Contains: F/F, Lesbian, Solo
I’ve put a new story of love and longing (mostly longing!) up for free on literotica. I hope people will enjoy it, and I’ve pasted an excerpt below the break, for the curious!
She sits at her table, and I against her bookshelf, and we read our separate things, somehow together, even doing things apart. The afternoon whiles away without our asking, and soon, orange beams of sunset sneak through the blinds. I watch the ceiling fan cut lazily through the invisible air. The late-August heat is like a glove, and you can hear the summer wind outside wafting carelessly through the reeds. I close my eyes, and focus on the breeze that tickles over my face for a while.
Noticing my attention, she turns to me, her thick-rimmed reading glasses slipping down to the point of her nose. “I’ll tell you one thing these old books have over your comics.”
I blink, tilting my head and itching at my ear. “Eh?”
I wrinkle my nose. “What are you talking about? Be serious.”
“I am,” she says, turning from her seat at the table and sidling over to me. “You’ve never smelled one?”
“Of course not!”
She places a hand on the floor, closing the rest of the distance between us by leaning forward, almost in a crawl. She lifts the book. I bat it away.
“Stop it!” I snicker, feeling flush, almost giddy. “You’re being so strange.”
“Here,” she says, again lifting the book to my face. Tipping the cover towards me, she spreads the pages wide, and the book’s releases a tender groan of inanimate effort. “Smell.”
I glance at the new beauty mark, poised just above her lip.
The rosiness grows in my cheeks. I lean forward, my eyes locked to hers. She observes me as I dip all the way down, until my nose graces over the spine, and nudges against the crisp, fragile pages. I close my eyes and breathe in.
The smell is hard to describe. Redolent of candlelight, or mountain peaks, rose hips in fresh water, and careful, peaceful scents, like potpourri.
…and cigarettes on rainy days…
In another way it is, simply, the smell of old books.
My eyelashes flutter when Rie reaches out to tuck the loose strands of my hair behind one of my ears. Having sorted me, she cups her palm against my jaw. I follow her guidance, sitting up, but hunching forward with painful care, worried that any particular motion, even into her, might shake loose her tenuous hold.
“It’s good, huh?” she asks.
Dazed, I nod.
“Sometimes,” she says, “when I drink in that smell, I feel like I could disappear from the world.”
My lip tucks between my teeth.
Her fingers slink along my jaw… “Mariko, you’re really going? To Tokyo?”
“I have to,” I whisper.
…then up… “I don’t live there, in Tokyo.”
…taking my ear… “I won’t ever live there.”
…she brings me to her… “I might not ever live anywhere.”
“Why?” I ask.
Drawing me closer and closer, soon she’s brought our faces to perfect symmetry. Our noses quash each other, and our lips are perilous in their proximity. A giggle forms inside me. Trapped beneath the surface tension of my stomach, its captivity radiates pressure throughout my core. The book snaps shut with a clap of finality. Her lips part, brushing against mine with the careless whisper of soft flesh as she says…