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

Wendy laughed. She moved her leg up onto the mattress, then her other one, and then she was lying down beside Janet. Just lying there, her hands behind her head, as if they were any other couple. As if they were a couple.

Janet’s foot brushed against Wendy’s. The breath rasped down her throat.

“I know you’ve wondered what it would be like,” Wendy said.

“With you?”

“With a woman.”

“I was married.”

“You forgot,” Wendy retorted. “Maybe you remember what Roberta was like, and maybe you remember what you were like with her. But you don’t remember being a dyke. You don’t remember women. I can tell you, Ms. Lace. I’ve been with women. I’ve fucked them. They’ve fucked me. I can tell you how it feels to have a woman’s head between your legs, soft hair on your thighs, kissing you so good you try to squeeze your legs together just so you can breathe, but she holds you open and shows you how much more there is for you to feel. I can tell you how it feels when a finger just isn’t enough, when her pussy clenches and tells you she needs more, just one more finger, just one more, until she’s taken all four and she’s thanking God that she’s gay. I can tell you how a woman tastes, Ms. Lace. I can tell you how I taste—when she’s done worshipping me with her tongue—when she comes up for air and kisses me just to thank me for spreading my legs. I can tell you how I taste after I come in a woman’s mouth. Would you like to know that, Ms. Lace? Would you like to see how soft and smooth and gentle a woman can be…until she stops being gentle? Have you ever wondered how hard softness can be?”

Janet could feel how wet she was. She couldn’t remember the last time she was so ready that she needed it, but God, she remembered it felt like this. “What would I have to do?”

“Turn over,” Wendy said. “I want to see your nightie.”

Janet rolled over. The sheet rolled with her, bunched and bundled beneath her, and above her, the air had such a firm touch that she could feel every stitch she wasn’t wearing. Feel Wendy’s eyes on every inch of her.

She was being fucked before Wendy ever touched her.

“That doesn’t look like a nightie,” Wendy said. “Have you been lying to me, Ms. Lace?”

Janet’s buttocks quivered, exposed, so damn visible. God, when was Wendy going to touch her? She knew it’d be any minute… “It was,” Janet said, “a bluff.”

“Lying’s a very naughty thing, Ms. Lace. Not as naughty as what you do at your desk, of course. After you’ve watched me. When you’re thinking about me.”

Janet could feel the bedspread shift, the eddies and currents of its fabric being pulled minutely by new pressure. Wendy’s hand between Janet’s legs now. Not touching her, touching the mattress beneath her.

“You open your legs so wide…” Janet could hear Wendy’s fingers slide along the bedspread as they moved upward. “Then you close them, nice and tight. Clench them up.” She felt the sides of Wendy’s hand brush against one leg, the backs of her fingers tingle along the other. “Are you doing that for me, Ms. Lace? Are you thinking one day I’ll be there?” The hardness of Wendy’s knuckles along her thigh… “Well, I’m here, Ms. Lace. I’m right here.”

Wendy’s hand sliding under her body—sliding along her…

“I can feel the heat coming off you. God, tell me what it’s like to finger-fuck yourself with that cunt of yours. Feeling the heat all around your fingers, running down your thighs…”

“Touch me…” Janet breathed into her pillow. The heat of her gasp burned against her own face. “I want you to touch me.”

And suddenly Wendy had mounted her, thrown a leg over her prone body and straddled her, body pressed down atop Janet’s back, flesh against her flesh, the sparse hair of her pussy tingling on the curve of Janet’s ass. Now Janet gasped. Now she heard herself.

“Is that what I want?” Wendy asked, her voice, her breath right in Janet’s ear. “To touch you? Because I think I want to fuck you. And not on your terms, on my terms. I wanna fuck you so hard, and so fast, and so good that you almost wanna beg me to stop, but you can’t. You can’t speak, you can’t even breathe almost, all you can do is come. Like I want you to come. And when I’ve had enough—when I’ve fucked you so hard you can’t even remember your name—I want you to thank me. Because you’ll still remember my name. And you’ll be so damn grateful I made you my bitch. Now say it. Say it, Lace. ‘I want to be fucked.’”

Janet burned. She clenched. Her pussy was on fire and she tried to put it out by rubbing against the mattress, squirming against it like a bitch in heat, but that didn’t help. Wasn’t what she needed. She needed it to burn hotter. She needed to explode.

“‘I want to be fucked,’” Wendy repeated. “‘I want to be fucked.’ ‘I want to be fucked.’ ‘I want to be fucked.’”

Janet’s eyes fluttered, her jaw clenched, her fingers gripping the bedspread tightly, gripping it until it pulled free of the mattress pad.

Wendy kept repeating herself, chanting like some orgiastic cultist, and Janet could feel her mouth forming the words, could feel their echoes beginning in the back of her throat. She just had to say it. No, she just had to admit it.

Then she looked up and saw Gal Gadot by her bed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, as if she weren’t the meat in a bottomless-woman-and-bed sandwich.

“I’m in everything these days,” Gal Gadot said.

“Yeah, you do show up a lot. You must have a really good agent.”

“Thank you,” Gal Gadot said, and then Janet pointedly woke up, turning over the words ‘I want to be fucked’ in her mind like