It's possible that you've noticed that I'm not writing as much. I've got a lot of excuses, but the main one is that I'm pregnant. This site and all of you have been on my mind just as much, if not more. I'm very excited to be pregnant, but some of you will know what all of this stuff does to your head. The details are pretty revolting, and I'll leave them off the keyboard. I've considered taking a break, but in the end, I just don't want to. Please be patient with me, and I'll be back to full speed as soon as I can.
For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.
When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.
Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.
Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it
is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.
Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.
Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.
God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.
Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.
The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.
The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.
"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.
"No."
"Let's go."
Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.
"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."
Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.
Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.
"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.
"Yes," Cicely says.
Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.
In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.
Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.
"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.
Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.
Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.
"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.
