Caitlin and Emma III
The vanilla ice cream is melting faster than we can lick it, thick white rivulets running down the cone and over my knuckles. I don't care about the sticky mess on my fingers; I care about the way Emma is watching my tongue curl around the dripping scoop.
We're sitting on a wooden bench in Katoomba's Park, the Blue Mountains stretching out behind us in a haze of eucalyptus blue, but the only landscape I want to look at is her.
I lean in, pressing my lips against hers, tasting the sugar and the cold cream on her mouth. It's a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, the kind that usually gets us dirty looks in polite society, but here, with the wind rustling the ferns, it feels like the only natural thing to do.
Her tongue slides against mine, aggressive and demanding, claiming the taste of the ice cream as her own. I pull back, licking a stray drop from my lower lip, grinning at the flush on her pale cheeks.
"Geez, girl!" Emma laughs, wiping a smudge of cream from her chin with the back of her hand. "You want to spend an afternoon in a frickin' gallery when we could be doing this all day?"
I shrug, my eyes dragging over the tight fit of her tank top, the way it clings to her heavy, soft breasts. "Art gets me wet, baby. You know that."
We'd just come from the exhibition space down the street.
The Lindsay sketches were still burned into my retinas—great boobs, stunning hips, pert arses captured in charcoal and graphite.
There was a rawness to the lines, a celebration of the female form that made my own cunt throb in sympathy. But looking at drawings is nothing compared to the heat radiating off the woman sitting next to me.
"Oh, Wow!" I breathe, echoing my reaction from the gallery, but this time my gaze is locked on the wicked glint in her dark eyes.
"Hot. Hot. Hot."
Emma smirks, sensing the shift in my mood. The air between us thickens, charged with static. She glances around the park—families walking dogs, tourists snapping photos of the Three Sisters in the distance—before her hand drops to my thigh. Her fingers are cool against my overheated skin, slipping under the hem of my dress with practiced ease.
I hold my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs as she traces the inside of my leg, higher and higher. The public space amplifies everything, turning a simple touch into a daring act of rebellion. Her hand pushes into my panties, the fabric damp already with my anticipation.
"Fuck, Caitlin," she whispers, her voice rough. "You're soaking."
She doesn't ask for permission. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of my G-string and tugs, hard. The thin fabric bites into my crack, the friction against my asshole and my swollen clit sending a jolt of pleasure straight up my spine. I gasp, my hips bucking off the bench, chasing the pressure.
"Emma..." I hiss, my eyes darting nervously to a passing couple.
They don't notice. They just see two women enjoying the view.
They have no idea her hand is buried in my cunt, right here in the open.
"You like that?" she murmurs, twisting the fabric, sawing it against my most sensitive spots. "You like being touched where anyone could see?"
"Yes," I breathe, the word torn from my throat. "Don't stop."
But the risk is too high, the edge too sharp. With a groan of frustration, she pulls her hand away, leaving me empty and aching.
"Storeroom," she commands, standing up and adjusting her shorts. "Now."
We scramble toward the nearest public amenities, ducking around the back of the brick building. There's a heavy metal door marked 'Maintenance—No Entry,' and thank fuck, the latch is old and rusty. It gives with a stiff shove, and we tumble inside into the darkness.
The air smells of dust and bleach, but I don't give a shit. Emma slams the door behind us and pins me against the cold concrete wall.
Her mouth is on mine instantly, hungry and desperate, her hands tearing at my clothes. I yank my dress up, baring my thighs, while she shoves her shorts down just enough to free her hips.
"Turn around," she growls.
I obey, bracing my hands against the rough wall. She kicks my legs apart, and I hear the wet sound of her spitting on her fingers. Then, she's rubbing her spit-slicked digits over my cunt, lubing me up, spreading the moisture from my hole to my clit.
"You are so fierce, ah!" I moan, pushing back against her hand.
"Shut up and take it," she says, but her voice is thick with lust.
She spins me back around to face her and drops to her knees. Before I can react, she lifts my leg, draping it over her shoulder, and buries her face in my pussy.
Her tongue is a weapon, flat and broad, dragging through my folds with agonizing slowness. I look down, watching her pale skin contrast with my tan thighs, seeing the dark strands of her hair tickling my stomach.
She pulls back, a thick string of saliva connecting her lower lip to my clit. She spits again, a heavy glob landing right on my swollen button, and then she rises, grabbing me by the waist.
"My turn," she says.
She manoeuvres us until we're on the floor, legs tangled in a desperate knot. She pulls me close, aligning our bodies, and then we are grinding together, cunt to cunt. It's raw, it's dirty, and it's exactly what I need.
I feel her heat against mine, her wetness mixing with mine. We find a rhythm, a slow, torturous grind that sends shockwaves through my pelvis.
I spit on my hand and reach between us, rubbing the fluid over both our clits, making the friction slick and devastating.
"Your pussy is so good," I pant, my head falling back. "It feels so fucking good against mine."
"Yeah, grind on me," Emma demands, her fingers digging into my ass cheeks, pulling me tighter. "Rub that cunt on mine."
The pressure builds, a tight coil in my belly. The sounds of our bodies slapping together fill the small room—wet, sloppy, obscene.
The smell of sex is overpowering, musk and sweat and spit.
"My pussy is rubbed by your pussy so deep," I gasp, the words barely coherent. "So fucking deep."
I can feel her trembling, her athletic muscles straining as she pushes into me. We are sweating now, the humidity of the day trapped in this small box with us.
Her skin glistens in the sliver of light coming through the high window, her heavy breasts bouncing with every thrust.
"Harder," I beg. "Make me fucking gush."
She shifts her angle, her pelvic bone mashing against my clit with brutal precision. I see stars, my vision blurring at the edges. The sensation is too much, an overload of pleasure that borders on pain.
"Ah...ow! I can't stand it I'm about to orgasm! Help! Help! Ah...ah!" I scream, the sound echoing off the walls.
I convulse, my cunt clamping down around nothing as a gush of fluid sprays from me, coating her thighs and the floor.
She follows me over the edge, her body seizing up, a guttural cry tearing from her throat as she grinds herself into a frenzy against my spasming flesh.
We collapse in a heap of tangled limbs, gasping for air, the concrete floor hard against my back but I don't care.
The aftershocks ripple through me, petite, purry pulses that make my toes curl.
Emma rolls off me, wiping sweat from her forehead with a shaky hand. She looks wrecked, her makeup smudged, her hair a mess, and she has never looked more beautiful.
"Fuck," she breathes. "That was..."
"Yeah," I agree, sitting up and smoothing down my dress.
My knees are weak, my pussy throbbing in the best possible way.
We straighten our clothes as best we can, the smell of sex clinging to us like a second skin. When we finally emerge back into the sunlight, the world looks the same, but everything has changed.
I stop at the gallery gift shop on the way back to the car. Emma waits outside, leaning against a railing, looking like the cat that got the cream.
I buy a print of one of the sketches—a woman arching her back, her body drawn with confident, heavy lines.
I walk out, waving the paper tube at her.
"Souvenir," I say with a wink.
She laughs, that deep, throaty sound that makes my knees weak all over again.
"You're insatiable, Caitlin."
"Only for you, baby," I reply, linking my arm through hers.
"Only for you."