soft padded skin. Warm blood beneath . The blaze of heat as she split. Wet heat. She squirmed. Already, she was tingling with electricity. She hunched forward and squeezed. For a moment she was but a hunched thing of want, biting her lip.
This would not do, she thought, releasing her bitten kiss. Not at all. There was, she thought, giddily, only one thing for it. There was a single cubicle-sized cupboard on the second floor. Once the ensuite loo for an earlier CEO, it was now a cupboard, used only for the storage of out of date stationery and foolscal file folders. Grace had put a chair in there only last month, freeing up space in her miserly office. She put down the dildos and headed upstairs.
There was a heady flutter in her walk, a fine fizz in her blood. She was grinning and blushing and terribly wet. She could smell herself, all heat and salt and the savoury sweetness of fresh turned earth. Grace scuttled up the stairs, already too ready to think.
The cupboard. Inside lock the door. Her chair, placed exactly right. Centred. Even thinking the word centre made her cunt twitch. A tickle of over arousal bloomed across the roof of her mouth. Stripped tights fell, and stripped knickers. Soft and hotly damp, a lacy figure eight on the dusty floor. Bare arsed to the chair. Rock backwards tilting her pelvis up, open, ready. Legs spread, heels jammed into the shelves on either side.
With the slow cool air stroking her, cooling the wet on her lips, she settled. Relaxed. Set the scene.
A bar downstairs in some building she’d never lived in but seen once and loved. A corner building, the bar, a billiard table. They played billiards badly did she and Miriam. Outside light spilled from under trees over a summer canal. The balls clicked hopelessly, and the women followed them around the table in an endless dance. Followed each other, too. Grace watched Miriam, watched her arse in front of her, taut under the dress. In the bar mirrors, the window glass, every glimpse she could get.
Grace’s mouth twisted and snarled, predatory, and she allowed her fingers to slip down her wide open thighs.
After twenty minutes and nary a point Miriam laughed, a deep throaty chuckle, and shook her head.
‘Grace, but. We’re shit at this, we’re holding people up!’
And the billiard-people did look a bit bored. The fun had worn off for them. And Grace said:
‘OK. Shall we go upstairs? Maybe think about dinner?’
And Miriam nodded and Grace followed her up. Followed the sing-song tick-tock of her hips. Dropped back to see beyond her short hem to the clutch of soft skin and pale pink knickers at her scissoring crux.
Grace’s fingers spilled from her tingling thighs and pressing on, fell upon her slit, parting and pressing and plunging. Her legs shook and she arched, head back and throat rigid, gasping and gaping.
Up the endless flights of stairs to her flat the last before the attic, ceilings low but still with the wide windows that felt like a captain’s in some old sailing ship.
Not much room. In every room closeness, closeness of knees and elbows, body and breath.
The shower was a translucent cubicle in her bedroom’s corner and Grace insisted Miriam go first.
Two bunched fingers thrusting beneath her hard pinched clit, a rising whine in her throat as :
Miriam unceremoniously stripped. The dress was straight off overhead and the pink floral knickers half down before Miriam noticed her shocked face and stopped. Again she glanced upwards over her bare bosom, this time her tits contained in the lovely pink lace.
“Oh no! I’m sorry!” she said,”I thought,all girls together!..?”
“Oh no,don’t worry!” Grace said quickly, even the roots of her hair humming with need, “You’re quite right.”
And Grace stripped in front of Miriam, who watched with slow fascination as she herself unhooked her bra, releasing those beautiful tits. They hung lower than Graces and were somehow more liquid, her nipples were pink to Grace’s pale brown, and her nipples were thick, thicker than hers.
The tits of experience, she thought as she swirled at her lips, at her open pages, and squeezed her own nipples. Though gasping she frowned, stupidsentence she thought. She’d edit that out, next time.
Miriam sighed, her left hand cupping her left breast for comfort.
“It’s like looking in a mirror.”
And she sighed again,looking down at herself.
“Only twenty years ago”, and she frowned, looking down her body at her clasped tits – now with both hands and the curve of her belly and it’s wedge of fine hair.
For all that, yes, Miriam’s body was Grace’s, just more lined and more soft, and her belly and hips more sewn with dimples and the thin nacre feathers, the mother-of-pearl stretchmarks like jewels sewn under her skin, for all that.
For all that the hair on both pretty muffs –
So pretty, so pretty. And graces mouth curled as she strummed, drummed and squeezed. There was something on the horizon a storm or a wave and a hot pulse of rain somewhere beneath her right there in the knot twixt wetslit and arse
For all that they looked like two figures cut from the same mould and Grace couldn’t wait any longer and she stepped right up and grabbed Miriam by the hook of her jaw and felt the smooth contact of belly to belly and bosom to bosom and as she stepped closer the faint tickle, the velcro tickle of their mingling hair.
Face to face, their eyes flickering over their matched differences. Miriam’s pale lips parted. Husky.
“I’ve never done this before”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll find the way”
And ever so gently both women leaned forward and kissed. A slow cool kiss to begin, redolent of the beer they had drunk downstairs in the bar, and the distant memory of the garlicky streetfood from fat hours before, and the slightly sour smell of skin, and in the hot gaps between them the rich smell of:
God sun seaweed sand, the sea,salt, seagulls, seagulls crying.cold white wine on a terrace and the rattle of boat rigging in the harbour and fresh bread and fingers oh fingers oh fingers, cold white wine kisses and fingers oh GOD
The two matched women kissed and their bodies meshed and melded bosom sliding over bosom and bellies now slick with sweat squeezed and slid on their own and legs touched and entwined and fingers. Fingers collided and meshed and tucked and withdrew and were tasted and teeth clashed and nibbled and lips bruised, bruised together and inside this squall of mixed similarities, this downpour of precise liquid melding and wriggling heat built a storm, such a storm. And amid the slippery coupling of bosom and belly and the fast rubbing of cunt on cunt…
Grace came. A rippling thunder, hips off the seat and soaking it, ramming and grinding on her rigid fingers, a pulse of rain and of stormwind, a drenching of fingers. And over the rich smell of stormweed and salt, the wild cries of a gull.