A Stringed Instrument Ch. 03

Somewhere in the night, I drifted back into waking and discovered that while my waking intentions had been chaste, my subconscious had had other ideas. While I slept, my fingers had crept. The buttons on Phoebe's bunny-rabbit pyjamas had come open and I had her breast cupped in my right hand. I couldn't recall how I'd got there, but the firmness of her nipple suggested that it'd been going on for some time.

I extricated my hand, trying to work out how to re-button her top without waking her —

Her hand drifted up over mine and pushed it back onto her breast. I might have taken that as licence to continue, but then again...

"Phoebe?"

No answer.

"Phoebe?" I shook her with my other hand and she stirred.

"Mh."

"Your hand. My hand."

"Wha?" I could almost hear the gears turning in her sleep-fogged brain. "Oh." She pressed her hand over mine. "'s okay. Nice."

"You sure?" But I cheated, nuzzling the back of her neck while she considered her answer.

"'m sure." She wriggled back into my arms and ten seconds later she was asleep, if she'd ever been awake. Me, I was awake. And chuffed that she felt comfortable with me holding her. And quite turned on with nowhere to go.

I tried to push sexual thoughts out of my mind and go back to sleep. Count sheep. No, something stronger than that. Think of dull cricket matches, stretching out day after day, the steady drone of the commentary...

And here comes Tufnell running in to bowl. It's a nice smooth delivery, straight down the line... and Ponting blocks it. And he's not running. Thorpe throws it back to Tufnell. No score. And there's been no score the whole morning. Thirteen overs left before lunch. Tony, do you think Ponting can keep this up?

Well Richie, if anybody can he can. He scored two back on Friday but today he knows he has to stay put and not try to repeat that. This is magnificent cricket, a classic display of holding on to her breast and not doing anything with it. That's what the game is all about.

Couldn't agree more, Tony. This reminds me of something that almost happened back in 1932... oh, and here comes Tufnell again. No, he's stopped. He's polishing the ball. Look how snugly it fits in his hand. Lovely and warm... and you can see the strain on Ponting's face. You can tell he wants to score, but he knows that's not in the game plan. Must be hoping for rain to cool things off.

Well no chance of that, Richie. The weather-man tells me it's going to be sunny and hot all day. Hot and slippery and snug in her bed, it's a wonder Yvonne hasn't already grabbed her and —

I cut off that line of thought before it went any further. Even cricket had failed me. So I spent another twenty minutes just lying there, trying not to think about the woman I was holding, before I gave in and tried for a quick solitary single.

We were moulded to one another like two spoons, so I had to work my hand in between us in order to reach my clit. Usually I take it slow, but that night I just wanted to come so I could maybe fall asleep at last.

Problem: since my right hand was otherwise engaged I was obliged to use my left, not what I'm used to. Between that and the tight space and trying not to wake Phoebe, I only managed to get myself even more aroused, but not — quite — there! I was frigging myself with my middle finger and it was pleasant, but I wasn't getting anywhere, just more and more wound up...

"Yvonne?"

I froze. I hadn't noticed the change in her breathing.

"Yvonne? Is that what I think it is?"

"...yeah. I couldn't get to sleep." It was pitch-dark in my room, but I knew I was blushing.

"Oh god." A low chuckle. "Sorry. Now I feel doubly guilty for staying over. Well, don't let me stop you."

She let go of my other hand and I rolled onto my back, legs slightly apart. That works better for me, and now I had the use of my right hand. But with it, all the embarrassment of having just been caught frigging. I tried and tried, but I still couldn't get anywhere. Eventually I tapered off, still unfulfilled, frustration in every breath.

"Okay there?"

I sighed. "Um." Enough, I give up. "Could I please beg a favour?"

Silence. Breathing. Then something alighted on my side and tiptoed across my body.

Two fingertips found my elbow, followed down the inside of my arm to my wrist and beyond, sliding under my hand and supplanting it with her own. I felt her shift beside me, felt her breath in my ear before she spoke.

"What sort of guest would I be, hmm?"

Her finger, sliding down, circling my clit. I was slightly raw from my previous efforts and she must have felt me flinch. She withdrew her hand, ran two fingers over my lips, and I kissed them and drew them into my mouth, welcoming them with my tongue. Then they returned to their position, slippery and pleasant.

"Mmm. Nice." I raised my hips, shimmied out of my pyjamas and undies. She rubbed, up and down, round and round, tracing the edges of my labia before returning to my clit. It felt better now, less raw, and I began to roll my hips against her hand. After a little while she ventured downwards to explore. I was already tingling and when her fingers entered me it sent a tiny ripple through my body, a quiet "whuff" of exhalation.

She paused. "Okay?"

"Very okay." I ground against her hand. "But I mostly like it a little more up here." Her fingers moved, then withdrew, slid back to my clit, slippery and delightful again. "Mmm, like that."

Beyond the sheer physicality of it (as lovely as that was) I was happy, very happy, being the centre of this woman's attention. I already had one hand around her waist and I started to run the other one over her thigh — thinking to reciprocate — but she ever-so-gently grasped my wrist and placed that hand back on my chest.

"Not at the moment, dear. Like I said, still need to sort some things out in my head. But happy to do this for you." Her fingers circled, brushed over my clit and sent sparks through me; I arched my back and resolved to lie back and enjoy this. Whatever it was.

Soon she found that the position was awkward for her — she had to reach a little further than was comfortable — so we shifted, wriggling around the bed until she was sitting between my legs, both her hands in play. Me, I had my left hand on my breasts, helping stoke the fire in my own way, but I couldn't find the willpower to hold back from touching Phoebe altogether; I slipped my other hand down to rest on the back of hers, as her fingers moved on me and in me, and she seemed willing enough to accept that contact.

Oh god it was nice. My body was filled with warmth, nerves firing off one by one in their invisible electric ballet, sensations dancing through me like a kaleidoscope for the skin. I could have taken that for hours on end, if it hadn't been for work in the morning, but after so many false starts I was finding it hard to go that last step over the edge.

"Anything I should be doing?" Phoebe brushed my nub with a fingernail and I yelped, trying to work out what was permitted.

"Um. You don't have to, but..."

"But?"

"I want your mouth."

"I see."

Her fingers paused. The bed creaked as she moved up over my body, kissed me on the forehead, again — closed-mouth — on the lips.

Then down. Kneeling between my knees, and she must have untied her hair, because as she lowered her head I felt it settle on my thighs and my belly, feather-light and tickling.

"Only because I like you." Her fingers slid into me, as she kissed me. Lips. Tongue. (A hint of teeth.) I bit my lip, stroked her hair, and then a flick of her tongue had me gasping and I gripped her, pulled her against me.

While she might have lacked in experience she was a quick learner. Several times she teased me, bringing me almost to the peak and then holding back, denying me that one last lick, that touch of her fingers, that would have finished me. Every time I whimpered and tried to move my hips against her, only to have her pull back and let me subside again.

Until at last, when she tried it again, I locked my legs around her, raked her shoulders with my nails, pulled her by the hair, held her breathless and frantically licking until I came like a car-crash. Trembling. Calling out I-don't-know-what. Clasping her to me. Grinding myself against her fingers and tongue, until at last I'd had my fill and I let her up to breathe, guided her hands away from what was now agonisingly sensitive.

I pulled her up, kissing her on the lips, eager to show my affection. She didn't open her mouth, but she didn't pull away and her arms wound around me. As the energy drained out of my body I lay back, holding her alongside me.

"Thank... you... I hope... I didn't..."

She put her finger to my lips. "You're very welcome. Shall we sleep now?"

We slept.

***

My alarm went off at six. I yawned, stretched, realised Phoebe still had an arm over me. As tempted as I was to call in sick, I have an overactive work ethic. So I slipped out of her embrace and into the shower, where I tried not to worry about whether I'd damaged things between us by asking something she might regret.

When I got back she was sitting up, combing out her hair. She treated me to a mellow smile: not too damaged, then. "Sleep well?"

"Delightfully. Shower's free if you want it." I was tempted to offer my services with soap and shampoo, but I felt I'd already pushed my luck far enough.

"That sounds lovely."

While she was showering I dressed, then headed out to the kitchen to get started on coffee and breakfast. (Try the house speciality, Yvonne's Miscellaneous Egg Dish! Sometimes it starts out as an attempt at omelette, sometimes it's supposed to be scrambled eggs, but it always ends up somewhere in between the two.)

The shower ran for about ten minutes. Not long after I heard her padding into the kitchen. My attention was concentrated on separating the whatever-it-was from the pan before it could burn, and she took advantage of the opportunity to walk up behind me and slip her arms around me, head pressed against my shoulder.

"Mmm. Smells nice."

A deep voice from behind both of us, corrugated and hoarse: "Is very good!"

Phoebe jumped almost out of her skin, and I turned to glare at the lounge-room sofa. "Jesus, Aleks! Don't scare people like that!"

"Sorry Vonnie. Fell asleep out here." Looking at the bottles next to the sofa, I could guess how that had happened. I sighed and switched off the stove.

"Phoebe, meet Aleks, my flatmate. Who usually sleeps in his own room. Aleks, meet Phoebe."

He staggered to his feet and managed a grandiose tottering bow that didn't quite end in disaster. "Is splendid to meet you."

We breakfasted together — I was feeling generous enough to share with Aleks — and he exerted his not-inconsiderable charm in Phoebe's direction. After a few minutes, Phoebe had forgiven him for startling her. Once we'd finished breakfast she offered to give me a lift to work. We made small-talk during the drive, and it was only when we got there that she switched off the radio and turned to look at me.

"Thanks for letting me stay. And not making me feel like a silly kid who's afraid of the dark."

"I, um... no problem." Pause. In the next street, cars honked. "About last night. Are we good?"

Phoebe nodded in an it's-complicated sort of way. "I need to think about stuff. And maybe talk to you later when I'm not so sleepy. But yeah, we're good." She patted my knee.

"Oh, good." I'd been holding my breath. "Look, any time you want to ring my buzzer, you're more than welcome."

She groaned and punched me in the arm. But not too hard.