A Bakery, Ruminations & Fucking...

As the frigid night air chilled my bones, realization blew in with the biting arctic breeze. She was trying to incite me, purposefully pushing me away, and I sat back down, slammed the car door, cursing the heavens for sending me the girl I'd yearned for all my life but gift-wrapped in a shroud of death.

Erin turned to face me. She sighed. "Insight is a harsh bitch, yeah?" she queried and I nodded, wondering how she could possibly read my thoughts, marveling at her brilliance; her empathy and self-awareness seemed limitless.

She pedaled the clutch, the car leaped forward and we were quickly weaving through traffic at a terribly dangerous pace, so fast that I became frightened and dizzy as the scenery blurred by the windows. My stomach lurched and I was terrified we would spin out of control, yet ecstatic at the thrill as she fluidly shifted through the gears – dancing her feet on the clutch and accelerator, her biceps rippling as she shifted the gearbox and teased the steering wheel was astonishingly erotic.

The roadster sped along with the grace and power of a sveltely muscled cheetah. Erin's concentration, the graceful intensity as she drove was powerful to watch and I was captivated; feeling my arousal, my pussy dampened. Damn, would I ever stop aching for this woman's touch? I was turning into a freaking lecherous whore of a dyke, and so loving it.

For a moment I wondered how it would feel when she died... and my heart shook, my stomach fell out from under me and I felt stunned and dizzy. I gasped, fear gripped me, and she looked at me, her eyes questioning. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and trembled into a slow deep breath, trying to shake the anxious thoughts from my mind. Feeling ashamed of my selfishness I reached for her, stroking her thigh and traced a meandering line up towards her cunnie. She drew in her breath sharply, and gently stopped my wandering fingers, trapping my palm flat against her warm, pulsing thigh. "We're almost home, baby," she said. "We can stop and fuck, or we can wait till we get home, but I'm not hugging a tree with my roadster."

"Pull over," I demanded, growling with lust. I think I love being a brazen hussy.

The notion of fucking in a hot sexy sports car is very different from actually doing it. For one thing, the damn stick shift keeps getting in the way. But Erin did find some interesting uses for the shifter and, I must admit it felt damned good when she jack hammered my pussy on it. The heated friction from the shifter knob stretching and filling me, coupled with the cold shock of the metal stick had me thrashing. She is frightfully strong.

The worst thing about car sex for me is how near impossible it is to get actual intimate contact. Then there's all the interesting ways that clothes turn into bonds. With very little effort, Erin had me trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey and shortly thereafter I was leaking all over her thighs as she plunged her fingers into my greedy cunnie.

What I love best about surrendering to wanton lust is how outrageously excited it makes her. The times when Erin can abandon all thoughts and just "feel" are few; she is always so focused and aware of her surroundings. She hasn't talked about it, but I think she was beaten and severely abused as a child. When I asked her to tell me about her childhood, to see pictures, her eyes became haunted, pained, and she tensed; then skillfully guided the conversation elsewhere.

She has no family pictures displayed in her apartment; at least none that I can see. She let slip once that her sister died as a teenager. "It was my fault she killed herself," Erin said, and closed her eyes, quietly weeping. I held her sobbing to my breast for a few minutes, and then she drew back, apologized and asked to not talk about it. Maybe she'll tell me when she is ready. But I know this woman has lived hellish horrors and suffered deeply in her life. Yeah, I know, life doesn't come with a fairness warranty, but really, fuck this existential bullshit! Knowing she'll soon be dead makes me livid; I want to break and smash things, embrace my rage, pick childish fights and beat up rude and nasty and intolerant people, throw tantrums and shriek and scream until I am deafened and numb from pounding and kicking the floor.

I wish I could hear her tell me she'll never leave me; and, I wish I could believe her as she said it. I wish we could grow to be horny brazen geriatric dykes together. Maybe have children and watch them grow, love and nurture them...

Shit, I wish we could simply get married and be afforded the same rights, privileges and societal standing that any straight couple enjoys and takes for granted.

I wish.

Oh, shit! My cunnie betrays me. It hisses and belches; queefing. Embarrassed, I quickly steal a glance at Erin. She is smothering laughter in her hand, but then she blows a raspberry.

Fourth Part:"In restless dreams I walked alone..."

(In which Erin continues her tale, and dares opine of dyke haute cuisine ...)

It is very early in the morning when I jolt awake, shivering. I am gripped with terror, chilled and sweltering under the down comforter; a cold, freezing, shivering sweat. I don't remember the dream, only that I was afraid. Jillian is nestled against my side, her left leg tossed carelessly over my hips, her upper arm cupping my breasts, bicep flexing against them. Her hand strokes my face, absently teasing my ear as she sleeps. My chest floods with warmth, with love. I smile. She is so cute when she sleeps.

I am so hungry it hurts and quietly untangle from her embrace to go forage for food and snacks in the kitchen. My mouth tastes metallic and sour. I ought to brush my teeth and self-consciously try to sniff my breath by exhaling into my palm but that fails. Hell with it, I think to myself. I am so fucking hungry.

I pour a measure of dark Sumatra beans into the grinder and flip it on. The roaring is sudden and shocking and I move to shut it off, then remember that my girl could sleep through an earthquake, so I wait for the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee to tickle me silly. Don't know if there is a god or goddess, but coffee speaks volumes for proof that a deity exists. I pull out the half-&-half and sniff it to be sure it's not spoiled. (Yeah, the purists out there are bitching that I shouldn't ruin a good proper cup of coffee with cream and sugar, but I don't care – this is what's left of my life so you'll gratefully accept whatever the fuck I choose to serve you. And you'll bloody well enjoy it.)

At 2 am it's too late for dinner and too early for breakfast. What to do, what to do? I settle on pasta, just... because.

I put a saucepan to boil, salt the water, and savor the coffee as I pour six or so handfuls of penne into the pot. I'd made a batch of clams and spicy marinara sauce a few weeks earlier and pulled a jar from my freezer. Some spinach and mushrooms with lots of freshly crumbled feta cause me to break into a silly, skipping, happy dance. Shit. Coffee sloshes onto the floor. Shit! I'm such a klutz sometimes.

There's prime top sirloin in the fridge and it's soon chopped and sizzling in a garlic and onion laden skillet. I taste a delicious tart morsel of perfectly rare tender goodness, and smack my lips. While cleaning and slicing the red bell peppers I am seized by the thought of pouring the steaming concoction onto Jillian and eating and licking my way about her, maybe nibbling penne from her saucy kitty. I chuckle and smiling, plate the food, take the fresh bread heating over the steaming saucepan, grab some butter and head for the bedroom loft.

There's much to be said for eating healthily when you've got cancer, but truthfully? I love the taste of butter melting into hot steaming, crunchy, crusted French bread. I eat meat and love it. The risk of cancer from coffee or fried food seems kinda senseless to me at this point so, let's just let that one run aground, okay? And, yeah, clams & beef with coarse, chopped mushrooms, bright leafy spinach and generous chunks of feta cheese, all peppered with lots and lots of garlic and onions is, perhaps, just my kind of kink, but damn, it is de-fucking-luscious. Some of my best friends are vegetarians, but me? I eat pussies!

She's not in bed. I hear the shower and she's singing. I'm cursed with near-perfect and relative pitch, so Jillian's voice, though sultry and sexy when she speaks, sounds like fingernails screeching the chalkboard when she belts out a song. She is flat and sharp and out of tune; I shudder and gnash my teeth. Oh, the things we do for love.

By the time I've returned to the loft with the wine, she's out of the shower and wrapped in a fluffy terry robe. We eat quietly. She steals glances at me, trying to be discrete, but I sense what's coming. The heat from the shower steams from her skin. "Sweetie?" she asks quietly, shyly, "Tell me about your sister."

Shit! How to do this, I wondered to myself? How do I tell of my sister without talking about the years of sexual assaults, the daily physical and emotional torture we both suffered through? There were daily beatings and brutal rapes, the cruel humiliations and the constant demeaning insults. How do you talk about being the object, not of your parents' unconditional love, but the focus of their unmitigated hatred and derision? How do I explain the stark bitter horrors of misogyny? How to describe being locked in a tiny cramped molding pitch-black shed and left for hours, stomach spasming from hunger, throat raw from tears, chest heaving, gasping, dried parched lips craving even a few drops of water. How do I tell her this without breaking her sweet and generous heart? How can she not hate me when I lay myself so vulnerable before her? I am not only the victim here; I am a perpetrator as well. I have done terrible and dangerous things in my life. I have been heartless and cruel. I've wounded and caused real harm.

It was past noon when I finally stopped talking; wrung out, feeling exhausted. She held my hands in her lap, eyes downcast, slowly shaking her head. "How did you survive?" she gently asked. "After she committed suicide, how did you go on?"

I shook my head, too far into revelation to hold anything back. "I didn't want to. I ran away. I'd just turned 15 when I left. Ran away and never went back. They're both dead. My mother died of a stroke, and my father died in some fleabag nursing home outside of Phoenix. I never saw either of them after I left." I couldn't help the tears that spilled from my eyes provoked by anguish not fondness.

"I tried to kill myself. Tried three times and almost succeeded twice. It's kind of perverse but finding the cancer kinda saved me. I'd overdosed on a fistful of pain meds and fallen into a coma for 14 weeks. They used drugs to induce the coma. I was 23 when they'd found and first treated the tumors. And I woke up." I shrugged my shoulders but still couldn't quite meet her eyes.

I felt her looking at me, shaking her head, bewildered. "I'm glad you lived," she said softly. "I'm glad to have met you and to love you." She wrapped her arms around me and drew me close. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Please baby. Let me love you."

I was overcome with such an intense range of emotions. I was sobbing uncontrollably, wailing painfully. My chest heaved and I shuddered and shook as she held me in her strong jock arms. I was just barely conscious as I cried. The dam had broken and 29 tortuous years, 10,000 days of pain and fear and grief burst free. I lost all measure of time. It could have been minutes or even hours. She held me throughout and never let me go. For only the second time in my life since my sister died, I felt cherished. "How can you love me?" I asked. "I've done terrible things. I've lied and stolen just to survive. I've been so careless with other people's feelings, betrayed the trust of friends, and even destroyed a girl who adored and loved me. My sister was the best of us; it should have been me who died." I looked into Jillian's impossibly blue and emerald-flecked eyes and shook my head. "I don't even know what happened to Vera's body, where her grave is. Or if she even has one."

I'm not sure what I expected next, but I was certain she would dress and leave. I'd revolted her. Sure, I've tried to make amends for the horribly cruel, evil I've done in my life, but how could I expect her to stay when I could barely tolerate this part of myself? My head hung in shame and I was terrified to meet her gaze, afraid to even dare touch her. My chest heaved and I was racked with sobs, but I tried desperately to find some calm, to get quiet, so she could at least be free to leave without remorse.

The stillness was so loud around me. Silence thundered in my ears. My head throbbed.

Her tongue tickled my earlobe. Gently, a finger, then two and then three, stroking my face, lips caressing my cheek, thumbs tenderly wiping tears from my eyes, she covered my face in stunning gentle, warm kisses and I wept with a baby's abandon. She enfolded me in those amazing sinewy arms, gently pulled me close and lowered us to lie on the bed, wrapping me up in her lithe legs. Feeling the heat of her pussy against my skin, I shuddered and trembled into a contended peacefulness and slowly, quietly, drifted into a sleep, for once not haunted by nightmares and agonizing death.

Fifth Part:"Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees, Time can break your heart, have you begging please, begging please..."

(In which Erin continues her tale, ponders the ironies of life, and debates equal rights for split infinitives...)

I woke up to the trilling of the television. Oh, shit, Star Trek. "To boldly go where no one has gone before." Jillian was sitting cross-legged on the bed, tearfully slurping a bowl of Cheerios with too much brown sugar and way too many strawberries. A banana wobbled precariously on her thigh. Don't care if a banana is a plantain or a berry - I just envied the lucky fruit's position so close to her tangy snatch. "What's up, my little Vulcan?" I stroked her dimpled knee.

She turned, smiled sorrowfully, "I have been, and always shall be, your friend." she said, wiping a tear from her impossibly blue and emerald-speckled eyes. I shook my head, smiling wistfully. I adore my girl; she's such a geek. She raised her hand and made the Spock sign. Then purses her lips, smiles and wipes more tears from her eyes. "Live long and prosper."

I shall do neither, I think to myself, indulging in a bit of perhaps undeserved self-pity. Shit, she's so cute my heart clutches. "What time is it?" I asked, looking around at the brisk winter sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass doors. I stretched and yawned, "Jillian, I'm sorry...about yesterday..." I stumbled over words, feeling awkward, blindly groping for how to express my confused feelings. Overwhelmed by too many fleeting thoughts to even attempt voicing, I sighed in frustration and shook my head.

"Stop," she demanded, putting her forefinger to touch my lips. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have pried."

My mind flooded with anxiety, hundreds of "what if" questions sprang unbidden, so rapidly I wasn't able to focus, finally, exasperated and annoyed I just resigned and sighed, "So, what's next?" I asked. "What do you want to do? About us...this...me..." damn, I'm blubbering blindly. Real eloquent, Erin, I think to myself. I am befuddled. Feeling horny, prickling arousal, flooding with warmth and feeling overwhelming love for this gorgeous woman, and yet so deeply embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

I looked at my reflection in the glass doors to the balcony. Soon, the cancer would wrinkle my skin, strip the flesh and muscle from my body, leaving me a bag of crumpled pale greying skin and bone, sheared of color – I would become gaunt, spoiled, ravaged and rendered ugly by my own body eviscerating itself. I was repulsive. I deserved this.

Exasperated, I shook my head, annoyed with myself, angry at the irony of life. Here I was – in love and dying, being loved and dying. I felt I had no right to feel any of this. Cognitive dissonance? Yeah, FUCK YOU cognitive dissonance!

(I don't want to sound insensitive or offend the ignorant or illiterate among us, because they do have the same human rights as I, but sometimes I just wish I was a simple-minded twit happily droid-walking through a morbidly boring life, destined to die free from questioning the ironies and absurdities of existence. Ah, yes, an existential cognitive dissonance flooded her awareness as she stupidly trolled, shallowly through her sodden joyless life. Sorry, I'll go on with the story now.)

I reached for Jillian's cereal bowl, took a few strawberries and dove for her belly. Bowl on the nightstand? Check! Rip off her panties? Check! She squealed, and I giggled. I love making her squeak and squirm. Filling her pussy with berries, I dove in, sucking her pearl, lapping her enflamed labial lips, frenching her pussy deeply with my long writhing tongue. The tastes of tart and sweet and musky heat and a yummy bit of sour overwhelmed me and my mouth flooded. Salivating profusely I joyfully lapped her cunt with a glee I'd not felt for...I dunno...years? Ages? I lost myself in Jillian's delicious kitty and cupped her ass, relishing her muscles rippling in my hands as she arched off the bed, shoulders raised. I followed, firmly sucking her pussy as she lifted up, only her head and toes in contact with the bed. She began a keening, plaintive wailing, clamping her thighs around my head, pulling me into her pussy, her knees splayed and thrashing, thighs clenching and her body began to tremble. I hollowed my cheeks, flattened and gradually withdrew my tongue, then slowly painted up her slit to gently bite the pearl dancing hard and free from her clit hood. I teased to the left of her quivering clit, gently blowing from my nostrils, teasing at her clit with breath and tongue but not...quite...touching...that pearl. Damnit, I wanted my harness, but the notion of leaving her damp hot pussy was abhorrent. I raked her pearl with my teeth and bit down a bit, nuzzled her slit and sucked the berry ripe juices dripping from her as she trembled into a tumultuous shattering cum that made me breathless. I love how she comes for me, falling to the bed, legs splayed, pussy dripping, and labia ruby red and engorged, thighs still quivering and knees dimpling, trembling. She was still panting, and her firm proud breasts were heaving as her breathing slowed. Her berry red nipples were long, tight, and I couldn't help drawing one into my mouth, latching on and stroking her velvety smooth skin as her heart thudded strong and loud in my ears. I was filled with a most contented joy and pride, so thankful to have given her this wonderful ecstasy.

Even as it occurred to me, I was ashamed by the self-indulgent silliness of it, but if nothing else, at least by giving her this, I might die happy, I could die knowing I mattered to her. In just this orgasmic moment we existed only for one another, orbited only each other. Some tears spilled from my eyes, spontaneous and unbidden. I raised my head, looked at her doe like face gently framed by flowing caramel blonde hair that fanned out haphazardly, shining golden amidst the rumpled silk sheets. Softly stroking down her tummy while my other hand moved up her calves to the backs of her knees, I raised and spread her legs, leaned in and gently kissed her pussy, and taking her pearl in my lips I began to hum. No intentional melody or song, just freeform humming that vibrated her clit and gently teased her, still humming I licked the engorged slit, flattened my tongue and licked up from her perineum to just below her clit, swiped the side of her pearl, teasing it back out of its hood. I was still humming – something Mozart I think, or maybe Brubeck's 'Take Five', or Brandi Carlile singing 'Hallelujah'...