By T.C. Mill
No matter how heavy her eyelids felt, how rambunctious the kids at the daycare center had been, how much her sides ached from laughing or how sore her knees were from cleaning up messes, Sandra couldn’t resist a smile at the sight of the house. Slowly, with a tap on the gas and a pump on the break as red lights flashed in front of her, she came closer to it. No irritation, whether from work or traffic, could overcome her satisfaction and pride. Even if the road—recently expanded by another two lanes, the reason they got the place so cheap—nearly touched the front doorstep, and the new sidewalk lay even closer, with the post-construction yard a mess of unseeded dirt and a few stubborn, ungainly flowers that might actually be weeds, the place was still home. OUR home.
As she parked, daycare noises fading into memory, Sandra studied the flowers. Maybe she should plant something more presentable the next time she had a free weekend. After all their hard work to get this place, the outside should show it.
But not tonight.
She peeled off her shirt, armpits stiff with sweat, and let it drop somewhere in the hall. Messy. Although she silently judged herself, she let it go. She’d clean later, after waking up. It was Viv’s turn to grocery shop after her shift, so it might be another hour before she got home.
In her sports bra, Sandra plopped onto the couch. Set against the only wall long enough to fit, it faced the bay window on the front of the house. Maybe she’d see Viv’s car approach, catch a glimpse of her wife in profile: round chin and curly hair, mouth parted as she sang along with the radio. The thought made her heart squeeze.
All the same, she couldn’t hold back a yawn. Evening sunlight poured through the window, sending the lace-edged curtains’ shadows across the floor and settling over Sandra like a thin, soft blanket. If she just closed her eyes a little while… The engines and brakes and honking outside blurred into white noise. She lay her head down and breathed in the cushions’ leather scent. She imagined a hint of her wife’s scent, too, as she drifted off.
Sandra woke to the room gone gray, swept now and then by headlights, the sun descended behind the trees across the road.
Sitting up, she started to reach for the lamp switch when, at the door, Viv said, “Keep the light off.”
“Hey. Welcome home.”
“Food is in the fridge. You looked so restful there, I didn’t want to disturb you.” Tenderness and amusement thickened her voice into a flow of melted honey. Sandra heard her stepping closer in bare feet, glimpsed her silhouette against the window.
Viv sat on the couch, not beside Sandra but straddling her legs.
Feeling Viv’s warmth and weight settle over her, breathing in her scent, sent heat crackling through her body.
“Mmm,” she said as Sandra’s arms wrapped around her waist. “Glad you’re up now.”
“So am I.”
As they kissed, Viv’s fingertips brushed a stray lock of short hair behind Sandra’s ear. Then they traced over cartilage, flicked playfully at the lobe, and continued down, along her jawline, her neck, over and between her breasts. Sandra’s breath jerked beneath Viv’s touch as it journeyed over her bare belly toward her waistband.
She caught Viv’s wrist and traced up her arm—only to get her hand caught inside a wide sweater sleeve. Giggling, Sandra extricated herself. An undistracted Viv slipped her fingers lower, past her underwear to stroke the top of her mound.
Sandra leaned back, legs pushing wider so Viv could reach more of her. She adored Viv’s single-minded determination, the way nothing could take her mind—and hands—away from what she wanted. Her confidence brought a simple clarity that soothed Sandra’s mind as much as it aroused her body. All the weight of the day sloughed off as desire brought them together.
Viv’s thumb started moving, at first in slow, sweeping arcs, then gathering, tightening, growing faster as her touch honed in on Sandra’s clit. Sparkles kindled into a melting blaze. Sandra was ready to sink into the couch, all but flowing between its cushions, when Viv reached under the hem of her own sweater. In the dim light, Sandra saw for the first time that her wife wore nothing else. Viv’s heat burned hot in her lap because nothing lay between their thighs but the denim of Sandra’s jeans.
She reached to follow Viv’s hand, but Viv shook her head, her smile flashing white. Sandra held still, difficult as it was, while Viv raised her hand and traced her now slick fingers across Sandra’s upper lip.
Sandra licked it, instinctively. The taste sent another jolt of desire through her, intensifying her own arousal. Viv was not the only one with an unswerving clarity about what she wanted.
“Please, baby…” She slid her hands around Viv’s hips, nudging the bottom of the sweater. “Can I…”
Even as she started to bend her head down, she half-expected to be stopped, so it came as no surprise when she was. Viv slid out of Sandra’s hold, shaking her head—playful, not punishing,—though that made it no less frustrating. Their faces were still so close that her bobbing curls brushed Sandra’s cheek.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Not. Yet.” She punctuated the words with soft laughter and an even softer kiss.
“You know how much I love to taste you.”
“You know how much I love being tasted.” Her tongue flickered across Sandra’s upper lip. “But I like to be reminded.”
Waiting reminded her; waiting gave them both a chance to want it even more. As a horny young twentysomething, Sandra would never have believed the odd satisfaction she’d discover a decade later as a married woman, working long hours to pay a mortgage, collapsing on the couch to rest, then waking to make love to her wife, slowly and patiently. Knowing she would taste her eventually, her desire built and built, to a payoff that was better than she could imagine in her initial rush.
It occurred to her that this would be the first time she and Viv actually made love on this couch. So yes, no need to rush it.
Sandra closed her eyes, breathed deeply. Felt Viv, smelled her, tasted her lingering on her mouth. Much better not to think. Not to be distracted from this.
She breathed in Viv’s scent until it made her head spin and set her hands running over her wife’s body. She was going to show just how much she wanted this.
Soon she’d earn the right to make Viv shout.
She settled her palms on Viv’s bottom and pulled her closer, and Viv obliged. Distantly, Sandra heard a zipper being undone. Then, as the teasing trace of Viv’s fingers over her clit returned, she realized it belonged to her jeans. Of course it did; between the two of them, she was the only one wearing anything with a zip—oh. No, no thinking. Never mind.
Viv’s skin was satiny, the knit of her sweater seeming rough beside it. As Sandra stroked, she felt firm muscles growing softer, relaxed beneath her hands. Her fingernails scratched lightly along the sides of Viv’s spine, raising a pleased growl. Sandra’s own hips were rocking, meeting the rhythm of Viv’s caress. She braced their bodies with a grip on her wife’s thighs, her eyelids falling shut and her mouth falling open, her breath sharp and heavy, and—
Laughter. A sweep of light cut in, so that she opened her eyes, startled. A bobbing square of illumination brushed through the room. From the corner of her eye she made out the wad of Viv’s discarded pants on the carpet by the door. Against the satiny darkness, it was like a helicopter’s searchlight, and she, the cornered fugitive.
Another giggle—two or three people walking together, out on the sidewalk, traveling by the light from their phones. Neighbors, on their way home.
Sandra had been aware that people walked on that sidewalk. Nonetheless, confronting the reality of it now was an unpleasant surprise.
“Sweetheart?” Viv tipped her head, meeting her eyes. Her body was between Sandra and the window—her more-than-half-naked body, the sweater pushed up to her shoulder blades, although she didn’t seem conscious of it.
“We almost had an audience there,” Sandra said. She tried to laugh about it but her giggle sounded strained, awkward.
Viv glanced over her shoulder and—it was hard to tell in the darkness, but she seemed to shrug. Then she leaned in to kiss Sandra again, this time gently, lightly.
Sandra kissed her back, urged the kiss to deepen, parting her lips and letting her tongue slide across them. Still, an unquiet part of her mind calculated: did they live in a neighborhood of night owls, crowds of them about to set out for exercise after sunset?
“Should we take this to the bedroom?” she asked as their own mode of exercise ramped up.
“We could.” Viv didn’t get off of her. “It’s comfy here, though. I’ve always liked being with you on this couch.”
Sandra’s giggle was stronger this time, warmed by the flirtation. “Me, too. Although our bed’s also pretty good. And more private…”
“Ah.” Viv’s hand settled just above Sandra’s pounding heart. “Are you afraid of being…glimpsed?”
“It’d just be embarrassing.”
Her body throbbed at the thought—somehow embarrassment and arousal seemed to mix. She did want to make love to Viv, right now, right here. But she knew it was one of those things she couldn’t, shouldn’t do.
“I think it’d be private enough,” Viv said softly. “Our lights are off. Nobody would know we’re here.”
“I would.” The thought squeezed Sandra’s body tight again. Tires and headlights rolled past outside, kicking her heartbeat up another notch.
“Yeah,” Viv said. “We would. Just us. In our own house.”
Her lips brushed Sandra’s nose, the corner of her mouth. “We can make love in bed if you want. But I think, like me, you want to do it here. If we can’t make love where we want, when we want, in our own house…”
“When you put it that way,” Sandra said, her voice so low it almost ached, “it does sound pretty reasonable.”
It didn’t sound reasonable at all. But it sounded clear and simple. It sounded like what she wanted.
“Still, I close the blinds—”
Viv rocked in her lap, nudging her—not forcefully, but the simple fact that it was hers gave the gesture enough power to push Sandra back on the couch.
“Please?” Viv asked.
And Sandra was glad she asked one last time, without making it easy to go with that first, shy, embarrassed instinct.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s try it.”
Viv kissed her again. Her hands swept up, over Sandra’s sides, to cup her breasts through the sports bra. She flicked her nipples, rolling back and forth over them with the pads of her thumbs. Sandra squirmed and Viv let her slip her fingers between her thighs, gathering her wetness. Let her pull her sweater over her shoulders. Let Sandra’s tongue trace along her collar bone, down over her breasts, circling and sipping at the sweet, pointed tips.
She lost herself in feeling and flavor, texture, and taste. Not caring what anyone except Viv thought.
Viv got on her knees to pull Sandra’s jeans down. Sandra helped as best as she could, without wanting to take her mouth from her wife’s body, and finally, her pants were off, and her underwear too. Her bare legs settled on the buttery leather. She spread herself open for Viv’s fingers to reach into her, pumped her hips to meet her wife’s stroking. Sandra was already swollen, open, and wet, and Viv knew just what to do. Gentle and sure, she brought every nerve alive. Sandra thought for a moment of what her juices might do when they soaked the cushions, which she felt them flowing onto…and she didn’t care. It was their couch.
Her inner muscles trembled around Viv’s fingers, already close. Sandra felt herself wanting to rush to orgasm, maybe because some nervousness lingered. She might appreciate this all the more once it was over. Yet Viv refused to be rushed. She moved in that steady, circling motion Sandra needed, slick but relentless, her palm positioned to press Sandra’s clit. Surges of pleasure rushed through Sandra’s body. When she tried to pump her hips, Viv stilled her with a nudge of her hand, keeping her behind flat on the couch.
She was left with nothing to do but feel. Patience or impatience didn’t matter, especially as her awareness of time melted away. Her limbs trembled and her heart pounded. With the in-and-out of Viv’s fingers, the rocking of her palm over Sandra’s swollen clit, the pulse of pleasure that connected both those movements, orgasm surged nearer. And then it poured over her, over them both.
She laughed with it, teared up with it. She rolled her head on the back of the couch. Every part of her felt loose and strangely light as if she might lift into the air like a bright-colored balloon.
Viv stroked the hair from her forehead, rained kisses on her nose and cheeks. “You’re amazing, sweetheart,” she whispered.
“But—what about you?” Sandra put her arms around Viv’s waist and pulled her up, rolling over at the same time. Viv laughed as she lifted her legs, her hands closing at the back of Sandra’s neck and her feet meeting at her spine. She lay over the thick arm of the couch, her precarious balance an even trade for the access it granted.
Keeping a firm grip on her thighs, Sandra moved down Viv’s body, tasting the slick salt that covered her skin. With her tongue she mapped each nipple, traveled the canyon between her full breasts, dipped into the well of her navel. And then she found her folds, parted them, kissed her open-mouthed.
Finally, the taste of her. Worth waiting for. Pungent sweetness, warm salt. Home.
Viv’s ankles dug into her bare back, her pussy wet on Sandra’s mouth, as wet as she had already made Sandra. She knelt on the couch, completely naked, and Viv wasn’t shielding her from the window anymore. But she didn’t care. Only some lace, a panel of transparent glass, and an expanse of dark air lay between herself and the world. Her whole body beat with the risk, the excitement, and the power. Viv’s flavor was electric in her mouth. Sandra ran her hands up Viv’s hips and sides, cupped her breasts. She squeezed them and rolled the pointed nipples between her fingertips. She set her tongue rolling along Viv’s clit in the same motion; then, just as she trembled at the edge of climax, Sandra moved her tongue lower, licking her entrance and sliding teasingly inside. She stroked the less sensitive slopes of her breasts. As Viv had taught her, why rush things?
After a bit of that, enough to make her next move a surprise, Sandra returned her fingers and tongue to Viv’s most responsive parts, and manipulated them intently in the ways she had learned would create an explosion. Viv’s legs locked around her, trying to squeeze Sandra as close as possible, shaky with keen arousal.
If someone wanted to look, let the world see and hear just how she made her wife cry out.
Which she did. Thoroughly, and at length.
Sandra kept up the stimulation throughout Viv’s climax, though she made her touch slower and more gentle. She knew Viv liked to continue feeling her for as long as possible; she’d let Sandra know if it became too much even for her appetite for blissful sensation.
At last, moving as if exhausted, drunk with pleasure, Viv wiggled down onto the couch and they lay there, arms around each other.
It felt good, forgetting to care for once. Being unpresentable, and presenting herself nonetheless.
Sandra looked out the window—their window—past their curtains, into a blank darkness that reflected nothing back. But she knew what lay beyond it; she could picture it in detail. The road that led home, and a scraggly would-be green patch beside it that was their yard. It needed a bit of love, and they’d get to that.
No need to put up a façade, though. She’d let those odd, stubborn flowers stay.
T.C. Mill (TC-Mill.com) is a writer and freelance editor living in the Midwest, which is one answer to the question “What do you do with a philosophy degree?” She co-founded the New Smut Project micropress, which releases collections of literary erotica. Her stories have been published by Cliterature, Bust magazine, and Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, vol. 2.