Tribbing
The transformation takes three hours in a cramped rental flat above a chippy on Blackpool's promenade.
Brenda stands before a cracked full-length mirror, watching her reflection dissolve. She unpins the mousy ponytail, brushes the limp strands until they lie flat against her scalp, then stretches a flesh-toned wig cap over her crown.
The honey-blonde wig follows, synthetic waves cascading past her shoulders in a style that cost forty quid at a theatrical supply shop in Manchester.
She applies the smoky eye with careful strokes—charcoal and plum, smudged at the edges to suggest late nights and bad decisions.
The crimson lipstick goes on last, a matte bullet called "Scandal" that says, kiss my mouth and don't stop.
The dress is emerald silk, vintage, purchased from a boutique in Soho that caters to women who need to look expensive on short notice.
It clings to her slim frame, plunging at the neckline, hem stopping mid-thigh. She steps into four-inch stilettos—black patent leather, the kind that announce her presence with every click.
The beaded clutch fits in her palm like a weapon. Inside, nestled among tissues and a compact mirror, the miniature tape recorder waits, its red light dormant but ready.
She practices the walk in the hallway, hips swaying, shoulders back.
Trixie Tattle moves like a woman who expects to be watched.
Brenda Potts would apologise for taking up space.
The Grand Metropole Hotel rises against the Blackpool seafront like a faded dowager, all Victorian grandeur and peeling gilt.
Trixie sweeps through the revolving doors at nine-fifteen, catching her reflection in the polished brass and approving the stranger staring back. The lobby smells of stale potpourri and seawater, chandeliers dripping crystal that hasn't been properly cleaned since the seventies.
She heads straight for the bar, heels finding their rhythm on the marble floor.
Taya Haughton sits alone at the far end of the mahogany counter, illuminated by the amber glow of a wall sconce.
Even in repose, she occupies space with the unconscious entitlement of the truly beautiful—twenty-two years old, soap opera princess, face recognised by millions who watch her weep through manufactured tragedies three nights a week.
Tonight, she wears white: a silk blouse unbuttoned to reveal the hollow of her throat, cream trousers that drape like liquid over her long legs. Her hair is the colour of burnt caramel, falling in loose waves past her shoulders.
She nurses a vodka tonic, the lime wedge already sucked dry, and stares at nothing with the particular vacancy of someone waiting for something to happen.
Trixie slides onto the adjacent stool, close enough to catch the floral notes of Taya's perfume—French, gardenia.
She orders champagne, deliberately mispronouncing the vintage, and laughs at her own pretension.
"God, this place," Trixie says, not quite to Taya, not quite to the room.
"I feel like I've stumbled into an Agatha Christie novel. All that's missing is the body in the library."
Taya's mouth twitches.
Her eyes—hazel, flecked with gold—travel over Trixie's face with the quick assessment of someone used to being approached.
"The bodies are usually in the sea at this time of year. Hypothermia. Or despair."
"Cheerful."
"Realistic." Taya finishes her vodka, the ice cubes clinking against crystal.
"You're not from Blackpool."
"London. Escaped for the weekend." Trixie accepts her champagne, the flute cool against her palm. She does not drink yet.
"Needed to breathe air that doesn't taste like exhaust."
"And you came here?"
"The desperation was part of the appeal." Trixie turns fully now, crossing her legs so the emerald silk rides higher on her thigh.
She catches Taya's gaze tracking the movement, just for a moment, before returning to her face.
"I'm Sally."
Easy fake name, thinks Brenda.
"Taya." No hesitation, no alias.
Fame has made her careless, or perhaps she simply cannot imagine anyone in this hotel not knowing her face.
"You're staring."
"You're stunning. Forgive the obviousness."
Trixie sips her champagne, letting the bubbles burst against her tongue.
"I work in television. Development. I recognise you from—" she waves her hand vaguely "—the thing. The hospital drama."
"The thing." Taya's laugh is lower than expected, with a Lancashire edge she's trained away for cameras but not eliminated.
"That's one way to describe it. Most people want to know if I really shagged my co-star."
"Did you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Trixie lets her smile widen, slow and knowing.
She leans closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Taya's body, close enough to whisper.
"I would. Very much."
The silence stretches. Taya's finger traces the rim of her empty glass, round and round. When she speaks, her voice has dropped to match Trixie's register, intimate and conspiratorial.
"My room has a better view than this bar. And a bottle of actual decent champagne. Gift from the management."
"How generous of them."
"They're hoping I'll Instagram it."
Taya slides off her stool, revealing the full length of her—five-nine at least, willowy and poised. She extends her hand, palm up, an invitation and a challenge.
"Coming?"
Trixie places her fingers in Taya's grip. The skin is warm, slightly damp from the chilled glass. She thinks of the tape recorder in her clutch, the red light she will activate as soon as opportunity permits.
She thinks of the headline: SOAPIE PRINCESS IN MINISTER'S BED—EXCLUSIVE. She thinks of nothing at all as she follows Taya Haughton toward the elevators.
Room 412 overlooks the Irish Sea, though the darkness has swallowed any view beyond the reflection of their two figures in the glass.
Taya pours champagne into flutes that probably cost more than Brenda's weekly rent, and Trixie activates the recorder with a casual adjustment of her clutch on the side table.
The red eye blinks once, silent.
"To escaping," Taya says, raising her glass.
"To being found."
They drink. The champagne is better than the bar's offering—Bollinger, Trixie notes, filing the detail automatically.
Taya moves to the window, her silhouette sharp against the black glass.
"Do you know why I took this room?"
"The view?"
"The anonymity. In London, I can't walk ten meters without someone wanting a selfie, an autograph, a piece of me they can show their friends."
She turns, leaning against the sill, and the light catches her collarbones, the delicate architecture of her throat.
"Here, I'm just another blonde in a hotel. Except to you."
"To me, you're Taya Haughton. Which is rather better than anonymous."
"Is it?"
Taya sets down her glass and crosses the space between them with the fluid grace of someone trained in movement, in the presentation of self.
She stops close enough that Trixie can see the individual lashes darkened with mascara, the faint crease of her upper lip.
"What do you want from me, Sally?"
The question hangs.
Trixie considers her answer with the same calculation she applies to headline construction—what will advance the narrative, what will lower defences, what will get her what she needs.
She reaches up, slowly, giving Taya every opportunity to retreat, and touches the collar of that white silk blouse. Her thumb finds the hollow of Taya's throat, feels the pulse beating there, rapid and alive.
"Tonight? Just this."
She leans in, closing the final distance, and presses her mouth to Taya's.
The kiss is soft at first, exploratory, the champagne taste mixing between them.
Taya's lips part with a sound like surrender, and then her hands frame Trixie's face, fingers sliding into the synthetic waves of the wig, and the kiss deepens.
Trixie feels the moment of decision in Taya's body—the slight tension, the release, the forward tilt that presses them together from chest to hip.
She responds in kind, opening her mouth to Taya's searching tongue, meeting it with her own in wet, sliding contact.
Fuck they kiss as Sappho must have before she wrote her poems.
Then tongues swish and curl, and it gets butch hot.
They stumble toward the bed without breaking the kiss, Taya's fingers already working at the zipper of Trixie's dress.
The emerald silk pools at her feet, leaving her in black lace lingerie and those impossible heels.
Taya pulls back to look, her gaze travelling with frank appreciation over Trixie's pale skin, the slight swell of her breasts in the demi-cup bra, the narrow curve of her hips.
"Fuck," Taya breathes, and the roughness in her voice sends heat pooling between Trixie's thighs. "You're— Christ, look at you."
"Your turn."
Taya's blouse comes off in a rustle of silk, revealing a cream lace bra that matches her trousers.
Her breasts are small, high, the nipples already pressing against the delicate fabric.
Trixie reaches behind her to unclasp it, letting the lace fall away, and then they are pressed together skin to skin, boobs to boobs, nipples to nipples. The shock of contact makes them both gasp.
They cup their own softness and push it into the other girl's.
It's like squeezing marshmallows together.
A tender, squishy, squashy, tactile sweetness of bouncy, bouncy, springy flesh.
Trixie guides Taya onto the bed, following her down, and straddles her hips.
The pressure of Taya's body against her pussy, even through two layers of lace, makes her grind down involuntarily, seeking friction.
Taya's hands grip her waist, fingers digging in, and her back arches off the mattress.
"Your mouth," Taya asks.
Trixie was halfway there already, working her way down Taya's body with open-mouthed kisses—throat, collarbones, the valley between her breasts.
She takes one nipple between her lips, sucking hard, and Taya cries out, her hands flying to Trixie's hair, holding her in place.
The nipple stiffens against Trixie's tongue, a tight bead she circles and flicks and sucks until Taya is writhing beneath her, making desperate sounds in the back of her throat.
"Uhh! Ahh! Mmm, mmm."
She switches to the other breast, giving it the same treatment—laving the areola with broad strokes of her tongue, drawing the nipple deep into her mouth and pulling with rhythmic suction.
Taya's hips buck upward, seeking contact, and Trixie grinds down harder, feeling her own wetness soaking through her underwear, the slippery slide of lace against lace.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" Taya chants, her head thrown back, the elegant column of her neck exposed.
Trixie doesn't. She sucks harder, using her teeth just enough to sting, and slides her hand down Taya's trembling abdomen to cup her through the cream trousers. The fabric is damp, Taya's arousal soaking through, and Trixie presses her palm against the heat of her, rubbing in slow circles.
"Off," Taya gasps. "Get these fucking things off me—"
First, Trixie goes very naughty.
She grabs Taya by her pussy.
A genuine handful of her mound inside her palm.
"Orrghh! Fuck! You bitch! Yes! Yes! Ooohh!"
They struggle together, laughing breathlessly, peeling away the remaining barriers until they are both naked except for Trixie's stilettos.
Taya stares at her, at the heels still on her feet, at the way they arch her body into a curve of invitation, and her mouth goes slack with want.
"Keep them on," she orders. "Christ, keep them on. So fuckin' sexy."
Trixie crawls back up the bed, positioning herself above Taya, and lowers her mouth to those waiting breasts again.
She lavishes attention on each in turn, sucking and licking and nipping until Taya's nipples are swollen and dark, glistening with Trixie's saliva.
Erect as pink tulip buds.
Taya's hands are everywhere—tangling in the wig, gripping Trixie's ass, pulling her closer, harder, more.
"My turn," Taya growls, and suddenly she is flipping them, reversing their positions with a strength that surprises Trixie.
She finds herself on her back, Taya kneeling between her spread thighs, and then Taya is bending down, taking Trixie's nipple into her mouth with greedy, open-mouthed suction.
"Ah—!"
The sound tears from Trixie's throat, unplanned, unprofessional.
Taya's tongue is hot and insistent, circling and flicking, her teeth grazing the sensitive peak until Trixie is gasping, her hands clutching at the hotel sheets.
Taya switches to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, and Trixie feels her orgasm building already, a tight coil low in her belly.
"Not yet," Taya murmurs against her skin.
"I want to feel you come on my kitten."
She repositions herself, sliding down Trixie's body until they are pressed together, sex to sex.
The contact is instantly heady and hedonistic—Taya's wetness against her own, the silky heat of their arousal mingling.
The absa-fuckin-delight of two girls who must have shaved only hours ago.
So smooth, so slippery, so slick is the contact.
Their gossamer wetness, like they had drizzled oil between their thighs.
Then the squelch as their juices blend.
Two sets of lipettes get tacky like sticky caramel.
It's like two pink ribbons sleekly intertwining.
Taya begins to move, grinding her pelvis against Trixie's in slow, deliberate circles, and the friction is perfect, exactly right, the pressure hitting Trixie's clit with every roll of Taya's hips.
"I like this," Taya instructs, her voice ragged.
"Move with me. Fuck— just like that—"
Trixie matches her rhythm, thrusting upward to meet each grind, their bodies sliding together with wet, pucky-pucky sounds.
She can feel Taya's clit against her own, the hard nub rubbing with each collision of their hips, and the sensation is overwhelming, too much and not enough.
They find a pace together, faster now, desperate.
Two pussies in a mutual race to peak.
Taya's breasts sway with each movement, her nipples erect, and Trixie reaches up to pinch one, rolling it between her fingers.
Taya cries out, her tempo faltering, and then she is grinding down harder, faster, chasing her release with single-minded intensity.
"Your cunt feels so fucking good," Taya pants, her hair falling forward to curtain their faces.
"So wet for me. I can feel how much you want this—"
"Yes—" Trixie gasps, her hips jerking upward, seeking more pressure, and more rubbing.
They are both close now; she can feel it in the tension of Taya's thighs, the desperate speed of her grinding.
Trixie reaches between them, finding Taya's clit with her fingers, rubbing in concentrated circles as they continue to thrust together.
The dual sensation—Taya's mound sliding against hers, her fingers working that sensitive bud—pushes Taya over the edge.
"Ah! Ah! Fuck— I'm coming, I'm—!" Taya's body seizes, her back arching in a perfect bow, her mound pulsing against Trixie's in rhythmic spasms.
The sight of her, the feel of her, triggers Trixie's own climax, and she follows Taya over, her orgasm crashing through her with devastating force.
"Ahh! Ahh! Ooh! Yes! Yes! Hnnghh!"
The sounds tear from her throat in broken fragments, her body shaking with the intensity of her release.
She feels herself gushing, hot liquid soaking between them, and Taya grinds down harder, milking every aftershock, refusing to let her come down.
They flop together, trembling, their bodies slick with sweat and cum and champagne.
Taya's face is buried in Trixie's neck, her breath hot and fast against sensitive skin.
For a long moment, neither of them moves.
"Jesus," Taya finally whispers. "Jesus fucking Christ."
Trixie makes a sound that might be agreement.
Her heart is still hammering against her ribs, her pussy still gently throbbing.
She thinks of the tape recorder, still running on the side table, and feels a flicker of something that might be guilt. She crushes it.
"There's a hot tub," Taya says, lifting her head. Her eyes are soft now, the guardedness temporarily lowered. "On the balcony. Join me?"
The balcony hot tub steams against the November night, the black sea invisible beyond the rail.
They sink into the bubbling water together, Taya retrieving the abandoned champagne bottle and two fresh flutes.
The cool air raises gooseflesh on Trixie's exposed shoulders, but the water is near-scalding, loosening muscles she hadn't realised were tense.
"To unexpected encounters," Taya toasts, handing her a glass.
"Unexpected is the best."
Taya swirls her champagne. The bubbles catch the light from the room behind them, casting prisms across her wet skin.
"And what was unexpected?"
"The tribbing. That's girly gold, even better than a sixty-nine."
"I agree," says Taya, "But my unexpected was your sleek shaving. Esthetician? Brazilian?"
"Yes."
"The same."
"Well, a girl has to be perfect these days."
"Yes," says Taya, "And Goddamn careful."
"Careful of what?" says Trixie, cupping Taya's boob.
"Scandal rag journo's out for the scoop. You couldn't be one, too classy. I always watch out for those mousey-haired girls with glasses. Enough crap, God, I love your heels."
"Do you want them?"
"Sally, I couldn't – but my man would rag doll bugger me if I wore them."
"Sounds like a guy any girl would want after a night with a girl first."
"Girl! I can tell you won't kiss and tell. It's Geoffrey Whitmore. Minister for Culture, Media and Sport."
Trixie fakes a shock: Oh!
"He's married with three kids."
Trixie's headline writes itself: MINISTER'S SOAP OPERA SHAME: EXCLUSIVE.
Still, she asks, "He is leaving her for you?"
Taya laughs, kicks up her feet, "Hell no. Its just a fling for him. My problem, he's such an experienced, potent, addictive shagging machine."
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Thinks Trixie.
I'll destroy the girl along with the sod of a Minister!
"But here's a dirty secret: my co-star Blanche has two French Ministers…"
And Trixie had her bombshell scoop.
And besides, as Sally, she really wants to slurp Taya's pussy in a sixty-nine another Friday night, somewhere, soon.