Rims of fire and desire
Taja pulls the ranger 4WD up to the river bend the next morning, the suspension rocking over loose stones. The cab smells of stale coffee.
Prohibit campfire smoke is thin but unmistakable against the clear sky, curling up from a stand of cottonwoods where the river cuts a slow bend.
Taja kills the engine. The quiet rushes in, broken only by water over stone and the distant clatter of a kingfisher.
She finds them by the water's edge, two women in matching sun-faded tank tops, one with auburn hair chopped short, the other with dark curls tied in a messy knot. They're roasting something on sticks over a pit dug into the sand.
"Fire restriction season," Taja says as they see her approach.
She lets her hand rest on the citation book holstered at her hip, thumb tapping the leather cover.
"That's a fifteen-hundred-dollar fine. Each."
The auburn one—Tilly, she'll learn—sets her stick down slow.
Her eyes travel up Taja's body with a frankness that makes the ranger's pulse kick.
"We didn't see the signs," Tilly says, "Must've missed them."
"Must've."
Taja steps closer, boots sinking slightly in the dry sand.
She can see the tent now, olive green and spacious, pitched back in the shade of the cottonwoods.
The other one—Millie—hasn't moved, but her breathing has gone shallow beneath thin cotton.
Tilly stands. She's shorter than Taja by several inches, compact and freckled, and when she tilts her head, the sun catches the sweat along her collarbone.
"Is there any way we could..."
She lets the sentence hang, lets her gaze drop to Taja's mouth, then lower.
"Work something out."
The spark Taja knows is in her own eyes—she feels it kindle, the same heat with Carmen now sharpening toward something new, something doubled.
She glances at the tent.
"You got liquid in there? I need to wet my mouth."
Tilly points.
They move together, Taja leading, the two campers falling into step behind her like they already know the shape of this.
The tent's interior is cooler, dim, the nylon floor covered in unzipped sleeping bags and scattered clothes.
Taja doesn't wait for an invitation. She kicks off her boots, peels her socks, and when she turns, Tilly is already there, close enough that Taja can smell the woodsmoke in her hair.
"You're gonna have to convince me," Taja says, but she's already reaching, hooking a finger in Tilly's tank top strap and pulling her in.
"I'll wet your gob, you tart."
Millie uses her thumbs to spread Taja's mouth.
She spits onto Taja's tongue, then lets her own tongue crash inside the ranger's lips.
Kissing doesn't describe their pash.
Two mouths engage in gladiatorial combat.
A dual salvo of slush saliva.
Lips not engaging in meeting, rather like forcing a castle wall.
A tactical struggle for dominance where every tilt of the chin was a parry, and every press of the tongue was a demand for surrender.
Both kissed to establish dominance.
Hands locked into hair not to hold, but to anchor—pinning each other to the spot like warriors locked at the hilts, waiting to see whose resolve would crack first.
Neither does.
Tilly enters the snogging like a ram raid through the plate glass of a jewellery store.
Two tongues become three, and six hands get dirty fast.
"Fuck," Taja breaks for breath, panting, "You two get what you want."
"Always," as Tilly's fingers find Taja's mound.
Mille's hand, meanwhile, is grabbing handfuls of her arse cheek.
Taja pushes Tilly down onto the sleeping bags, straddling her thighs, and pulls her own shirt off in one motion.
Her tattoos catch the dim light, geometric patterns and climbing vines, and she watches both women's eyes track across her skin.
"I want you filthy," she says, leaning down to bite Tilly's jaw, her throat.
"I want you sloppy. I want to hear you beg before I'm done."
"You wench, it may be you pleading! Give us your best!"
She has them strip each other while she watches, propped on one elbow, hand working slow circles over her own pussy.
Tilly and Millie know each other's bodies—Tilly's hands find Millie's nipples without looking; Millie knows exactly how Tilly likes her panties peeled down, rolled off, discarded.
When they're naked, flushed, touching each other with the ease of long practice, Taja finally moves.
"On your knees," she orders, and they arrange themselves, Tilly behind Millie, both facing Taja, presenting like they planned it.
"Spread her."
Tilly's hands grip Millie's ass, pulling her open, and Taja sees everything—the dark curl of Millie's snatch, slick already, the tighter pucker rills above.
She crawls forward, presses her face in without preamble, and licks a long stripe from Millie's clit to her asshole.
Millie cries out, pitches forward, and Taja holds her hips steady while she works, tongue circling, pressing, fucking into that tight ring while Tilly watches over Millie's shoulder, panting.
"Your turn," Taja gasps, pulling back, spit stringing from her chin.
She grabs Tilly by the hair—firm, directing—and pushes her face where hers was.
"Get her ready. I want to fuck you both."
Tilly moans against Millie's ass, and the sound vibrates through, making Millie shudder and push back.
Taja reaches for her pack, still by the tent entrance, and pulls out the toy she keeps there—thick, silicone, black, the kind of thing that makes rookies blush and veterans grin.
She clicks it on, feels the buzz in her palm, and watches Tilly's eyes go wide when she sees it.
"For sharing," Taja says, slicking it with her own spit, then with the bottle of lube the two lezzo sluts have in their tent.
"You're gonna take turns. Millie first—she's already open."
She guides Millie onto her back, legs folded up, and works the toy in slowly.
Millie's folds stretch around it, pink and glistening, and she keens high in her throat when Taja angles it right.
"Uhh! Fugh! Uhh! Yes, right there you bitch! Uhh! Uhh!"
Tilly crawls up to kiss her, messy and deep, and Taja watches them move together, the toy buried to the hilt, Millie's hips rolling to meet each thrust.
"Don't you come yet," Taja warns, pulling the toy free with wet sounds that make all three of them quiver with anticipation.
Pop, puck, a squelchy pop.
She turns it on Tilly, who's dripping, ready, and takes it in one smooth push that makes Tilly's back arch off the sleeping bag.
"That's it, you slitch. Fuck yourself on it."
Tilly does, desperately, grinding down while Taja holds the base steady.
"Ahh! Ooh! Yes! Mmm, mmm! Ahh!"
Millie recovers enough to move behind her, hands on Tilly's breasts, mouth at her ear whispering things Taja can't hear but can see the effect of—Tilly's movements go jerky, uncontrolled, her slit clenching visible around the silicone.
Taja pulls it out, makes them both kneel facing each other, and pushes their heads down.
"Lick her," she tells Tilly, pointing at Millie's ass, still spread and glistening.
"And you," to Millie, "do the same. I want to see your tongues in each other's dirty little holes while I decide who comes first."
They obey, eagerly, and Taja sits back on her heels to watch the lewd sight—two women rimming each other in tandem, moaning into each other's flesh, hands working between their own legs.
A cute starfish mussed.
A rilled balloon knot tongue-tip poked.
She gives them time, lets them get lost in it, then chooses Millie, flipping her onto her back and driving the toy deep while Tilly holds her legs open and licks her clit in frantic circles.
Millie comes screaming, womanhood pulsing around the silicone, and Taja doesn't stop, keeps fucking her through it until she's whimpering, oversensitive.
"Fugh! Fuck! Orrghhh!"
Then she turns to Tilly, already on her hands and knees, presenting, begging without words.
Taja takes her from behind, hard, the slap of their bodies loud in the tent.
She reaches around to rub Tilly's clit in maddeningly small circles, feeling the tension build, the way Tilly's spine curves and locks just before she breaks.
"Uughh! Fuck! Sheez, I'm—Rraaghh!"
When Tilly comes, she collapses forward, and Taja follows her down, still inside, still grinding.
"Oh, you slutty tramp— Uhh! Yes! Yes! You bitch! Mmm, mmm."
Mollie has restrained Taja with her thighs.
She faces sitting her.
Rubbing her mound over Taja's cheeks, forehead and chin.
Trailer trash Tilly is sitting on her stomach with her head between Taja's thighs.
Mollie eases her buttocks over Taja's mouth.
"Lick my tush, ranger."
Her tongue darts into the lesbian's patootie.
At the same time, Tilly inserts a finger in Taja's tushy.
Mollie spreads her rear rosette into a gape so the ranger's tongue plunges deeper.
Meanwhile, Tilly has two fingers in Taja's winking freckle.
"Fugh! Fugh! Uhh! Uhh!" as the ranger catches a rare breath.
Then her face is smothered by a cornhole, and her own crinkled starfish ignites as a fire-hole.
Dipped raw by two probing digits.
Rings of fire and desire.
After, they lie tangled.
"Consider this your warning," Taja says.
"Next time—
Tilly laughs, breathless.
"Next time, we'll really set your tailpipe on fire."
Taja's smirk is genuine as she reaches for her knickers.