“We’re looking at her face, on her island, in the middle of the bay. It’s cold, but we’re hot, baby—so damned fucking hot. You’re wearing this beautiful leather coat, like smooth darkness, and it feels so good wrapped around you. I’m there, too, baby—because you know I’m always there.”
Another sweet hiss as Vi’s fingers dipped in, pushing gently till plump outer lips met second joints. Moved there, slow in-and-outs that made Clarette’s hips gently rock and clench around them.
“We’re there, baby—” another nod at the cheap little Liberty trinket by the clock “--we’ve made it that far and even farther. We’re standing at her feet, looking up at her.
“I put my arms around you, pull you close against me. You feel me, feel my tits pressing into your back, feel me there with you. I kiss the back of your neck, a butterfly graze that makes your skin dance with goosebumps, and your nipples get ever-so hard. One of my hands drops down and takes hold of one of your tits, squeezes it through the coat. It feels like someone else, like a great leather hand grabbing you, pulling hard at you. You breathe heavy, and you feel your cunt get real wet.”
The strokes become more familiar, simple little dance between them. Clarette’s breaths, too, became a tune that Vi knew too well, could have played in her sleep. Up and down, small circles around her clit, back down past warm, wet lips, and in—to tease the tight ring of muscles, then back up again. Repeat. Familiar, but still magic—a charming routine, a loving ritual. Part of home, part of them, together.
Vi bent, took a hard nipple into her mouth, and nibbled—adding a new tone to Clarette’s sounds. Between gentle sucks—just the way she liked it—she whispered, adding to the scene:
“My hands rise to your face, stroking your cheek. You kiss my fingers, suck them in—tasting my cunt on them. Holding you, I’d had my fingers down between my legs, feeling my own lips, my own hard clit, getting myself all wet and hot—for you.
“You taste me and know that I’m wet for you, baby.
“But there are other things to taste than just my fingers. I slowly drop my fingers down and slowly—almost too slowly—start to unbutton your coat. One, two, three—with each one, your body tingles, your nipples get even harder, your cunt gets even hotter, wetter. Four, five, six—and then that’s all. The coat parts and the cold slaps on your ... yes, it slaps on your smooth belly, that spot—right there—between your tits, your thighs. You’re naked, baby, hot and burning naked out there on that cold island. The coat hits the ground, and you’re before her and me—glowing with fire, cunt juice painting your thighs. I turn you, look at my own goddess, my own Liberty. I kiss you, hard and mean, tongues stroking each other, lips hot and slick. I kiss you, and my hand snaps up between your legs—”
Between her legs, Vi’s hand had moved a new way, still familiar—throbbing bead of a clit, a tiny hot bead, down to enter, full and deep into her, past the tight muscles, all the way till the rough spot. With each cycle, each tap at the down and deep down, Clarette’s voice changed, becoming bass and fundamental. She was lost, somewhere else, floating on Vi’s hand, her fingers and her words. She might not have been at the foot of the Statue of Liberty, but she certainly wasn’t in a tiny trailer in Taos, New Mexico.
“Feeling your clit, so hard on that cold night. You push down, trying to get all of me onto you—and into you. I do it, there—under the shadow of Liberty—put my fingers in you, so deep and hard. I start to fuck you, quick and firm, with my fingers—ending each stroke with a strong press on your magic spot, your G. You moan, making sweet music too deep and primal to escape on the cold wind. You buck down, too excited to be patient and passive. In the distance, you hear a lone fog horn—and you realize that anyone floating by, anyone with a good telescope, could see us, could see you, standing there, pale and naked, excitement painting your thighs. You’re on display, Clare; you’re out there on the island for the whole of New York to see.”
The motions of Vi’s hand in Clarette’s cunt became less formal, less simple as her own excitement started to pull at her. Too close to ignore, Vi moved a bit, feeling the silken skin of Clarette’s breast slid across her lips ... until the hard tip of her nipple was there, and then in Vi’s mouth. She sucked with shocking intensity, making Clarette arch her narrow back and put a thin hand on the back of her head. Sucking as she stroked, and stroking as she sucked, Vi felt like she was a great woman, a chain going from mouth to tit, from cunt to hand.
Breaking the pleasant suction with a soft wet smack and another punctured moan from Vi, she breathed deep (one, two, three, four), then: “You’re so hot, baby, so wet. There, standing on the cold flagstones in front of the statue, you push down, trying to swallow my fingers with your cunt, trying to get even more of my thumb on your clit.
“But I’m nasty—right, lover? You know that. Three fingers for your tight cunt, your wet cunt, thumb for your clit, and one finger—my teeny tiny little finger, that reaches back, between the cheeks of your tight—” a kiss on her sweat-slick belly “—ass and taps (one, two, three, four) on your asshole.
“Oh, yes, your sweet ass. A few gentle taps then away to take just the smallest amount of cunt juice, and then back—no taps this time. Not this time...
“Look up at her, Clare—look at her. Great and green. You look up at the statue—recognizing her from photographs, movies, your little toy there, on the dresser, but seeing her might and majesty for the first time. Maybe you wonder—the slut that you are—what her great copper snatch must look like. But whatever you think, you look up at her as I work at your own great cunt, and then your asshole as my little finger slips so neat and nice up into you.
“Oh, yes, baby—nice and full and hot, bare and shining in the hard lights around Liberty, starting up at her distant smile and the faint lights of the city beyond. You’re there, you’re right there, and you’re with me, and I’m with you—”
The come boiled inside Clarette, a rumbling body-come that opened her eyes, opened her mouth, and shut, clenched, her legs around Vi’s hand. The moans changed into a heavy avalanche of sounds, a growling bass escalation.
Within her, Vi felt her cunt grip her, matching for a long time the fluttering beat of her heart. Looking, smiling, happy that she was happy, Vi held her, stirring the last of her quakes with a few kind oscillations of her fingers. “Sweet, sweet baby—” she crooned, putting her heavy arms around the smaller girl, the so-much-more-fragile girl.
Sleep floated down on both of them—much more so for Clarette, but quite heavily for Vi after a hard day of work, and they crawled into a comfortable spoon: Clarette, as usual, facing the side, the dark window sprinkled with very bright desert stars, and Vi a warm comfort curled against her back. Before the weight pressed her down into a dreamscape, Clarette turned her head to receive a gentle, sweet kiss from Vi. “Thank you for taking me.” Vi waited till she had uncurled briefly to drop—carefully—the rubber glove into the trash, to curl back and say, “One day, I promise, I really will—”
To that, Clarette snuggled firmer into her lover’s arms and was soon breathing slow and steady. Vi followed, a few minutes later, hoping—not for the first, the last—she’d have enough time with Clarette to show her the real subway, the real statue, and the real lights of that distant city.