Scissor Link by Georgette Kaplan (novels to improve english .txt) 📗

from feeling underdressed.” Wendy came to the foot of the bed, settling a hand on the bedpost. The moonlight was behind her now. It prickled in her hair, silhouetted her curves, the side of her breasts. Its light was like a slow caress that never stopped.

She finished letting her other arm out of the flannel. Then took its sleeves and wrapped them around her waist, tying them in a knot. Janet watched as she pulled the knot tight, tighter, then let it go. The sleeves falling down in a ribbon over her crotch. She looked up to Wendy’s face. Wendy was smirking. Something smug in it; arrogant. Like she’d known Janet would watch.

“You know, when I was a little girl, I used to be afraid that if my leg wasn’t covered by my bedsheet, that a monster would get me.” Wendy looked down at the bed.

Janet’s right foot poked out from under the bedsheet. The nails still red from her pedicure, almost black in the moonlight.

“Were you afraid of that?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did you stop believing in the monster? Or stop being afraid of it?”

“I got a bigger bed.”

“I’ve noticed.” Wendy’s hand dangled down.

Her touch light, when it brushed against Janet’s ankle through the sheet, but still unbearably tangible. Janet’s mind ran away from her, tried to remember the last time she’d been touched. Just…touched.

“Should I cover you up?” Wendy asked. “Or…”

She pulled at the bedsheet. Its hem dwindled down the slopes of Janet’s breasts, the contact as sweet and achingly teasing as Wendy’s fingers had been.

Wendy stopped. Only teasing. She was careful to set the sheet down behind Janet’s foot. Leaving it exposed. “I don’t think the cops are coming,” Wendy said. “I don’t think I tripped any alarms.”

Janet breathed. It was hard.

“Do you even have any alarms? Or did you just have another woman to keep you company?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Janet said. Her voice shook. Gasped.

“No, you’re not. You’re afraid of you.” Wendy’s body lowered. She crouched. She got down on her knees. “You’re afraid of how this will feel.”

You bitch, Janet thought. You bitch, don’t say that. Don’t put that into words. Don’t let it be true.

Wendy’s hands reached forward. They delved under the sheet to either side of Janet’s foot. They touched her calf. Then they pulled back. Fingers dragging down the skin of her legs. No, not fingers. Not even fingertips. Fingernails. Short. So damn short.

Then Wendy’s fingers on the bony protuberance of her ankle, the hardness of her heel. Pressure, pointed pressure, thumbs pressing into the bottom of her feet. Almost ticklish, mostly not. Mostly something else. Fingers wrapped around the tops of her feet, thumbs on the soles. Pressing, but not hard enough. Touching, but not lightly enough. Janet felt it. Nothing else. She just—felt it.

She was acutely aware of her foot, of all things, of the slight ache from a day in her fuck-me heels, or her don’t-fuck-with-me heels. Roberta had liked to call them that. Roberta wasn’t there.

Janet’s mouth lapsed open. She didn’t gasp. She wouldn’t.

Thumbs, tracing down the arches of her feet, moving their pressure across them. More ticklish. Janet tried to jerk away on instinct, but Wendy had a good hold. An insistent hold. Not too tight that Janet couldn’t slip away, but…

Squeezing. Her palms now. A gentle pressure, a soothing one. She could feel Wendy’s fingertips pressing in. The whorls of her fingerprints. The bones providing force. Hands moving up and down, the pressure firm, dwindling on the downstroke, pressing just a little harder on the upstroke.

Janet’s lips pinched inward. Tried to come together. She held her mouth open, though. Not because she wanted it to be, but because it already was, and she didn’t want to react. Not to such a minor thing. Not to just being touched a little. Not to the look Wendy was giving her, darkly hooded eyes, smug smirk saying she’d known how much Janet would like it. Janet’s eyelids tried to flutter shut under that stare. She kept them open.

Wendy leaned forward. Her breath was warm on Janet’s toes and the room was cold. Her lips were soft, a trickle of air, and they touched where Janet hadn’t known she was sensitive. She could’ve kicked. She could’ve pulled her foot away. She was holding still for Wendy. She was wanting this.

“You can touch yourself,” Wendy said, “while I do this. Or do you need the vibrator?”

Janet’s lips were still parted. She could feel her breath flowing through them.

“Or do you need me?”

“I…I…I could have you fired,” Janet managed.

“You don’t have to threaten me,” Wendy said innocently. “I was going to do it anyway.” She stood up, again.

Janet’s body tensed with need, her eyes screwed shut, and when she forced them open, Wendy stood over her. At her bedside. Out of the way of the moonlight. The shirt was a white shadow on her body, her jeans a shadow on a shadow. She took them off. Slid them down her thighs, then raised one leg, then the next. Her boxers an interruption of her legs. She stooped again. In the new darkness, there was no new shadow, no white glow. Just her. Something sweet-smelling, the flannel covering her. Almost. Maybe. Not quite.

“You tasted good,” Wendy said. “Just now. Does all of you taste that good? It has to taste better, right? Than your foot? Because even with that pedicure—it’s still a foot.”

Janet didn’t know what to say.

Wendy reached out. Took her glasses, took them off, set them down nearby. “You don’t need to see right now,” Wendy said. “You just need to feel.”

She sat down on the bed. Her flank in the light, on display, smooth, clear skin that looked like it would be perfect to the touch. As creamy and as liquid as the light itself. And behind that firm thigh, before the other one—she smelled so good. No perfume, no fragrance, just her.

“You’re not very talkative now,” Wendy said. “Nothing much to say?”

“Your ass is on my mattress,” Janet replied.